Certain Symmetry by Steve Miller, Sharon Lee and Steve Miller Page B

straightened from his lean to make a
somewhat inexpert bow. When he straightened, his eyes were rounder
than ever.
    "Lady."
    Moonhawk inclined her head. "Keeper Oreli.
Blessings upon you."
    He swallowed, but before he could make
answer, Lute was speaking again.
    "When did this tragedy occur, Friend Oreli?
You give me to believe the house is closed. Is Veverain yet in
mourning?"
    "Mourning," the other man repeated and
half-laughed, though the sound was as sad as any Moonhawk had ever
heard. "You might say mourning." He sighed, spreading his hands,
palm up, for them both to see.
    "Rowan died just past of
mid-winter. Veverain... Veverain shut the house up, excepting only
the room they had shared. She turned us away, those of us who were
her friends, or Rowan's--turned us away, shunned our company and
our aid. And she just sits in that house by herself, Master Lute.
Sits there alone in the dark. Her sister's man tends the animals;
her niece tilled the kitchen garden and put in the early
vegetables. They say they never see her; that she will not even
open the door to kin--and you know, you know, Master Lute!--that Rowan
would never have wanted such a thing!"
    "A convivial man, Rowan," Lute murmured. "He
and Veverain were well-matched in that."
    "Is she still alive?" Moonhawk asked,
somewhat impatiently. "Her kin say that they never see her, that
she will not open the door. How are they certain that she has not
been Called, or that she has not taken some injury?"
    "We see the hearth smoke," Oreli said.
"We--the care basket is left full by the door in the morning. Some
mornings, the basket and the food is still there. Often enough, the
basket is empty. She is alive, that we do know. Alive, but dead to
life."
    Moonhawk frowned. "She has been taking care
baskets since Solstice?"
    Oreli raised a hand. "A long time, I know.
The baskets usually are not sent so long. Forgive me, Lady, but you
are a stranger here; you do not know how it was ... how Veverain
cared for us all. When our daughter was ill, we had some of
Veverain's baskets--hot soup, fresh bread, tiny wheels of her
special cheese--you remember Veverain's cheeses, eh, Master
Lute?"
    "With fondness and anticipation," Lute
replied, somewhat absently. He glanced at the sky. "The day grows
old," he murmured.
    Abruptly, he bowed to the tavern-keeper,
cloak swirling.
    "Friend Oreli, keep you well. I hope to
visit your fine establishment once or twice during our stay.
Immediately, however, the duty of friendship calls. I to Veverain,
to offer what aid I might."
    "You must try, of course," Oreli said. "When
she turns you away, remember that the Disguise serves a hearty
supper. And that Mother Juneper will gladly house you and your
apprentice."
    Lute inclined his head. "I will remember.
But, first, let us be certain that Veverain will refuse us." He
turned, cloak billowing, and strode off down the street down the
street at such a pace that Moonhawk had to run a few steps to catch
him.
    * * *
    VEVERAIN'S HOUSE WAS at the bottom of the
village; a long, sprawling place, enclosed by a neat fence, shaded
in summer by two well-grown dyantrees. The trees, like their kin at
the bend in the track, showed a pale green fuzzing along their
limbs; at the roots of each was a scattering of bark and dead
branches--winter's toll. When the dyantrees came to leaf, then it
would be spring, indeed.
    Lute pushed open the whitewashed gate and
went up the graveled pathway, Moonhawk on his heels. The yard they
passed through seemed neglected, ragged; as if those who had care
of it had not come forth with rakes and barrows to clear away the
wrack of winter and make the land ready for spring.
    There were some indications that neglect was
not the yard's usual state; Moonhawk spied mounds which surely must
be flower-beds under drifts of dead leaves, more leaves
half-concealing a bird-pool, rocks set here and there with what
might prove to be art, once the debris was cleared away.
    Gravel crunching under his boots,