the wind's twelve quarters by Ursula K. Le Guin Page A

signalled his captains, swung up into the saddle, and set off round the dunes and back towards the city at a trot, not waiting to see the black ships steer in to shore where their soldiers could board them, or his own army fill up its ranks and come marching behind him. When the gryphon swooped screaming overhead he raised his arm, grinning at the great creature as she tried to perch on his gloved wrist, flapping her wings and screeching like a tomcat. “You no-good gryphon,” he said, “you hen, go home to your chicken coop!” Insulted, the monster yawped and sailed off eastward towards the city. Behind him his army wound upward through the hills, leaving no track. Behind them the brown sand lay smooth as silk, stainless. The black ships, sails set, already stood out well to sea. In the prow of the first stood a tall, grim-faced man in grey.  
    Taking an easier road homeward, Rikard passed not far from the four-legged hut on the headland. The witch stood in the doorway, hailing him. He galloped over, and, drawing rein right at the gate of the little yard, he looked at the young witch. She was bright and dark as coals, her black hair whipped in the sea wind. She looked at him, white-armored on a white horse.  
    “Prince,” she said, “you’ll go to battle once too often.”  
    He laughed. “What should I do—let my brother lay siege to the city?”  
    “Yes, let him. No man can take the city.”  
    “I know. But my father the king exiled him, he must not set foot even on our shore. I’m my father’s soldier, I fight as he commands.”  
    The witch looked out to sea, then back to the young man. Her dark face sharpened, nose and chin peaking crone-like, eyes flashing. “Serve and be served,” she said, “rule and be ruled. Your brother chose neither to serve nor rule.... Listen, prince, take care.” Her face warmed again to beauty. “The sea brings presents this morning, the wind blows, the crystals break. Take care.” Gravely he bowed his thanks, then wheeled his horse and was gone, white as a gull over the long curve of the dunes.  
    The witch went back into the hut, glancing about its one room to see that everything was in place: bats, onions, cauldrons, carpets, broom, toad-stones, crystal balls (cracked through), the thin crescent moon hung up on the chimney, the Books, the familiar— She looked again, then hurried out and called “Dicky!”  
    The wind from the west was cold now, bending the coarse grass down.  
    “Dicky!... Kitty, kitty kitty!”  
    The wind caught the voice from her lips, tore it into bits and blew it away.  
    She snapped her fingers. The broom came zooming out the door, horizontal and about two feet off the ground, while the hut shivered and hopped about in excitement. “Shut up!” the witch snapped, and the door obediently slammed. Mounting the broom she took off in a long gliding swoop southwards down the beach, now and then crying out, “Dicky!... Here, kitty, kitty, kitty!”  
    The young prince, rejoining his men, had dismounted to walk with them. As they reached the pass and saw the city below them on the plain, he felt a tug at his cloak.  
    “Prince—”  
    A little boy, so little he was still fat and roundcheeked, stood with a scared look, holding up a battered, sandy box. Beside him a black cat sat smiling broadly. “The sea brought this—it’s for the prince of the land, I know it is—please take it!”  
    “What’s in it?”  
    “Darkness, sir.”  
    Rikard took the box and after a slight hesitation opened it a little, just a crack. “It’s painted black inside,” he said with a hard grin.  
    “No, prince, truly it’s not. Open it wider!” Cautiously Rikard lifted the lid higher, an inch or two, and peered in. Then he shut it quickly, even as the child said, “Don’t let the wind blow it out, prince!”  
    “I shall take this to the king.”  
    “But it’s for you, sir—”  
    “All seagifts are the king’s. But thank you