“The Ring of Peace is healed,” said the Herbal, in his patient, troubled voice, “the prophecy is fulfilled, the son of Morred is crowned, and yet we have no peace. “Hard for the housekeeper to give up the keys when the owner comes home.” “The first Archmage came centuries after the last king. “Nonsense! Not history!” said the old Namer. “Thorion says Lebannen is not truly king, since no Archmage crowned him,” “Until the wind changes, eh?” said the Patterner. If the king himself should come, he could not land on Roke,”
The Windkey keeps the Roke-wind against all. But there’s no ship in port, and none has come into Thwil Bay since the one that brought you, lady, and sailed again next day for Wathort.
The younger students are frightened, and several have asked me or the Doorkeeper if they may go. “Thorion has been much with the other Masters, and with the young men. The dark-eyed mage bowed his head at that, and said, “Very well,” evidently with relief at accepting their judgment over his own. There are names behind names, my Lord Healer.” All any of us knows is how it seems to us. “And to this place, at this time, no one comes by chance. “She came to this place at this time,” the Namer said. “This lady is not of our council,” he said at last. “I can tell you only how it seems to me,” the Herbal said, reluctant, uncomfortable. But all the boys I had studying at the Tower left.” “But I don’t know if he can keep a lid on the ant-hill.” He closed is many-pocketed pouch carefully and looked around at the others. “Said he thought he’d better keep the doors,” said the Herbal. He greeted them and asked, “The Doorkeeper will come?” He looked up the Patterner was coming towards them, wide awake now. “Is it a long way from where you live, sir?” she asked. Nothing about him appeared insubstantial, but she thought he was not there, and when he stepped into the slanting sunlight and cast no shadow, she knew it. Irian was studying the Namer covertly but equally attentively, trying to see if she could tell if he was what he had called a sending or was there in flesh and blood. Didn’t know there was any on the island.” He examined it attentively, and put some seedpods into his pouch. Noticing a clump of weeds under the window, he said, “That’s velvet. “The Patterner sent for us,” said the Master Herbal. She knew it, but she did not want to know it. They daunted her, these Masters of Roke, and also their presence meant that the peaceful time was over, the days of walking in the silent summer forest with the Patterner. She came to the door and muttered some kind of greeting. Outside was the man she had thought was a gardener, the Master Herbal, looking solid and stolid, like a brown ox, beside the gaunt, grim-faced old Namer. But before the sun was in the windows, there was a knock at her open door. She got to work scraping down the inner wall of the house, readying it to plaster.
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