She awoke a bit before midday and called out. I didn't recognize a word in her cry, but it was the first sound she had made since her arrival, and even as I hurried into the house, I took it as a sign of some progress. She was sitting up in her bed, looking around, as if she had no memory of how she had gotten there. Upon seeing me, however, she must have recalled some of yesterday's events, because she immediately calmed down, and actually favored me with a smile. It lasted just a moment, but again, it gave me some hope.

I asked her if she was hungry, and she nodded. Something else I've noticed about her-she says nothing, but she has no trouble hearing and understanding all that we say. This leads me to think that her silence is a response to all she's been through and that her voice will come back to her once she has had time to heal.

After she had eaten again as much as she had the night before, I sat her down outside on the stairs to the house and sat beside her I took her hand, which she suffered me to hold, and I looked her in the eye.

"You've been through a difficult time, haven't you?" I asked.

She shrank away from me, and even pulled her hand away. For a long time, she wouldn't even meet my gaze.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I'm sorry for what you've been through, whatever it might be, and I'm sorry for asking you about ft. I should have begun differently." I waited for her to face me again. When she didn't, I went on anyway. "My name is S:ylpa," I said. "I told you that yesterday, but with all that happened, I thought maybe you had forgotten."

At that, she did turn, and after some hesitation, she shook her head. "You mean you remembered?" I said.

She smiled again and nodded.

"Well, I'm glad," I told her "Are you ready to tell me your name?" Her smile vanished, and she shook her head.

"Can you tell me where you're from?"

Again she shook her head.

"Is it that you don't remember?"

No, she indicated, that wasn't the problem.

"Can you not speak?"

She hesitated again, and then nodded, her face brightening. I knew right off that she was lying to me, but I didn't press the matter When she's ready to tell me these things she will. I'm more sure of that now than ever In the meantime, she spent the day as my companion, more like a dog than a girl to be sure, but a companion nevertheless. She came with me to the garden, and even helped me weed a bit, after I showed her what I wanted done. She helped me clean my clothes, needing so little instruction that I'm sure she had done as much before.

We ate a quiet supper and even before we'd finished, she was yawning, her eyes drooping as if she could barely keep herself awake. Still, she helped me clear the table and heated water for the dishes before I said that she should get herself to bed and that I would come to her presently to make certain that she was all right. By the time I did as I promised, she had fallen asleep.

Thunder Moon, fourteenth day of the waxing, 1147.

This day began much as yesterday did, with the girl crying out in fear at finding herself in a strange home. I wonder if she awakens from dark dreams, stark visions of whatever horrors have afflicted her I had hoped that the pleasant day we spent together might start to rid her of such terrors, but I realize now that I was foolish to think it possible. Such things take time.

And, as matters now stand, I realize that I have been fortunate to have made as much progress with her this day as I did. After we had eaten and were on our way to the garden, the girl actually spoke.

"I lied to you," she said suddenly, her eyes trained on the road as we walked. "I know." I tried to keep any rebuke from my voice, and I believe I succeeded.

"You knew?" she asked.

"Perhaps not for certain, but clearly you heard everything we said to you, and I had the sense at times that you wanted to speak, but were afraid."

She walked for some distance without answering, as if considering what I had said. At length, she looked at me again. "My name is Licaldi."

I stopped and proffered a hand. "Sylpa," I said. "Pleased to meet you."

She shook my hand, then giggled. We resumed our walk to the garden plot, and she said nothing else. I think she was merely relieved to know that she could speak, if she so wished. I made no effort to engage her in conversation, nor did I ply her with questions. At least I didn't then.

As we were on our way back home, I heard my name being called from the marketplace. Looking that way, I saw Trenna waving to me. I told Licaldi to wait for me, but she seemed reluctant to be left alone. Seeing no harm in taking her with me, I started toward the market with my companion in tow.

Much of what transpired in the marketplace is recorded now in the records of the council, and I won't bother with details here, except to say that two peddlers were in dispute over one woman's interest in buying a bolt of Aelean wool. Both claimed that she had promised to buy their cloth; the woman swore that she had made no such promise to either man, but rather intended to look at the wares of all the other peddlers in the marketplace before making her decision. Trenna, of course, had no intention of making the woman buy from either of them. Rather, she remembered a similar matter coming up several turns before, involving the same two men, and she was now convinced that the two were swindlers working in common purpose.

Reminded of the earlier incident I remembered it clearly, and agreed with her. I ordered the men out of the village, threatening to draw upon my magic if they refused. The pair complained loudly, protesting their innocence and vowing never to set foot in Kirayde again, but all the while they were packing their wares and making a most careful count of what gold they had already made that day. In a short while they were gone, and Licaldi and I started once more to make our way home.

"You're the village eldest," she said, as we walked.

At first, still thinking of those men, I answered absently that I was. Then the import of what she had said reached me.

"Did your village have elders as well?"

She nodded, staring straight ahead. It occurred to me that I had said "did" rather than "does," and that the girl hadn't corrected me.

"You're Mettai, aren't you?"

Again she nodded. I could see the color fleeing her cheeks and lips. Her hands trembled and her jaw quivered.

"Can you tell me the name of your village?"

Suddenly her eyes were brimming with tears. "It doesn't matter;" she whispered.

I stopped, gently taking hold of her shoulders and making her face me. "Why doesn't it matter? Did you run away? Was someone there cruel to you?" "No, it wasn't that."

"Then what, Licaldi? Please tell me."

But she wouldn't say more and I knew better than to push her I'm anxious to know what's befallen the child, not merely because of some dark curiosity, but because I expect the sooner she can speak of it, the sooner she can move beyond it. And, of course, the sooner we know where she belongs, the sooner we can try to reunite her with her family. That last strikes me as being most important, and yet something tells me that it will prove the most difficult. The question in my mind is no longer where her family might be, but rather how many of them have survived whatever tragedy the girl witnessed.

Besh turned the page to read more, but a knock at the door stopped him. Looking up, he realized that the sun had risen. The knock came again and he called for whoever it was to enter.