He feared his father might not rule long, and not alone for the shame and the disappointment of his son. Men would not follow the mad, and through him, the taint had come on the house. To cast blame on the woman who had borne him was his father’s only salvation with his men, and Marak understood that, but it was likewise his mother’s ruin, and there was no refuge for her if she had not gone to the Haga.

Perhaps she had gone there. Perhaps she was there by now. Perhaps she had found some well, and walked on, and told the Haga only that she was divorced from her husband. A Haga wife had that right, absolute and unquestioned. Perhaps she could forget her son.

But he doubted it. She was stubborn, was Kaptai; she was proud; and she was a devoted mother. Could she lie, regarding her son? Could she leave her daughter, having had her son led away in shame?

Only one thing he could do, one thing he could do to bring an end of questions, one thing he could do to redeem his disgrace: kill the Ila.

One thing he could do to win his father’s forgiveness of his mother, and win his sister’s honor, and her life, and her chance of happiness and marriage and children.

Marak, Marak, Marak, the voices said. The madness that afflicted the others afflicted him with visions of a tower, of a cave of suns. Thoughts of any purpose or connection went sliding away in sluggish indirection.

Perhaps the cakes they were fed contained some drug that numbed the senses and the will. He thought at times that might be so. They at least contained nettle that numbed the tongue: the potter complained of it. If it was so, if they numbed the mind, if they somewhat numbed the visions and silenced the voices, Marak took the numbness as relief and did not question the food or refuse to eat as the wife had done.

And when the visions left him, when he was free to lie still and dream ordinary dreams, they were of the western lowlands and the stone towers of Kais Tain, the watchmen watching against the sunset, and his father’s house between two high towers. It was a house thick-walled against the sun, and dug deep into the cool sand: the village sprawled out on either hand, around the net-covered garden, and the well.

The dream changed. He saw his mother, standing by the golden, dusty roadside, wrapped in dark robes, wrapped and veiled as he had seen her last, enigma.