The others had sorted themselves into knots of conversation. Some were going home. Luet walked to the shade of a tree. "Didul, Father is beside himself. I've never seen the king so angry, either. He's had to be restrained from bringing home the army. Monush came out of retirement to argue with him. What enemy would the army attack? It was an awful scene, both of them yelling. Of course the king knew that Monush was right all along, but... they feel so helpless. No one has ever defied the law like this."

"Was it really the threat of death for heresy that kept public order all these years?"

"No. Father says... but he's written to you, hasn't he?"

"Oh, yes. The removal of the death penalty freed them to do little things. Ugly things like the shouting and the vile words and all that. But when nothing happened to them, they started pushing farther and harder, doing worse things, daring each other."

"It makes sense to me, anyway," she said.

"But what I don't know is-where does it stop? The law against beating and maiming children, that's still in force, with dire enough penalties. And yet these beasts did it anyway. The civil guard is out questioning people-no doubt about it, this sickened even them, especially the damage to the angel boys, you can bet they didn't care much about one less digger, the scum-but the questioning is a joke because they already know who did it, or at least they know who would know, but they don't dare reveal what they know because that would be the same as confessing that they've known all along and could have stopped it at any time and-I'm so angry! I'm supposed to be committed to being a man of peace, Luet, but I want to kill someone, I want to hurt them for what they did to these children, and the most terrible thing is that I know how it feels to hurt people and after all these years I finally want to do it again."And then words failed him and to his own surprise he burst into tears and a moment later found himself sitting on the grass under the tree, Luet's arms around him as he cried out his frustration of the past few weeks.

"Of course you feel like that," she murmured. "There's nothing wrong in feeling it. You're still human. The passion for revenge is built into us. The need to protect our young. But look at you, Didul- you're feeling that desire to protect the little ones, not for members of your own species, but for children of two others. That's good, isn't it? To tame your animal impulses in the service of the Keeper?"

Her argument was so deft and yet so inadequate that he had to laugh; and in laughing he realized that her argument had not been inadequate after all, for he was comforted, or at least he could control himself now, not weep anymore.

Now, of course, the anguish momentarily spent, he was flooded with embarrassment at having let her see him like this. "Oh, Luet, you must think-I don't do this. I've really been pretty strong about it, all these other people doing the weeping, and me being the wise one, but now you know the truth about me, don't you, only we should be used to that, your family has always known the truth about me and-"

She put her fingers over his lips. "Shut up, Didul," she said. "You have a way of babbling when you should just be quiet."

"How do I know when times like that have come?" he said.

In reply, she leaned toward him and kissed him lightly, girlishly on the lips. "When you see my love for you, Didul, you can stop babbling because you know that I am not ashamed of you, I'm proud of you. It's worse here than anywhere, Didul, and you've borne it with so little help, really. That's why I came, because I thought, maybe if I were beside you, it might be bearable."

"Instead I cover you with my tears," he said, thinking all the while, She kissed me, she loves me, she's proud of me, she belongs beside me.

"Why don't you say what you're thinking?" she said.

"What makes you think you want to hear it?" he said, laughing in embarrassment.

"Because the way you looked at me, Didul, I knew that what you were thinking was, I love her, I want her beside me forever, I want her to be my wife, and Didul, I tell you honestly, I'm sick and tired of waiting for you to say it out loud."

"Why should I tell you what you already know?"

"Because I need to hear it."

So he told her. And when Shedemei called them back into the school, Luet had promised to be his wife, as soon as they could both get back to Darakemba, "Because," as Luet said, "Mother would kill us and steal all our children to raise herself if you had one of the priests marry us here." In vain did Didul point out that if Chebeya killed them they wouldn't have produced any grandchildren for her to steal. The wedding would wait. Still, knowing that she wanted him, that she knew him so well and yet wanted to be with him-that was all the comfort that he wanted. Miserable as this day was, he felt himself filled with light.

Shedemei led them to the comatose child. "He's sleeping now," she said. "The bones have been adequately set, except the compound break in the left humerus, which I reset and resplinted. There is no brain damage, though I think he might not remember anything about what happened-which would be nice, not to have those nightmares."

"No brain damage?" asked Didul, incredulous. "Did you see what they did to him? The skull was open, did you see that?"

"Nevertheless," said Shedemei.

"What did you do?" asked Luet. "Teach me."

Grim-faced, Shedemei shook her head. "I did nothing that you could do. I couldn't teach it to you because I can't give you the tools you'd need. That has to be enough. Don't ask me any more."

"Who are you?" asked Didul. And then an answer occurred to him. "Shedemei, are you the true child of the Keeper that Binaro talked about?"

She blushed. Didul had not thought her capable of such a human reaction. "No," she said, and then she laughed. "Definitely not! I'm strange, I know, but I'm not that."

"But you know the Keeper, right?" asked Luet. "You know-you know things that we don't know."

"I told you," said Shedemei. "I came here in search of the Keeper. I came here precisely because you are the ones with the true dreams, and I'm not. Is that clear? Will you believe me? There are things I know, yes, that I can't teach you because you aren't ready to understand them. But the things that matter most, you know better than me."

"Healing that boy's damaged brain," said Didul. "You can't tell me that doesn't matter."

"It matters to him. To you, to me. To his family. But in ten million years, Didul, will it matter then?"

" Nothing will matter then" said Didul, laughing.

"The Keeper will," said Shedemei. "The Keeper and all her works, she will matter. Ten million years from now, Didul, will the Keeper be alone on Earth again, as she was for so many, many years? Or will the Keeper tend an Earth that is covered with joyful people living in peace, doing the Keeper's works? Imagine what such a good people could do-diggers, humans, angels all together-and maybe others, too, brought home from other planets of exile-all together, building star-ships and taking the Keeper's word of peace back out to worlds uncountable. That's what the people who founded Harmony meant to do. But they tried to force it, tried to make people stop destroying each other. By making people stupid whenever they... ." Suddenly she seemed to realize she had said too much. "Never mind," she said. "What does the ancient planet matter to you?"

Luet and Didul both looked at her wordlessly as, to cover her embarrassment, she busied herself in gathering up the unused medicines and returning them to her sack. Then she rushed out of the school, murmuring about needing air.