Chapter 5

Besh was lying in bed when finally it came to him. Since seeing that daybook of Sy1pa's, he had been able to think of nothing else. All through dinner, as the young ones played and laughed, and Mihas asked him question after question about the old woman's hut, he could barely keep his thoughts clear enough to respond. Elica finally asked him if he was well, apparently fearing that his long day in the woman's home had left him fevered.

He felt fine, though. It was just that journal. Why did it bother him so? No, not bother. That was the wrong word. It occupied his thoughts, to the exclusion of nearly all else. But why?

Sitting outside on Sirj's stump, as water dripped from the branches overhead and the sky above him began to clear, he tried to recall all he could of Sylpa. He'd known the woman when he was still a child, and had liked her very much. True, she was forever linked to Lici in his mind, but somehow he had managed to hold on to his fondness for her. Sylpa had been a formidable woman and quite beautiful, even after her hair turned white and the lines on her face deepened. Her eyes, large and dark green, had always seemed to be dancing with humor, even when the rest of her face looked solemn. And her laugh-full, unrestrained, loud enough to carry from one end of the marketplace to the other; even after she became eldest of the village and began to carry the cares of all Kirayde on her shoulders, she always kept that laugh.

She never married or had children of her own, but there were rumors, tales told in whispers and with sympathy, of a great love affair that ended in tragedy. According to these stories, Sylpa had loved a boy from Kirayde who left the village to seek his fortune, only to be killed in a flood along Maifor's Wash in Tordjanne. Heartbroken, Sylpa had vowed never to love again. No one remembered the boy's name, and even as a youth, Besh had questioned the verity of the tale. Then again, how else could he explain the fact that this strong, beautiful, kind woman lived alone at the edge of the village?

But there was nothing in the woman's history, or Besh's own, that would explain why the mere sight of her journal should affect him so. He'd never loved Sylpa himself-he'd been far too young. And though he liked her, they had never been close. So why?

Only now, lying in his bed, in the dark and quiet of Elica and Sirj's house, did he finally understand. It wasn't Sylpa who beckoned to him from those journal pages. It was Lici.

1119. That had been the date of that first entry he'd seen when glancing through the volume. Nearly one hundred years ago. Lici had come to the village well after that-probably forty years after. Of course Sylpa would have written about the girl's arrival in Kirayde. She was eldest at the time. And then she had taken the child in, and cared for her as if she were Sylpa's own. How could she have not written about her? It seemed quite likely that Lici's history was in that daybook. All of it, or at least as much as Sylpa had managed to get out of the girl. It might well contain the truth about whatever had befallen her prior to her arrival in Kirayde, leaving her alone in the world. It might explain the woman's strange manner and her stubborn silence.

He doubted that the journal would shed much light on where Lici was now, but it might tell Besh enough to help him piece together the rest of her story.

But just as the other villagers had no claim on Lici's gold, he had no right to read the daybook. True, he was an elder of the village, but that was all the more reason for him to leave the journal where it was. It fell to him, as well as to Pyav, Tashya, and the rest, to set an example for the other villagers. On the other hand, hadn't the people of Kirayde charged the elders with finding out what had become of the old woman? Mightn't the journal help him do just that?

Besh smiled in the darkness and shook his head.

"No, old man," he whispered. "If you're going to do this, don't lie to yourself about the reason."

The truth was Lici had fascinated him since the moment he saw her. At first, he had confused that fascination with love, but even later, when he realized that he wanted nothing to do with her, when he had started a family with Ema and had begun to warn his own children away from the woman, he remained enthralled by her. She had always been beautiful as well as strange. Or perhaps it was because her arrival in the village had come within a turn or two of his birth, forever linking them in the minds of others who had been alive at the time. Whatever the reason, the fascination had never really gone away. Here he was, a man in his sixteenth four, and still thoughts of the woman kept him awake in his bed. Besh couldn't help but laugh at himself.

He knew he was being a fool, and he tried to force thoughts of Lici and the daybook out of his mind. He needed to sleep. In the morning he'd speak with Pyav and together the elders would decide what to do.

After lying still for what seemed the better part of an hour, he gave up on trying to sleep. Now that he had started to imagine what might be in the book, he couldn't stop. He rose, dressed, and took his pipe, smoking weed, and flint out into the chill air. The last of the rain clouds had moved off, leaving a clear sky. It was past midnight, but this late in the waning the moons were just rising, glowing brightly enough to cast pale shadows across Elica's yard and the lane beyond it.

He filled the pipe bowl, but then laid it on Sirj's stump. Taking a deep breath, he gazed up at white Panya, who shone through the trees, gleaming like fresh snow.

"Gods forgive me," he said. And he began to walk south, toward the old woman's hut.

There would be a guard there-hadn't Besh himself recommended to the eldest that they continue to keep watch on Lici's home?-but Besh was an elder. The guard might think it odd that he would come to the house at such a late hour, but he wouldn't hesitate to let Besh enter.

"I have no right to do this," he told himself, remembering how self- righteous he had sounded denouncing those who wanted to divide up her gold. "I'm no better than they are." Still, he kept walking.

Ojan, the village miller, lay on the steps leading up to Lici's door, snoring softly. He was a big man, heavy as well as tall, with a round, fleshy face and jutting brow. Certainly he looked the part of a night watchman. When standing, he cut an imposing figure; anyone from outside the village who came to steal from the old woman's house would have fled at the mere sight of him. Those who lived here, however, knew him to be a gentle man who was no more dangerous awake than he was asleep. He'd been asked to guard the house by Korr, his father, who was also a member of the Council of Elders. Despite the thoughts churning in Besh's mind, the old man smiled to see Ojan sleeping so soundly on his guard duty. Not wishing to startle him, Besh cleared his throat and stepped farther into the circle of light from a torch burning at the top of the stairs.

The miller opened one eye, then sat up and scratched the side of his face. "That you, Besh?"

"Yes, Ojan. Sorry to disturb you."

"Not at all." He frowned. "What's the hour?"

"I don't know. It's late."

"Is something wrong?"

"No," Besh said. He started to say more, then stopped himself. Now that he was here at Lici's house, he wasn't certain how to proceed. He decided, though, that he wouldn't compound his sins by lying about why he had come. "There's nothing wrong. I saw something today when Pyav and I were searching through Lici's things. A daybook. I wanted to take another look at it."

The miller's frown deepened, making him look fierce in the dim light of the moons. "Now?"