"It was a failure."

"No it wasn't," said Motiak. "Do you think you're the only one who hears the voice of the Keeper?"

Edhadeya gasped and blushed. "Oh, Father! Has the Keeper sent you a dream?"

"I have the Index of the Oversoul, Dedaya. I was consulting it for another reason, but as I held it in my hands, I heard a voice clearly speak to me. Let me bring Akmaro home, said the voice."

"Oh, Father! The Index is still alive, after all these years?"

"I don't think it's any more alive than a stone," said Motiak. "But the Keeper is alive."

"The Oversoul, you mean," said Edhadeya. "It's the Index of the Oversoul."

"I know that the ancient records make a great deal of distinction between them, but I've never understood it myself," said Motiak.

"So the Keeper will bring Chebeya and her family home to Darakemba?"

Motiak narrowed his eyes, pretending to glare at her. "Do you think I don't notice when you do that?"

"Do what?" asked Edhadeya, all wide-eyed innocence.

"Not Akmaro and his people-no, you say ‘Chebeya and her fam-ily.' "

Edhadeya shrugged.

"The way you women persist in calling the Keeper ‘she' all the time. You know that the priests are always after me to forbid women to do that, at least in front of men. I always say to them, when the ancient records no longer show us Luet, Rasa, Chveya, and Hushidh speaking of the Oversoul and the Keeper as ‘she' and ‘her,' then in that same moment I'll forbid the women to do as the ancients did. That shuts them up-though I'll bet more than a few of them have wondered how serious I am, and whether they could somehow alter the ancient records without my noticing."

"They wouldn't dare!"

"That's right, they wouldn't," said Motiak.

"You could also ask those priests to show you the anatomical chart of the Keeper that shows him to have a-"

"Mind your language," said Motiak. "I'm your father, and I'm the king. There should be a certain dignity in both offices. And I'm not about to convince the priests that I've turned against the old religion now, am I?"

"A bunch of old-"

"There are things that I may not hear, as head of the worship of men."

"Worship of men is right," muttered Edhadeya.

"What was that?" asked Motiak.

"Nothing."

"Worship of men, you said? What did that-oh, I see. Well, think how you like. Just remember that I won't always be king, and you can't be sure that my successor will be as tolerant of your subversive little attacks on the men's religion. I'm content to let women worship as they please, and so was my father and his father before him. But there's always agitation to change things, to shut down the heresies of women. Every wife who strikes her husband or scolds him publicly is taken as one more proof that letting the women have their own religion makes them disrespectful and destructive."

"What difference does it make, whether we keep our silence because the priests force us or because we're afraid that they might force us?"

"If you can't see the difference, you're not as bright as I thought."

"Do you really think I'm intelligent, Father?"

"What, are you really fishing for more praise than I already give you?"

"I just want to believe you."

"I've heard enough from you, when you start doubting my word." He got up and started for the door.

"I'm not doubting your honesty, Father!" she cried out. "I know you think that you think I'm intelligent. But I think that in the back of your mind, you always have another little phrase: ‘for a woman.' I'm intelligent-for a woman. I'm wise-for a woman."

"I can promise you," said Motiak, "that the phrase ‘for a woman' never comes to my mind in reference to you. But the phrase ‘for a child' is there, I can assure you-and often." She felt as if he had slapped her. "I meant you to," said Father.

Only when he answered did she realize she had muttered the words. Feel slapped.

"I respect your intelligence enough," said Father, "that I think a verbal slap teaches you better than a physical one. Now trust in the Keeper to bring this Akmaro-and Chebeya-to Darakemba. And in the meantime, don't expect me to be able to stand custom on its head. A king can't lead his people faster and farther than they're willing to follow."

"What if the people insist on doing wrong?" asked Edhadeya.

"What, am I in my schoolroom, being tossed hypothetical questions by my tutors?"

"Is that how the heir to the king gets taught?" she asked defiantly. "Where are the tutors asking me hypothetical questions about kingship?"

"I'll answer your original question, not these impossible ones. If the people insist on doing wrong, and the king can't persuade them to do right, then the king steps down from the throne. If his son has honor, he refuses to take the throne after him, and so do all his sons. Let the people do evil if they choose, but with a new king of their own choosing."

In awe, Edhadeya whispered, "Could you do that, Father? Could you give up the throne?"

"I'll never have to," he said. "My people are basically good, and they're learning. If I push too hard, I gain nothing and the resistance gets stronger. During the long slow years of transformation I need the trust and patience of those who want me to make changes in their favor." He leaned down and kissed the crown of her head, where the hair was parted. "If I had no sons, but you were still my daughter, then I would hurry the changes so that you could have the throne in my place. But I have sons, good ones, as you well know. And so I will let the change come gradually, generation after generation, as my father and grandfather did before me. Now I have work to do, and I'll spend no more time on you. There are whole nations under my rule who get less of my attention than you do."

Giving him her best demure smile, she said, in a simpering courtly ladylike voice, "Oh, Father, you're so incredibly kind to me."

"One of my ancestors walled up a recalcitrant daughter in a cave with only bread and water to eat until she became properly obedient," said Father.

"As I recall, she dug her way out of the cave with her fingernails and ran off and married the Elemaki king."

"You read too much," said Father.

She stuck out her tongue at him, but he didn't see, because he was gone.

Behind her, Uss-Uss spoke up again. "Aren't you the brave little soldier?"

"Don't make fun of me," said Edhadeya.

"I'm not," said Uss-Uss. "You know, one of the stories that circulates among us devil slaves-"

"No one calls you devils anymore."

"Don't interrupt your elders," said Uss-Uss. "We all tell each other the story of the digger who was cleaning a chamber when two traitors spoke together, plotting the death of the king. The slave went straight to the king and told him, whereupon the king had the digger killed, for daring to hear what humans said in front of him."

"What, do you think I'm going to-"

"I'm just telling you that if you think you're suffering because you're a human woman, remember that your father didn't even bother to send me out of the room in order to talk to you. Why is that?"

"Because he trusts you."

"He doesn't know me. He only knows that I know what the penalty is for daring to repeat what I hear. Don't tell me how oppressed the women of Darakemba are when most of us diggers are slaves that can be killed for the slightest infraction-even for an act of great loyalty."

"I've never heard that story," said Edhadeya.

"Just because you haven't heard it doesn't mean it isn't true."

"So Father thinks I'm a troublemaker and you think I'm a proud insensitive-"

"And aren't you?"

Edhadeya shrugged. "I'd free you if I could."

"At least your father pretended that he was trying to change your place in society. But in all your pleading, have you ever asked for the earth people of Darakemba to be set free?"