Disclaimer! Warning!
PG-13-rated shoujo ai, also known as female/female slash, lies ahead in this story.
If you object to this, please read no further, and please do not flame, because it will be to no purpose.
Thank you.
Most characters and most places in this fanfic belong to Tamora Pierce, and are detailed in her Circle of Magic books. I am making no money from this venture at all.
It would be easier for me just to point out what's mine: the girl Sweetbee; Lark's childhood (other than being taken in by an acrobat troupe; her parents; her town, and several of the towns the troupe travels through; the local justice system & prejudices; Norlina, the Worshipper, and the Justice; the customs relating to the Worshipper, the Justice, and local justice.
Also, the plot is mine, and all writing appearing below this notice is copyright
© Liana Goldenquill 2001.
Please do not use, even embodied in critical reviews, without contacting me at hermionegranger@harrypotterrealm.zzn.com and getting my express approval. Thank you again.
Fourteen-year-old Lark slapped the horse's reins, urging it to go slightly faster. The young Lark simply couldn't wait to reach the shady grove she knew of. Even if the small cart bumped on the rutted dirt road, what did she care? Sweetbee was beside her, holding her hand and smiling!
At last the cart pulled off the road and into the deep woods. When the gaps between the trees were so small that the cart couldn't fit, they stopped and disembarked, Lark carrying the picnic lunch she'd brought.
They spread the feast out under a nearby tree and ate together, the sorts of foods that have been used for picnics since the dawn of time. At last they finished, and Lark packed up the remnants, smiling shyly at Sweetbee.
"How is your family?" she asked cautiously.
"Well," Sweetbee replied, swinging her beautiful, waist-length, honey-colored hair back over one shoulder. "And yours?"
"Oh, all right," Lark answered hastily, and tucked a loose curl of her short, dark-brown hair behind an ear. Then Lark promptly ran out of things to say.
"So—they didn't find out about us yet?" Sweetbee asked, making it sound dirty.
How can this be dirty or wrong? Lark wanted to cry out. We love each other—I see no problem in that! I just haven't told my family—well—because I didn't want to yet. I want some kind of commitment between Sweetbee and me before I tell them, or they'll say it's just calf love and they'll never let us marry. "Well—no, they didn't," she responded at last. "Yours?"
"Not a clue!" Sweetbee giggled, sounding like wind in delicate silver bells. "Of course, all I have is one crazy old aunt—you know that. She lets me do as I like . . . and I like you!"
Lark was charmed—but again, at a loss for conversation.
"How much do you like me?" asked Sweetbee finally. "A lot?"
"Oh, an awful lot!" responded Lark instantly. She hesitated, then, too timid to say what she really felt. "I think—I might even love you."
Sweetbee was touched. Lark could see it in Sweetbee's deep brown eyes at once. "Oh, Lark," she breathed. "You're so—" But Sweetbee didn't know how to finish, and Lark was too shy to suggest any adjectives. "So—naïve, I guess," Sweetbee finally concluded.
Lark didn't know what that meant. How did Sweetbee get to know all of these things, she wondered, when, at sixteen, she's only two years older than I am? I know it's not the village school, because I've finished that too! She hoped that her stupidity wouldn't show in her face.
"How much do you like me?" Lark asked tentatively, at some length.
"You're wonderful, Lark," said Sweetbee with her warm, slow smile that seemed to melt across her face just like it melted Lark's insides.
"Wow," breathed Lark inaudibly.
"You're just—I've never known anyone like you," continued Sweetbee. "You're so innocent; you don't even know about. . . ."
"About. . . ?" asked Lark, curious as always. So my brothers say I'm as curious as a kitten, poking into things—well, that can be useful sometimes. How could you find anything out if you didn't dare to ask?
"About, well, anything, I guess," Sweetbee answered, but Lark could tell she was hedging.
Still, Lark bravely continued. "Because I was wondering. . . ." She couldn't look at Sweetbee. " . . . Well, my parents are thinking about maybe getting me married, and. . . ."
Sweetbee looked horrified. Her smile vanished, and her hand flew to her mouth. "Lark! Married? But that's not for—you can't—we're—"
Lark hunched her shoulders and tried to push on. If only she could finish, she could make Sweetbee see her side, she knew she could. "They want the best for me . . . and of course they don't know about the two of us. So I was thinking—" Lark took a deep breath and plunged into the home stretch—"if I told them about us—I'm sure they want me to be happy—if I told them about us, I'm sure they'd let us get married." Lark looked up at Sweetbee through her dark eyelashes and low fringe of curly hair. "Do you think—?"
But Sweetbee still looked terrified and unhappy. At last she rid her face of the expression with the utmost effort. "You listen to me, Lark," she said firmly, with an expression Lark had never before seen on Sweetbee's lovely visage—anger, and misery. "That's awfully sweet of you, but you just can't do that. You have to promise me you'll never, ever tell anyone about that, as long as you live! Understand?"
Terrified of her usually gentle girlfriend, Lark nodded. "Yes, Sweetbee, I promise. I'll never tell anyone if that's how you want it, but I don't understand why—"
"You don't need to understand," Sweetbee snapped harshly. "Just promise me!"
"I did! I mean, I do! Oh, Sweetbee, just tell me why!"
Then the angry and miserable expression melted off of Sweetbee's face like hard winter snow in the spring rain. It was replaced by a thrilled, joyful expression, even more jubilant than her usual. "Now, Lark, did I understand correctly that you just proposed marriage to me?"
"Yes, I did," replied Lark instantly. Oh please, oh please, oh please—Sweetbee, I need you, I love you so much—!
Sweetbee's smile melted across her face once more. "You are the dearest, sweetest, most lovable, most innocent, most naïve young woman I know—and I love you, Lark!"
"I love you too, Sweetbee!" exclaimed Lark, thrilled to her very core. Does this mean she'll marry me?
"Come here, Lark," said Sweetbee firmly, "and give me a kiss." Lark obeyed happily, with her full concentration.
Kissing was nothing new to either of them, although Sweetbee was the only person Lark had ever kissed. In late autumn and throughout the winter they'd been kissing each other, with varying degrees of intensity—ever since Sweetbee had first approached Lark. But this was the first time that Lark had ever been kissed like this!
When Sweetbee gently pushed her tongue into the younger girl's mouth, Lark tried to gasp.
"Ssh, now," Sweetbee said soothingly, as well as she could with her mouth occupied. "Do you want me to stop?"
Lark didn't know what to do. Say 'no'? Shake her head? At last she settled for making a muffled sort of negative noise, and leaned into the kiss. This is incredible—amazing! Sweetbee is so—! And I'm hers—we'll be married, I'm sure this is a 'yes'! I'm so happy!
It wasn't long until Sweetbee's hand found the way to Lark's breast. Lark gasped, but found that she actually enjoyed the sensation that was sending ripples of delight through her body.
An unknown period of time later, Lark and her would-be lover were entirely wrapped up in each other. So absorbed, in fact, that they didn't even notice when Norlina, the plump proprietor of the town's small general store, stepped around the side of the cart.
Norlina's eyes widened, and she gasped loudly. Lark and Sweetbee were surprised by the sudden noise, and they straightened to sitting positions, letting go of one another. Lark, terrified by Norlina's wrath, cowered behind Sweetbee, who leaned across her as if to protect her.
Norlina looked horrified, and angry besides. "Girls!" she exclaimed, furious. "How—what is this? Sweetbee! I knew you were . . . 'wrong,' but I never thought you'd actually—!" Norlina reached down and pulled Sweetbee aside to see who was hidden behind her.
"Lark! You?! You're the daughter of Matheu and Sena—I never thought you could do such a thing! Oh—wait until your parents find out! This is just—I never thought I'd live to see the day! How disgusting—!" Gingerly Norlina reached down and took a grip of their forearms, pulling them up.
Sweetbee brushed her honey-hair behind her ear with her left hand—the one Norlina wasn't tugging—and planted her feet defiantly. "I'm not guilty," she declared forcefully, "because I haven't done anything wrong! We're not 'disgusting,' Norlina—we're in love!" Her brown eyes, usually warm and placid, spit sparks at the meddling neighbor.
Norlina, angrier than ever, dropped Lark's arm to slap Sweetbee with her right hand and all of her force. Sweetbee, unable to help herself, flinched from the pain in her cheek. Norlina's hand left a red mark on Sweetbee's perfect complexion, a red palm-shaped mark that was rapidly spreading. But Sweetbee's eyes weren't on Norlina, and Sweetbee's mind wasn't on her own pain. Sweetbee was staring at Lark.
"Go," she mouthed, looking scared now. Lark was all but hidden behind Norlina, who had dropped Lark's arm before turning to strike Sweetbee.
Lark raised her eyebrows in incomprehension, more terrified than she'd ever been before. What had gone wrong? A few minutes ago, she was the happiest she'd ever been—interesting feelings all over her body, and going to marry Sweetbee—and now Norlina had stormed into them, and everything was all wrong! It felt—and Lark didn't know why—it felt as though everything, absolutely everything, was ruined, crumpled on the ground. Lark felt like she would burst into tears any second.
But Sweetbee had to be saying something important, or she wouldn't have bothered. Lark bit her lip. "Sweetbee, what should I do?" she whispered, hoping she'd hear her.
Sweetbee's face grew pale, and she began to bite her coral-pink lips, as Norlina launched into a tirade, screaming at Sweetbee.
"No wonder the crops haven't been growing, the rain hasn't been coming," Lark could hear Norlina yell. " . . . the gods and the magic have been punishing us for letting you two keep living—if I'd known, if we'd heard, if the pair of you hadn't been sneaking out, ashamed even of yourselves, you wouldn't still be alive, be sure of that—you're disgusting! A mockery of what things are supposed to be . . . you're twisted, both of you, you most of all, Sweetbee! You should have been married long since—corrupting innocent, good girls. . . ." Since the majority of Norlina's wrath was directed at Sweetbee, Lark couldn't hear all of it.
But when Sweetbee hissed "Run!" urgently, and jerked her head in the direction behind Lark, Lark heard that, and she knew what it meant. She had to escape, but why did Sweetbee want her to leave?
A tear welled out of each eye, and she bit her lip. How can I leave Sweetbee to face the town gossip alone—and why should she, anyway? What's she done wrong? Maybe if I stay, I can explain to them about us—how we weren't exactly misbehaving, that we love each other and we're going to marry.
But some of Lark's thoughts must have shown on her face, because Sweetbee violently shook her head. "No, Lark, there's no hope, you've got to run. As far as you can! Promise!" she hissed. A tear left Sweetbee's big brown eye, dropping silently to the forest floor.
"I promise," Lark mouthed quickly, noiselessly.
"I love you, Lark," Sweetbee whispered quietly, "and if things had been different, who knows?"
Norlina was so engrossed in berating Sweetbee that she didn't even notice when Lark whispered, "I love you too, Sweetbee, but everything will be all right—you'll see!"
And Norlina didn't notice when Lark silently crept backward, into the dense bushes and behind a tree. Once she was out of eyeshot, Lark ran, panting heavily with a stitch in her side, and thinking furiously.
What have we done to be yelled at? What can I do? Sweetbee told me to run far away—and I promised—but I can't leave her without any help. She needs me! All along I've needed her, and now she needs me; how can I let her down? I can't! But I can't break the promise I made to her, either!
At last, exhausted, and several miles from where she and Sweetbee had been caught, Lark tripped over a root and fell. Whimpering with fatigue, she revived enough to crawl over into some bushes, and couldn't muster the strength to get up again.
She managed to pull herself deep under the bushes, then lay until nightfall. Brief thoughts about the horse and carriage crossed her mind, but they were far more heavily outweighed by her concerns for Sweetbee. If Mother and Father find out that I left the horse and cart alone, whatever I get in trouble for being caught kissing would be nothing compared! They'd be so disappointed in me, and I'd lose all of my responsibilities! But oh, I hope Sweetbee's all right! I wish Norlina had never come by! Why does the fat old busybody have to butt into my business? …At least she'll take the horse and cart home to Mother and Father. . . . and, doubts slightly assuaged, Lark fell deep into sleep.
When she woke up, it was early morning, just dawn, and birds were twittering in the trees around her. Lark stood up with a sleepy yawn, blinking the last of sleep from her heavy eyelids. For a split second, she wondered, Why was I sleeping in the woods? Then it all came back to her—she and Sweetbee were caught, and Sweetbee had been taken back to be punished for kissing Lark. Or something, anyway. Lark still didn't quite understand just what they'd done—or why they shouldn't have been kissing—weren't they betrothed? Though, she acknowledged, there's no way Norlina could've known that yet. So maybe she thinks she was right to stop us from kissing. But in that case, why didn't Sweetbee have me stay around to explain?
Lark reasoned that it was vital that she get back to the village as soon as possible, to explain what had happened so nobody would get in trouble. Sighing and stretching, she looked around at the forest to see if she could recognize landmarks to find her way back. Lark soon realized that she was entirely lost. "Why, I don't even know the way I came!" she murmured to herself, then discovered that this wasn't really true.
Scrapes along the left of the bushes showed that she had come that way, tripping over that protruding root. "No problem," she thought aloud, "I can follow my trail back the way I came." With that relatively cheerful thought, Lark set off to the left, knowing she'd soon be fine—she, just like the rest of the village, could follow game trails as well as humans' tracks.
A few miles and hours later, she realized that she'd nearly reached the place where she'd left the horse and cart, where Norlina had found them. Gingerly, she stepped into the clearing where she and Sweetbee had picnicked, and gasped.
The clearing no longer existed. Sometime last evening or this morning, it had been swept with fire, blackening the young trees and destroying the beautiful flowers. The ground was charred ash; the soft, matted grass had been burnt away. Lark sank to her knees, choking back a sob. This had been a very special place to her, and not just because she and Sweetbee had trysted there. For as long as she could remember, she'd snuck off here as her secret place of choice—it was only very recently she'd realized it made an excellent lovers' glen.
When Lark finally rose to her feet, the ash was deluged with her tears. At least, though, Lark had now found the dirt road just wide enough for the cart (but she didn't find her horse or her carriage), and she'd managed from that to get to the road. She was wise enough to stay off to the side, in the woods—any townsperson coming now would feel it was their duty to catch her, her and Sweetbee. . . .
I hope she's all right, repeated continuously in Lark's mind as she drew closer to the loose outskirts of the village. When at last the road forked, she chose the left path to continue to her family's home. Mother and Father will be awfully angry with me, for kissing and being caught and running away, but after they've scolded me, I'm sure they'll take me back. She realized with some misgivings that there might be a real punishment in store for her, and not just a scolding. Kissing, and not even married—yes, we were betrothed, but nobody knew it, and even then, you don't—well, you don't touch each other like Sweetbee was touching me. Yes, and you liked it, Lark! Worse yet, you ran and let Sweetbee be caught, and they'll see it as cowardice—well, it was. . . .
Finally Lark could see her family's cleared fields in the distance, but they looked awfully odd, and not like she'd remembered them. The pasture where the sheep were usually kept was empty—there were no white puffs in it, and none of the usual occasional black puffs, either.
Lark reached the edge of the woods, and walked over to where the wooden split-rail fence changed, distinguishing the horses' smooth-trimmed corral from the sheep's verdant pasture. Hanging over the horses' fence, she whistled her special whistle. If Daisy was in the corral, she would come running across the fields, even if she couldn't see Lark.
The young girl waited, but couldn't see any horses coming, not even Daisy, who always, always ran to the whistle—and if she was locked up in the barn, she would've whinnied, she always did. This is so very odd. Where could all of the horses be? Getting an odd feeling in her midsection, she continued to her left, passing the horses' corral to get to some of the fields, where they grew vegetables and the occasional wildflower.
The field was empty. More than empty. The beautiful, lush green corn plants that Lark had seen yesterday no longer existed. They'd been cruelly ripped from their underground safety, and were thrown, wilting in the sun, on a yellowing pile. "No!" cried Lark. What, by the gods, had happened? My family's crops—this was all of our money, really! Where did the crops go? More importantly, why?
The field was all upturned, showing rich brown loam. But now there were small white grains in it. It's not—is it salt? But why? Didn't they know it would kill the ground for years to come? Oh, the poor, poor plants! The poor, poor ground!
Lark stretched a hand out to the wilting heap, so unceremoniously dumped in a corner of the field, then abruptly fainted. It—it feels like my brain's being pulled out through my arm . . . oh, ouch!
When she regained her consciousness, it was later. How much later? It looked to be the same approximate time of day, but was it the same day, or the day after? Lark took stock. She was a tiny bit stiff, but not as though she'd slept crumpled on the hard ground. She was hungry, as she'd been before, but not as hungry as though she'd slept for a week.
Lark, wondering what it had been, cast her eye in the direction of the plants' heap . . . which no longer existed. Somehow, all the plants looked green-flushed and healthy. Furthermore, no roots were exposed anymore—they'd dug down past each other to find footholds. Dizzily, Lark shook her head. That can't happen, obviously. I must have mis-seen before. . . .
Quietly, cautiously, she continued on toward her house, not straying from the skirt of the woods.
Her house, a modest single-floor dwelling, large enough for herself, her siblings, mother, and father, was built of the locally plentiful wood, as was everything inside. Lark held her breath before pushing the door open, praying to the gods that someone—even if they yelled at her—would be here to explain the horses and the fields.
She didn't smell cooking inside, and she didn't hear people. Could it be that the house was empty, too? Lark entered slowly, door creaking, and the house was empty. Not just empty as in "not containing people," but empty as in "bare." There was no stove in the kitchen, no table, and even her mother's hard clay dishes had been removed. The chairs to pull to the table were gone, too, and the cabinets. She couldn't stifle a gasp, having never seen the house without furnishings.
In her parents' room, the tale was the same. Bed, mattress, ticking, shelves, chair . . . all were gone—and so were they in the rooms her siblings still at home shared. Lark went, next, to the room that she shared with two of her younger sisters. It, surprisingly, was the exception to the tale, being completely full and exactly as she'd left it—but her sisters' belongings were as vanished as anyone else's. The bed that Lark had shared with them was still in the room, and so were the other furnishings held in common, but her sisters' own personal possessions were nowhere to be found.
"Mother? Father?" Lark called out, but there was no answer.
Determined to find them, Lark knew that if they were not at home, they were doubtless in the village—perhaps on an infrequent shopping trip. When she found them, they could explain the house . . . and the horses and sheep . . . and crops. Lark hoped. Returning to her room, Lark exchanged her shoes for her sturdiest pair and set out on the road to town, conscientiously closing the door behind her.
Arriving in town an hour later, Lark was panting slightly from traveling on a dusty road in the bright sun. Skirting buildings and staying on the very outside edges, Lark found her way to the infrequently-used Justice Building, and decided to enter. Since it had not been used in her memory, it would be as safe as anywhere to watch for her parents from.
The back door opened easily, and though the lower room smelt musty, it was no task for Lark to find a ladder to the small attic, which she climbed. The attic let onto the open air on both sides, but was covered by wooden lattice to prevent people falling off. Lark closed the trapdoor that she'd climbed through, then chose to lie by the side that faced the town square. Surely her parents had to pass through there soon.
But it was cool, breezy, and shady there—despite the heat and dust of the square outside—and Lark soon fell fast asleep again. When she woke, she felt absolutely famished, but she'd not woken because of that—but because there was a great clatter of horses' hooves on the stones of the town square outside.
The young girl crawled to the very edge of the attic, pushing her face to the lattice to watch the goings-on. A fat, sweating man in heavy black robes had raced his horse right up to the steps on the side of the square opposite Lark's vantage point of the Justice Building, and now his horse, which was uncomfortable about the stairs, was refusing to go up. Lark, when she'd had the idea of filling the cellar with harvest twice as fast by using packhorses, had found herself that no horses, not even the well-trained Daisy, liked stairs to go up or down.
At some length, during which quite a crowd (for the village, at any rate) gathered around horse and man, the fat man dismounted, and climbed all seven of the steps himself. The crowd followed up around him, and from Lark's viewpoint, it looked as though they were all loudly clamoring for his attention.
"Silence!" he thundered at last in a rolling baritone, then dabbed at his pink forehead with a black handkerchief. "Back!" motioned the obese man with one pudgy hand, shooing the townsfolk down the steps. Then he looked around, peering from piggy eyes almost hidden in round cheeks. "Has my colleague the Worshipper yet arrived?" he asked the crowd, and of course half a score people answered—"Yes" or "Not yet" or "Over on t' other end o' town"—as best they knew.
One tall, thin man clutching a limp book walked forward, also clad in black. His clothing was slightly loose from his skinniness, but in no way approached the billowing fabric of the other man. "I represent the gods here," he announced mildly, then came forth and took a stand one step below the fat man.
The round man, still holding his horse's reins, asked the crowd, "Is there a likely young lad among you?" The pre-teens shoved each other, giggling, until at last one proud father pushed his son, red as a beet and quite a bit younger than Lark, forward.
The pink fat man peered at the boy again. "Know you of a place for my beast?" he asked, pushing the horse's reins into the boy's hand.
"Aye, sir," muttered the boy, casting his eyes down, "m' family has a likely stable. Would y' that I put t' horse there?"
It was a lovely horse, Lark noted as the large man nodded, his rolls of fat set a-quiver. It was in a lather from its heavy burden and quick gallop, but its lines were lovely and it seemed rather docile, and a pretty chestnut. Probably a gelding, Lark decided—she couldn't see under its withers from above. She knew horses fairly well from her family's mare, Daisy, and from the few other horses—a stallion and a few more mares—they had around their farm.
"Take it away," commanded the fat man, "give it a rub or mash or water or whatever it needs—uh, I personally don't know."
The boy, still looking down, embarrassed to have been volunteered in front of his friends, touched his cap and led the horse away to his family's stable, making a path through the excited crowd.
"Don't worry," called the obese man from the top step, "we'll try to save the entertainment until you get back!" He then laughed long and loud; no other member of the watching crowd took part in the laughter, but shifted their weights nervously.
"I am the Justice of this region," proclaimed the man when finally sobered. "I come to bring Justice and—uh—closure and healing to your community from this scar upon the town and land—short notice as there is." Lark could hear the man practically itching to ask about food and the inn's shelter for the night (he probably didn't realize the best the village could do was the floor of the local pub), but she realized that the Justice probably had to follow a ritual.
The tall, thin man a step below the Justice nodded in agreement. "I am the gods' officially-recognized devotee of this region, known as the Worshipper. I can vouch for the Justice, and I, too, am here to bring you closure and peace." Suddenly he frowned. "If, of course, it is the gods' will. You understand that if they are angry that you have harbored this menace amongst yourselves, I may not be able to aid you."
Everyone in the crowd suddenly looked down and made the Sign on their breasts. Even Lark, in the loft, did so, with some unavoidable rustling of her clothing.
"Bring forth the persons involved," announced the Justice loudly. Suddenly Norlina, skirts fluttering and long nose twitching, flounced on the scene from the doors of the wooden building behind the steps. She curtsied unnecessarily low, and put a sweet smile on her face as she pushed back her mousy hair.
"Your Justice-ship," she began in an odious, bootlicking tone, "if it please you—"
"It pleases me to be called merely by my title, which is Justice," the fat man interrupted curtly. "Pray do so. And my colleague need not be called the Most Reverend Worshipper-ship, either, but Worshipper will suffice."
The Worshipper did not look necessarily happy at the Justice's announcement.
"Your Justice," Norlina began again, after a pause. "If it please you, I am Norlina. The owner of the local general store, which if I may be so bold as to add, has all of your needs in one place, and should anyone need to purchase on credit, that, too, is—"
"You may not be so bold," interrupted the Justice, dabbing again at his forehead with the handkerchief as he looked for some shade.
Norlina paused again. "The widowed proprietoress of the most excellent general store, who's been without a husband these seven years, and—"
"Look you," snapped the sweating obese man, "state your relevance to the case—if any!"
Norlina's mouth pursed as though she'd bitten a sour grape. "In that case, I am the one who discovered the young miscreants yesterday—though Heavens above and Hells below know how long it's been going on!"
The Justice nodded. "Thank you. Now, please stand below the Worshipper."
Obviously surprised that she had nothing more to do at the moment, Norlina obeyed reluctantly.
What is this about? Lark asked herself. What young miscreants—and what does 'miscreants' mean anyway? Why did the Justice come here, and what case is he talking about? So full of questions was Lark that she missed the calling of the next witnesses. By the time her eyes had re-focused on the scene unfolding below her, another woman and a man were standing next to Norlina.
Lark peered at the figures—could she see their faces? The scene was not far away, and she'd made out Norlina instantly (distinctive though her overlong nose was). Abruptly she recognized their figures through the concealing lattice: they were her parents, Matheu and Sena!
Should I call out? What is going on here? Lark asked herself silently. What under the Goddess could this be about?
"Any more witnesses?" asked the Justice officiously, sniffing slightly and trying to find a handkerchief to mop his brow with. Finally he settled on one sleeve. The Worshipper tilted his face slightly upward, half-smiling in superiority: although he was clad all in black, he was not disgracing his position by acting like a common boor, even if he was standing straight in the sunlight.
Their backs to Lark, two young women escorted an older woman from the crowd. "What is that?" asked the Justice, staring, as the Worshipper made the Sign on his breast.
Both maidens looked around, wondering if he really meant them to answer. "The aunt of the captured one," replied one of the young women at some length. "Named Eleika."
"What sort of name is that?" the Justice wondered aloud. "But—why are you holding her?" was his next question.
"She's Goddess-touched," answered the other young woman, on Eleika's left, hesitantly. "She was touched more than slightly even before all of this, but now she's entirely lost her wits."
"Ah," sighed the Worshipper in understanding, and "A sad case," remarked the Justice.
"What use, then, is she to us?" the Justice asked the young women. "Can she still bear witness?"
"No," answered the woman, shaking her head, "but we thought it was important she appear anyway—she is, or was, the guardian of Sw—of the captured girl—?"
"Take her away," waved the Justice wearily. "She can be of no use."
The two women turned, bearing the older one, whose face came into focus for Lark. Eleika—that's Sweetbee's old aunt! But what—
Lark swiftly reviewed the just-past conversation as the Justice beckoned to her parents to come forward. Wait a second, just a second. This couldn't be about. . . ? Terrified, she began to breathe more quickly, until her heartbeat echoed in her ears and she was sure she could be heard in the square below.
All right, all right, Lark, stop. There's no way—look, take it logically, just one thing at a time. First of all, they brought forth Sweetbee's aunt to testify, I'm sure it was her. Second, they said that she was the aunt of "the captured one." Sweetbee was caught and captured when I ran away, and Eleika has no more nieces or nephews. And that girl did begin to say a name that started with "Sw"—who's to say it's not Sweetbee? Finally . . . my parents were called forward to speak about it, too. They wouldn't be called in as experts in any field, because there must be a score of farmers exactly like Father and Mother within ten miles.
So they were here to speak about me. And Sweetbee's aunt was here to testify; probably about her. And the only thing that involves me and her is what Norlina caught us doing yesterday. Therefore . . .
Therefore, I am, and she is, in a whole lot of trouble.
