“You are one of the human woman’s companions,” she said, “that she missed killing.”

“No,” he said, “I came independently.”

“You are an educatedhuman, as she is.”

“As educated as you are, Methi.”

Ylith’s eyes registered offense, and, it was possible,—amusement. “You are not a civilized human, however, and you are therefore demonstrating your lack of manners.”

“My civilization,” he said, “is some twelve thousand years old. And I am still looking for evidence of yours in this city.”

The Methi laughed outright. “I have never met such answers. You hope to die, I take it. Well, human, look at me. Look up.”

He did so.

“It is difficult to accustom myself to your face,” she said. “But you do reason. I perceive that.—What is the origin of humans, do you know?”

It was, religiously, a dangerous question. “We are,” he said, “children of one of the brothers of the earth, at least as old as the nemet.”

“But not light-born,” said Ylith, which was to say, unholy and lawless. “Tell me this, wise human: does Phan light your land too?”

“No. One of Phan’s brothers lights our world.”

Her brows lifted. “Indeed. Anothersun?”

He saw the snare of a sudden, realized that the Indras of the shining city were not so liberal and cosmic in their concept of the universe as human-dominated Nephane.

“Phan,” she said, “has no equals.”

He did not attempt to answer her. She did not rage at him, only kept staring, her face deeply troubled. Not naive, was Ylith of Indresul: she seemed to think deeply, and seemed to find no answer that pleased her. “You seem to me,” she said, “precisely what I would expect from Nephane. The Sufaki think such things.”

“The yhia,” he said, venturing dangerously, “is beyond man’s grasp, is that not so, Methi? And when man seeks to understand, being man and not god, he seeks within mortal limits, and understands his truth in simple terms and under the guise of familiar words that do not expand his mortal senses beyond his capacity to understand. This is what I have heard. We all—being mortal—deal in models of reality, in oversimplifications.”

It was such a thesis as Nym had posed him once over tea, in the peace of the rhmeiof Elas, when conversation came to serious things, to religion, and humanity. They had argued, and disagreed, and they had been able then to smile and reconcile themselves in reason. The nemet loved debating. Each evening at teatime there was a question posed if there was no business at hand, and they would talk the topic to exhaustion.

“You interest me,” said Ylith. “I think I shall hand you over to the priests and let them hear this wonder,—a human that reasons.”

“We are,” he said, “reasoning beings.”

“Are you of the same source as Djan-methi?”

“Of the same kind, not the same politics or beliefs.”

“Indeed.”

“We have disagreed.”

Ylith considered him in some interest. “Tell me, is the color of her hair truly like that of metal?”

“Like copper.”

“You were her lover.”

Heat flashed to his face. He looked suddenly and resentfully into her eyes. “You are well-informed. Where do you plant your spies?”

“Does the question offend you? Do humans truly possess a sense of modesty?”

“And any other feeling known to the nemet,” he returned. “I had lovedyour people. Is this what your philosophy comes to, hating me because I disturb your ideas, because you cannot account for me?”

He would never have said such a thing outside Elas; the nemet themselves were too self-contained, although he could have said it to Kta. He was exhausted; the hour was late. He came close to tears, and felt shamed at his own outburst.

But Ylith tilted her head to one side, a little frown creasing her wide-set brows. “You are certainly unlike the truth I have heard of humans.” And after a moment she rose and opened the door, where an elderly man waited,—a white-haired man whose hair flowed to his shoulders, and whose ctanand pelwere gold-bordered white.

The old man made a profound obeisance to Ylith, but he did not kneel: by this it was evident that she knew of his presence there, that they had agreed before hand.

“Priest,” she said, “look on this creature and tell me what you see.”

The priest straightened and turned his watery eyes on Kurt. “Stand,” he urged gently. Kurt gathered his almost paralyzed limbs beneath him and struggled awkwardly to his feet. Of a sudden he hoped; he did not know why this alien priest should inspire that in him, but the voice was soft and the dark eyes like a benediction.

“Priest,” urged the Methi.

“Great Methi,” answered. the priest, “this is no easy matter. Whether this is a man as we understand the word, I cannot say. But he is not Tamurlin. Let the Methi do as seems just in her own eyes, but it is possible that she is dealing with a feeling and reasoning being, whether or not it is a man.”

“Is this creature good or evil, priest?”

“What is man, great Methi?”

“Man,” snapped the Methi impatiently, “is the child of Nae. Whose child is he, priest?”

“I do not know, great Methi.”

Ylith lowered her eyes then, flicked a glance toward Kurt and down and back again. “Priest, I charge you, debate this matter within the college of priests and return me an answer. Take him with you if it will be needful.”

“Methi, I will consult with them, and we will send for him if his presence seems helpful.”

“Then you are dismissed,” she said, and let the priest go.

Then she left too, and Kurt sank down again against his pillar, confused and mortally tired and embarrassed. He was alone and glad to be alone, so he did not have to be so treated before friends or familiar enemies.

He slumped against his aching joints and tried to will himself to sleep. In sleep the time passed. In sleep he did not need to think.

In sleep sometimes he remembered Mim, and thought himself in Elas, and that the morning bells would never ring.

Doors opened, boomed shut. People stirred around him, shuffling here and there, forcing him back to wakefulness.

The Methi had come back.

This time they brought Kta.

Kta saw him—relief touched his eyes—but he could say nothing. The Methi’s presence demanded his attention. Kta came and knelt before her, and went full to his face. His movements were not easy. He appeared to have been hard-used.

And she ignored him, looking above his prostrate form to the tall, stern man who bowed stiffly to his knees and rose again.

“Vel t’Elas,” said Ylith, “what has Elas-in-Indresul determined concerning this man Kta?”

Kta’s distant kinsman bowed again, straightened. He was of immense dignity, a man reminiscent of Nym. “We deliver him to the Methi for judgment, for life or for death.”

“How do you find concerning his dealings with Elas?”

“Let the Methi be gracious: he has kept our law and still honors our Ancestors, except in the offense for which we deliver him up to you: his dealings with this human, and that he is of Nephane.”

“Kta t’Elas u Nym,” said Ylith.

Kta lifted his face and sat back on his heels.

“Kta t’Elas, your people have chosen an alien to rule them. Why?”

“She was chosen by heaven, Methi, not by men; and it was a fair choosing, by the oracles.”

“Confirmed in proper fashion by the Upei and the Families?”

“Yes, Methi.”

“Then,” she said, looking about at the officers who had come into the room, “heaven has decided to deliver Nephane into our hands once more.—And you, u Nym, who were born Indras,—where is your allegiance now?”

“In my father’s land, Ylith-methi, and with my house-friends.”

“Do you then reject all allegiance to thishouse of Elas, which was father to your Ancestors?”

“Great Methi,” said Kta, and his voice broke, “I reverence you and the home of my Ancestors, but I am bound to Nephane by ties equally strong. I cannot dishonor myself and the Ancestors of Elas by turning against the city that gave me birth. Elas-in-Indresul would not understand me if I did so.”