“So,” she said at last, “there is no archmage of Earthsea. But there is a king.”’
“In whom our hope and trust are well founded,” the mage said with a warmth that became him well. Lebannen, watching and listening, smiled.
“In these past years,” Tenar said, hesitant, “there have been many troubles, many miseries. My-the little girl- Such things have been all too common. And I have heard men and women of power speak of the waning, or the changing, of their power.
“That one whom the archmage and my lord defeated in the dry land, that Cob, caused untold harm and ruin. We shall be repairing our art, healing our wizards and our wizardry, for a long time yet,” the mage said, decisively.
“I wonder if there might be more to be done than repairing and healing,” she said, “though that too, of course- But I wonder, could it be that . . . that one such as Cob could have such power because things were already altering . . . and that a change, a great change, has been taking place, has taken place? And that it’s because of that change that we have a king again in Earthsea-perhaps a king rather than an archmage?”’
The Windkey looked at her as if he saw a very distant storm cloud on the uttermost horizon. He even raised his right hand in the hint, the first sketch, of a wind binding spell, and then lowered it again. He smiled. “Don’t be afraid, my lady,” he said. “Roke, and the Art Magic, will endure. Our treasure is well guarded!”
“Tell Kalessin that,”’ she said, suddenly unable to endure the utter unconsciousness of his disrespect. It made him stare, of course. He heard the dragon’s name. But it did not make him hear her. How could he, who had never listened to a woman since his mother sang him his last cradle song, hear her?
“Indeed,” said Lebannen, “Kalessin came to Roke, which is said to be defended utterly from dragons; and not through any spell of my lord’s, for he had no magery then. . . . But I don’t think, Master Windkey, that Lady Tenar was afraid for herself.”’
The mage made an earnest effort to amend his offense. “I’m sorry, my lady,”’ he said, “I spoke as to an ordinary woman.
She almost laughed. She could have shaken him. She said only, indifferently, “My fears are ordinary fears.” It was no use; he could not hear her.
But the young king was silent, listening.
A sailor boy up in the dizzy, swaying world of the masts and sails and rigging overhead called out clear and sweet, “Town there round the point!’” And in a minute those down on deck saw the little huddle of slate roofs, the spires of blue smoke, a few glass windows catching the westering sun, and the docks and piers of Valmouth on its bay of satiny blue water.
“Shall I take her in or will you talk her in, my lord?”’ asked the calm ship’s-master, and the Windkey replied, “Sail her in, master. I don’t want to have to deal with all that flotsam!”-waving his hand at the dozens of fishing craft that littered the bay. So the king’s ship, like a swan among ducklings, came tacking slowly in, hailed by every boat she passed .
Tenar looked along the docks, but there was no other seagoing vessel.
“I have a sailor son,’” she said to Lebannen. “I thought his ship might be in.”’
“What is his ship?’
“He was third mate aboard the Gull of Eskel, but that was more than two years ago. He may have changed ships. He’s a restless man.”’ She smiled. “When I first saw you, I thought you were my son. You’re nothing alike, only in being tall, and thin, and young. And I was confused, frightened. . . . Ordinary fears.”
The mage had gone up on the master’s station in the prow, and she and Lebannen stood alone.
“There is too much ordinary fear,” he said.
It was her only chance to speak to him alone, and the words came out hurried and uncertain-’ ‘1 wanted to say- but there was no use-but couldn’t it be that there’s a woman on Gont, I don’t know who, I have no idea, but it could be that there is, or will be, or may be, a woman, and that they seek-that they need-her. Is it impossible?”