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  Copyright © 2007 by Ursula K. Le Guin

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

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  www.HarcourtBooks.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Le Guin, Ursula K., 1929-Powers/Ursula K. Le Guin.—1st ed. p. cm.

  Summary: When young Gavir's sister is brutally killed, he escapes from s lavery and sets out to explore the world and his own psychic abilities.

  [1, Fantasy.] I. Title. PZ7.L5215P0W 2007 [Fic]—dc22 2006013549 ISBN 978-0-15-205770-1

  Maps created by Ursula K. Le Guin Text set in Adobe Jenson Designed by Cathy Riggs

  First edition ACEGHFDB

  Printed in the United States of America

  PART ONE

  ♦ 1 ♦

  "Don't talk about it," Sallo tells me.

  "But what if it's going to happen? Like when I saw the snow?" "That's why not to talk about it:'

  My sister puts her arm around me and rocks us sideways, left and right, as we sit on the schoolroom bench. The warmth and the hug and the rocking ease my mind and I rock back against Sallo, bumping her a little. But I can't keep from remembering what I saw, the dreadful excitement of it, and pretty soon I burst out, "But I ought to tell them! It was an invasion! They could warn the soldiers to be ready!"

  "And they'd say—when?"

  That stumps me. "Well, just ready."

  "But what if it doesn't happen for a long time? They'd be angry at you for giving a false alarm. And then if an army did invade the city, they'd want to know how you knew."

  "I'd tell them I remembered it!"

  "No," Sallo says. "Don't ever tell them about remembering the way you do. They'll say you have a power. And they don't like people to have powers."

  "But I don't! Just sometimes I remember things that are going to happen!"

  "I know. But Gavir, listen, truly, you mustn't talk about it to anybody. Not anybody but me."

  When Sallo says my name in her soft voice, when she says, "Listen, truly," I do truly listen to her. Even though I argue. "Not even Tib?"

  "Not even Tib," Her round, brown face and dark eyes are quiet and serious.

  "Why?"

  "Because only you and I are Marsh people." "So was Gammy!"

  "It was Gammy that told me what I'm telling you. Thatt Marsh people have powers, and the city people are afraid of them. So we never talk about anything we can do that they can't. It would be dangerous. Really dangerous. Promise, Gav."

  She puts up her hand, palm out. I fit my grubby paw against it to make the vow. "I promise," I say as she says, "I hear."

  In her other hand she's holding the little Ennu-Me she wears on a cord around her neck.

  She kisses the top of my head and then bumps me so hard I nearly fall off the end of the bench. But I won't laugh; I'm so full of what I remembered, it was so awful and so frightening, I want to talk about it, to tell everybody, to say, "Look out, look out! Soldiers are coming, enemies, with a green flag, setting the city on fire!" I sit swinging my legs, sullen and mournful.

  "Tell me about it again," Sallo says. "Tell all the bits you left out."

  That's what I need. And I tell her again my memory of the soldiers coming up the street.

  Sometimes what I remember has a secret feeling about it, as if it belongs to me, like a gift that I can keep and take out and look at when I'm by myself like the eagle feather Yaven-di gave me. The first thing I ever remembered, the place with the reeds and the water, is like that. I've never told anybody about it, not even Sallo. There's nothing to tell; just the silvery-blue water, and reeds in the wind, and sunlight, and a

  blue hill way off. Lately I have a new remembering: the man in the high room in shadows who turns around and says my name. I haven't told anybody that. I don't need to.

  But there's the other kind of remembering, or seeing, or whatever it is, like when I remembered seeing the Father come home from Pagadi, and his horse was lame; only he hadn't come home yet and didn't until next summer, and then he came just as I remembered, on the lame horse. And once I remembered all the streets of the city turning white, and the roofs turning white, and the air full of tiny white birds all whirling and flying downward. I wanted to tell everybody about that, it was so amazing, and I did. Most of them didn't listen. I was only four or five then. But it snowed, later that winter. Everybody ran outside to see the snowfall, a thing that happens in Etra maybe once in a hundred years, so that we children didn't even know what it was called. Gammy asked me, "Is this what you saw? Was it like this?" And I told her and all of them it was just what I'd seen, and she and Tib and Sallo believed me. That must have been when Gammy told Sallo what Sallo had just told me, not to talk about things I remembered that way. Gammy was old and sick then, and she died in the spring after the snowfall.

  Since then I'd only had the secret rememberings, until this morning.

  I was by myself early in the morning, sweeping the hall outside the nursery rooms, when I began remembering. At first I just remembered looking down a city street and seeing fire leap up from a house roof and hearing shouts. The shouts got louder, and I recognised Long Street, running north from the square behind the Forefathers' Shrine. At the far end of the street smoke was billowing out in big greasy clouds with red flames inside them. People were running past me, all over the square, women and men, most of them running towards the Senate Square, shouting and calling out, but city guards ran by in the other direction with their swords drawn. Then I could see soldiers at the far end of Long Street under a green banner; they had long lances, and the ones on

  horseback had swords. The guards met with them, and there was deep shouting, and ringing and clashing like a smithy, and the whole crowd of men, a great writhing knot of armor and helmets and bare arms and swords, came closer and closer. A horse broke from it, galloping up the street straight at me, riderless, lathered with white sweat streaked red, blood running from where its eye should be. The horse was screaming. I dodged back from it. And then I was in the hall with a broom in my hand, remembering it. I was still terrified. It was so clear I couldn't forget it at all. I kept seeing it again, and seeing more. I had to tell somebody.

  So when Sallo and I went to get the schoolroom ready and were there alone, I told her. And now I told her all over again, and telling it made me remember it again, and I could see and tell it better. Sallo listened intently and shivered when I described the horse.

  "What kind of helmets did they have?"

  I looked at the memory of the men fighting in the street.

  "Black, mostly. One of them had a black crest, like a horse's tail."

  "Do you think they were from Osc?"

  "They didn't have those long wood shields like the Oscan captives in the parade. It was like all their armor was metal—bronze or iron—it made this huge clanging sound when they were fighting with the guards with swords. I think they came from Morva. "

  "Who came from Morva, Gav?" said a pleasant voice behind us, and we both jumped like puppets on strings. It was Yaven. Intent on my story, neither of us had heard him, and we had no idea how long he'd been listening. We reverenced him quickly and Sallo said, "Gav was telling me one of his stories, Yaven-di,"

  "Sounds like a good one," Yaven said. "Troops from Morva would march with a black-and-white banner, though."

  "Who has green?" I asked.
>
  "Casicar," He sat down on the front bench, stretching out his long legs. Yaven Altanter Arca was seventeen, the eldest son of the Father of our House. He was an officer in training of the Etran army, and away on duty much of the time now, but when he was home he came to the schoolroom for lessons just as he used to. We loved having him there because, being grown up, he made us all feel grown up, and because he was always good-natured, and because he knew how to get Everra, our teacher, to let us read stories and poems instead of doing grammar and logic exercises.

  The girls were coming in now; and Torm ran in with Tib and Hoby from the ball court, sweating, and finally Everra entered, tall and grave in his grey robe. We all reverenced the teacher and sat down on the benches. There were eleven of us, four children of the Family and seven children of the House.

  Yaven and Torm were the sons of the Arca Family, Astano was the daughter, and Sotur was their cousin.

  Among the house slaves, Tib and Hoby were boys of twelve and thirteen, I was eleven, and Ris and my sister Sallo were thirteen. Oco and her little brother Miv were much younger, just learning their letters.

  All the girls would be educated till they were grown and given. Tib and Hoby, having learned to read and write and recite bits of the epics, would be let out of school for good, come spring. They couldn't wait to get out and learn to work. I was being educated to be a teacher, so my work would always be here, in the long schoolroom with its high windows. When Yaven and Torm had children, I would teach those children and the children of their slaves.

  Yaven invoked the spirits of his Ancestors to bless our work today, and Everra reproved Sallo and me for not setting out the schoolbooks, and we got to work. Almost immediately Everra had to call up Tib and Hoby for scuffling. They stuck out their hands palm up and he whacked

  each one once with his yardstick. There was little beating in Arcamand, and no tortures such as we heard of in other Houses. Sallo and I had never even been struck; the shame of being reproved was quite enough to make us behave. Hoby and Tib had no shame, and as far as I could see no fear of punishment either, and hands as hard as leather. They grimaced and grinned and all but sniggered when Everra struck them, and indeed his heart wasn't in it. Like them, he couldn't wait for them to be out of his schoolroom. He asked Astano to hear them recite their daily bit of history from the Acts of the City of Etra, while Oco helped her little brother write his alphabet, and the rest of us got on with reading the Moralities of Trudec.

  Old-fashioned, the old ways—those were words we heard often in Arcamand, spoken with absolute approval. I don't think any of us had the faintest idea why we had to memorise tiresome old Trudec, or ever thought to ask. It was the tradition of the House of Arca to educate its people. Education meant learning to read the moralists and the epics and the poets Everra called the Classics, and studying the history of Etra and the City States, some geometry and principles of engineering, some mathematics, music, and drawing. That was the way it had always been. That was the way it was.

  Hoby and Tib had never got beyond Nemec's Fables, and Torm and Ris depended a good deal on the rest of us to get them through Trudec; but Everra was an excellent teacher, and had swept Yaven and Sotur and Sallo and me right into the histories and the epics, which we all enjoyed, though none so keenly as Yaven and I. When we'd finally finished discussing the Importance of Self Restraint as exemplified in the Forty-first Morality, I snapped Trudec shut and reached for the copy of the Siege of Oshir that I shared with Sallo. We had just started reading it last month. I knew every line I'd read by heart.

  Our teacher saw me. His long, grey-black eyebrows went up. "Ga-vir," he said, "will you now please hear Tib and Hoby recite, so that As-tano-io can join us in reading."

  I knew why Everra did it. It wasn't meanness; it was Morality. He was training me to do what I didn't want to do and not do what I did want to do, because that was a lesson I had to learn. The Forty-first.

  I gave Sallo the book and went over to the side bench. Astano gave me the book of the Acts of the City and a sweet smile. She was fifteen, tall and thin, so light-skinned that her brothers called her the Ald, after the people in the eastern deserts who are said to have white skins and hair like sheep; but "ald" also means stupid. Astano wasn't stupid, but she was shy; and had perhaps learned the Forty-first Morality almost too well. Silent and proper and modest and self-contained, a perfect Senator's daughter: you had to know Astano very well to know how warm-hearted she was and what unexpected thoughts she could think.

  It's hard for a boy of eleven to play the teacher to older boys who are used to bossing him around and roughing him up and who normally call him Shrimp, Swamp Rat, or Beaky. And Hoby hated taking orders from me. Hoby had been born on the same day as Torm, the son of the Family. Everybody knew but nobody said he was Torm and Yaven's half brother. His mother had been a slave, he was a slave; he received no special treatment. But he resented any slave who did. He'd always been jealous of my status in the classroom. He stared at me frowning as I stood before him and Tib, sitting side by side on the bench.

  Astano had closed the book, so I asked, "Where were you?"

  "Sitting here all along, Beaky," Hoby said, and Tib sniggered.

  What was hard to take was that Tib was my friend, but whenever he was with Hoby he was Hoby's friend, not mine.

  "Go on reciting from where you left off," I said, speaking to Hoby, trying to sound cool and stern.

  "I don't remember where it was."

  "Then start over from where you started today. " "I don't remember where it was."

  I felt the blood rise in my face and sing in my ears. Unwisely; I asked, "What do you remember?"

  "I don't remember what I remember." "Then begin at the beginning of the book."

  "I don't remember it," Hoby said, carried away with the success of his ploy. That gave me the advantage.

  "You don't remember any of the book at all?" I said, raising my voice a little, and Everra immediately glanced our way. "All right," I said. "Tib, say the first page for Hob."

  Under our teacher's eye he didn't dare not to, and set off gabbling the Origin of the Acts, which they'd both known by heart for months. I stopped him at the end of the page and told Hoby to repeat it. That made Hoby really angry. I'd won. I knew I'd pay for it later. But he muttered the sentences through. I said, "Now go on where you left off with Astano-io," and he obeyed, droning out the Act of Conscription.

  "Tib," I said, "paraphrase. " That's what Everra always had us do, to show we understood what we'd memorised.

  "Tib," Hoby said in a little squeaky murmur, "pawaphwase,"

  Tib broke into giggles.

  "Go on," I ordered.

  "Go on, pawaphwase," Hoby whisper-squeaked, and Tib giggled helplessly.

  Everra was talking about a passage in the epic, lecturing away, his eyes shining, the others all listening intently; but Yaven, sitting on the second bench, glanced over at us. He gazed at Hoby with a sharp frown. Hoby shrank into himself and looked at the floor. He kicked Tibs ankle. Tib immediately stopped giggling. After some struggle and hesitation he said, "It uh, it uh says, it means that uh, if the City is threatened uh with uh an attack the uh the Senate will uh what is it?"

  "Convene," I said. "Convene and debilitate-"

  "Deliberate."

  "Deliberate the conscription of able-bodied freemen. Is deliberate like liberate, only the opposite?"

  That was one reason I loved Tib: he heard words, he asked questions, he had a strange, quick mind; but nobody else valued it, so he didn't either.

  "No, it means talk something over."

  "If you pawaphwase it," Hoby muttered.

  We mumbled and stumbled through the rest of their recitation. I was putting away the Acts with great relief when Hoby leaned forward from his bench, staring at me, and said between his teeth, "Master's

  pet."

  I was used to being called teacher's pet. It was inevitable—it was true. But our teacher wasn't a master, he was a slave, li
ke us. This was different. Master's pet meant toady; sneak, traitor. And Hoby said it with real hatred.

  He was jealous of Yaven's intervention on my behalf and shamed by it. We all admired Yaven and longed for his approval. Hoby seemed so rough and indifferent, it was hard for me to understand that he might love Yaven as much I did, with less ability to please him, and more reason to feel humiliated when Yaven sided with me against him. All I knew was that the name he'd called me was hateful and unfair, and I burst out aloud, "I'm not!"

  "Not what, Gavir?" said Everra's cold voice.

  "Not what Hoby said—it doesn't matter—I'm sorry; Teacher. I apologise for interrupting. I apologise to all."

  A cold nod. "Sit down and be silent, then," Everra said. I went back to sit by my sister. For a while I couldn't read the lines of the book Sallo held in front of both of us. My ears kept ringing and my eyes were

  blurred. It was horrible, what Hoby had called me. I'd never be a master's pet. I wasn't a sneak I'd never be like Rif—a housemaid who'd spied on the other maids and tattled, thinking to gain favor. But the Mother of Arca told her, "I don't like sneaks," and had her sold at the Market. Rif was the only adult slave who had been sold from our House in all my life. There was trust on both sides. There had to be.

  When the morning lesson was over, Everra gave punishment for disturbing the class: Tib and Hoby were to learn an extra page of the Acts; all three of us were to write out the Forty-first Lesson of Trudecs Moralities; and I was to copy out thirty lines of Garro's epic poem The Siege and Fall of Sentas into the fair-copy book and have them memorised by tomorrow.

  I don't know whether Everra realised that most of his punishments were rewards, to me. Probably he knew it. But at the time I saw our teacher as old and wise beyond mere human feeling; it didn't occur to me that he thought about me at all or could care what I felt. And because he called copying poetry punishment, I tried to believe that it was. In fact, I was clamping my tongue between my teeth most of the time I was writing out the lines. My writing was scrabbly and irregular. The fair-copy book would be used in future classes, just as we used the books that previous generations of students had copied out when they were children in this schoolroom. Astano had copied the last passage in this book. Under her small, elegant writing, almost as clear as the printed books from Mesun, my lines went scrawling and straggling pitifully along. Looking at how messy they were was my real punishment. As for memorising them, I'd already done that.