The Tombs of Atuan (Earthsea Cycle, #2)

by Ursula K. Le Guin

the word that was repeated over and over was a word so old it had lost its meaning, like a signpost still standing when the road is gone. Over and over they chanted the empty word.

Sometimes the wind whistled a little between the two stones that stood closest together, leaning together as if telling secrets. But no secret was told.

The Eaten One said nothing. Her face was set, her eyes under black brows caught the light of the sky in a pale glitter.

For a moment the girl raised her eyes to Thar’s face, then to Kossil’s, and there was a depth of hate or rage in her look that was terrible to see. But the thin priestess showed no concern; rather she confirmed, leaning forward a little, almost whispering, “You are Arha. There is nothing left. It was all eaten.”

Her boredom rose so strong in her sometimes that it felt like terror: it took her by the throat.

Manan watched her. His slabby face never expressed much but stolid, careful sadness; it was sadder than usual now. “Well, and you’re mistress of all that,” he said. “The silence, and the dark.”

her whisper ran out into the hollow blackness and frayed into threads of sound as fine as spiderweb that clung to the hearing for a long time.

“Light is forbidden here.” Kossil’s whisper was sharp. Even as she said it, Arha knew it must be so. This was the very home of darkness, the inmost center of the night.

one could not see the way, but held it in one’s hands.

It seemed sweet and peaceful as a starless night, silent, without sight, or light, or life. She plunged into the clean darkness, hurried forward through it like a swimmer through water.

Arha looked down at her with a dark steady gaze. She did not understand. She felt that she had never seen Penthe before, never looked at her and seen her, round and full of life and juice as one of her golden apples, beautiful to see.

She was scared by the solidity of Penthe’s unfaith.

Penthe might disbelieve in the gods, but she feared the unnameable powers of the dark—as did every mortal soul.

It was black; it was silent. And that was all.

She was in a place less sacred, though perhaps more dreadful. She was in the Labyrinth.

Only to Arha would she talk, sometimes, when they were alone together; then even that ceased, and she went silently into the dark.

But Arha had learned not to command Kossil. She had the right to do so, but not the strength;

Kossil had no true worship in her heart of the Nameless Ones or of the gods. She held nothing sacred but power.

This was strange beyond thought, beyond fear, this faint blooming of light where no light had ever been, in the inmost grave of darkness.

Now she could think again. She was released from the spell of light.

She had seen it, and the mystery had given place, not to horror, but to beauty, a mystery deeper even than that of the dark.

“Wizard!” she said, and her voice slipping down the stone throat whispered coldly in the tunnel underground.

At each halt Arha dripped some of the water she had brought in a flask into the dry mouth of the man, a little at a time, lest life returning kill him.

Something prevented her speaking. Her heart beat as if she were afraid. There was no reason to fear him. He was at her mercy.

“It’s pleasant to have light,” he said in the soft but deep voice, which perturbed her.

Underground, there were no days. There was always and only night.

seeing the open sea stretch unbroken to the sunset, the golden dragons on the golden wind.

All I know is the dark, the night underground. And that’s all there really is. That’s all there is to know, in the end. The silence, and the dark. You know everything, wizard. But I know one thing—the one true thing!”

He had gone farther than she into the dark; he knew death better than she did, even death…. A rush of hatred for him rose up in her, choking her throat for an instant. Why did he sit there so defenseless and so strong? Why could she not defeat him?

“How do I know,” she said at last, “that you are what you seem to be?” “You don’t,” said he. “I don’t know what I seem, to you.”

He said nothing, and his face was quiet, but there was in his eyes something that moved her: a desolation, the look of one betrayed.

He raised his face to her. His expression was strange. “Take care, Tenar,” he said.

Her despair grew so great that it burst her breast open and like a bird of fire shattered the stone and broke out into the light of day—the light of day, faint in her windowless room.

Even into the places underground and into the hearts of men does he search and look, and none shall forbid him entrance!” “I shall.

IN THE GREAT TREASURY OF the Tombs of Atuan, time did not pass. No light; no life; no least stir of spider in the dust or worm in the cold earth. Rock, and dark, and time not passing.

He laid his hands on her head, pushing back the hood. He began to speak. His voice was soft, and the words were in no tongue she had ever heard. The sound of them came into her heart like rain falling. She grew still to listen.

“Did you truly think them dead? You know better in your heart. They do not die. They are dark and undying, and they hate the light: the brief, bright light of our mortality. They are immortal, but they are not gods. They never were. They are not worth the worship of any human soul.”

“What have they ever given you, Tenar?” “Nothing,” she whispered. “They have nothing to give. They have no power of making. All their power is to darken and destroy.

They should not be denied nor forgotten, but neither should they be worshiped. The Earth is beautiful, and bright, and kindly, but that is not all. The Earth is also terrible, and dark, and cruel.

the

She tells you that the Nameless Ones are dead; only a lost soul, lost to truth, could believe that. They exist. But they are not your Masters. They never were. You are free, Tenar. You were taught to be a slave, but you have broken free.”

As I know the light, as I know you, I know your name, Tenar. That is my gift, my power. I cannot tell you more. But tell me this: what will you do now?”

No one can withstand the Dark Ones long alone. They are very strong.”

We use writing more than you, I think. Do you know how to read?” “No. It is one of the black arts.” He nodded. “But a useful one,” he said.

They are not gods, Tenar. But they are stronger than any man.”

“I don’t know what to do. I am afraid.” She sat erect on the stone chest, her hands clenched one in the other, and spoke loudly, like one in pain. She said, “I am afraid of the dark.” He answered softly.

You must be Arha, or you must be Tenar. You cannot be both.” The deep voice was gentle and certain. She looked through the shadows into his face, which was hard and scarred, but had in it no cruelty, no deceit.

“To be reborn one must die, Tenar. It is not so hard as it looks from the other side.” “They would not let us get out. Ever.” “Perhaps not. Yet it’s worth trying. You have knowledge, and I have skill, and between us we have…” He paused. “We have the Ring of Erreth-Akbe.” “Yes, that. But I thought also of another thing between us. Call it trust…. That is one of its names. It is a very great thing. Though each of us alone is weak, having that we are strong, stronger than the Powers of the Dark.”

You have proved your trust in me. I have made no return. I will give you what I have to give. My true name is Ged. And this is yours to keep.”

“I thought of… taking you to the door. Letting you go.” “That was a choice you didn’t have. You could keep me a slave, and be a slave; or set me free, and come free with me. Come, little one, take courage, turn the key.”