The Tombs of Atuan by Ursula K. Le Guin

Thar said to her, “It is not fitting that you be seen climbing and running with other girls. You are Arha.”

She stood sullen and did not reply.

“It is better that you do only what is needful for you to do. You are Arha.”

For a moment the girl raised her eyes to Thar’s face, then to Kossil’s, and there was a depth of hate or rage in her look that was terrible to see. But the thin priestess showed no concern; rather she confirmed, leaning forward a little, almost whispering, “You are Arha. There is nothing left. It was all eaten.”

“It was all eaten,” the girl repeated, as she had repeated daily, all the days of her life since she was six.

Thar bowed her head slightly; so did Kossil, as she put away the whip. The girl did not bow, but turned submissively and left.

After the supper of potatoes and spring onions, eaten in silence in the narrow, dark refectory, after the chanting of the evening hymns, and the placing of the sacred words upon the doors, and the brief Ritual of the Unspoken, the work of the day was done. Now the girls might go up to the dormitory and play games with dice and sticks, so long as the single rushlight burned, and whisper in the dark from bed to bed. Arha set off across the courts and slopes of the Place as she did every night, to the Small House where she slept alone.

The night wind was sweet. The stars of spring shone thick, like drifts of daisies in spring meadows, like the glittering of light on the April sea. But the girl had no memory of meadows or the sea. She did not look up.

“Ho there, little one!”

“Manan,” she said indifferently.

The big shadow shuffled up beside her, starlight glinting on his hairless pate.

“Were you punished?”

“I can’t be punished.”

“No… That’s so…”

“They can’t punish me. They don’t dare.”

He stood with his big hands hanging, dim and bulky. She smelled wild onion, and the sweaty, sagey smell of his old black robes, which were torn at the hem, and too short for him.

“They can’t touch me. I am Arha,” she said in a shrill, fierce voice, and burst into tears.

The big, waiting hands came up and drew her to him, held her gently, smoothed her braided hair. “There, there. Little honeycomb, little girl…” She heard the husky murmur in the deep hollow of his chest, and clung to him. Her tears stopped soon, but she held onto Manan as if she could not stand up.

“Poor little one,” he whispered, and picking the child up carried her to the doorway of the house where she slept alone. He set her down.

“All right now, little one?”

She nodded, turned from him, and entered the dark house.

The Prisoners

Kossil’s steps sounded along the hallway of the Small House, even and deliberate. The tall, heavy figure filled the doorway of the room, shrank as the priestess bowed down touching one knee to the floor, swelled as she straightened to her full height.

“Mistress.”

“What is it, Kossil?”

“I have been permitted to look after certain matters pertaining to the Domain of the Nameless Ones, until now. If you so desire, it is now time for you to learn, and see, and take charge of these matters, which you have not yet remembered in this life.”

The girl had been sitting in her windowless room, supposedly meditating, actually doing nothing and thinking almost nothing. It took some time for the fixed, dull, haughty expression of her face to change. Yet it did change, though she tried to conceal it. She said, with a certain slyness, “The Labyrinth?”

“We will not enter the Labyrinth. But it will be necessary to cross the Undertomb.”

There was a tone in Kossil’s voice that might have been fear, or might have been a pretense of fear, intended to frighten Arha. The girl stood up without haste and said indifferently, “Very well.” But in her heart, as she followed the heavy figure of the Godking’s priestess, she exulted: At last! At last! I shall see my own domain at last!

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