There were cheers for her. There were always those. They gave little hint as to the state of mind of the crowd, although sometimes if the cheers were unusually fervent it meant that the people were indignant over some move which had recently been made against her by one of her lesser political opponents. But she could also hear, could sense, the tension and the murmur of the crowd. Her stern mouth relaxed a little. The people were very excited. She saw the High Priest a small way distant. He was on the height of the platform beside the Priests’ Stairgate. His attendant priests were chanting. He was pale.

“I’m afraid,” I said.

I knew it was my father, they did not have to tell me.

Ooldra says I was white, whiter than my father. I trembled and walked very uncertainly. I began to sway. I had lost my sense of balance.

“Hold her, Ooldra,” whispered the Dictatress.

Ooldra’s cool hand righted me.

“Cija,” said the Dictatress. “My people, your people, are watching you. See that man in the white gown, standing before the others over there? He is your father, who thought he had killed you at birth. Do not falter in front of him.”

I tried again to look at my father but his face melted before my gaze and the only things which were clear, which would stay put, were his eyes which were not looking at me but at the crowd. He seemed uninterested in my appearance but not in what emotion it had aroused in the people.

The spear ceremony stopped. The leader came towards me and bowed. He said something but it was not much good, the crowd were too loud for anything else to be heard. They had suddenly all started cheering. It was terribly loud, like a storm over the sea but much nearer, so that the air thrilled.

Suddenly I knew they were cheering me!

Now I know why my mother lives for the people. In the mass, they are something which can be as much a part of you as a building or a—well, I don’t know, a sort of charge, a Thing with life. They were cheering me because the Dictatress had declared to them that I was her daughter and because I was going to the Enemy.

Ten more steps—the Dictatress publicly embraced the girl (me) whom she said was her daughter—the drums thrummed —the crowd stared and yelled and presumably disputed and then was, quite suddenly, almost hushed, as Ooldra and I and the enemy soldiers went down through the Stairgate.

I followed Ooldra down the black, basalt steps. That, funnily enough, was a moment of sheer panic. There was the human sound of marching soldiers behind and before us. But sound was flat enclosed between those walls.

There was a wind beyond the Stairgate, a wind pulsing coldly over the plain towards the camp.

And we went towards it too.