(no subject)
When her teacher comes to find her he sees her pointing at a blank wall, as she angrily tells him what is happening. But he cannot see into the white mist at all. Hand Raqen was still in Hand Corat’s office, though, and was fetched. He could not see through the wall, either. More and more teachers from nearby were found, and asked, and they begin to look very worried. None wants to say that the Haras-uquara is seeing things, not with her there angrily pointing at the wall and explaining to them what is there, not with her glaring at them.
And none would ever dare accuse the Hand of Uquar of doing something as heretical as lying.
Finally Pani comes and says, “Haras-uquara. The head Hand asked me to bring you to him.”
“Why, Pani?” Helen asks, chin poking forth obstinately out of her hair.
“I do not know,” he admits, his worry showing through as he readjusts his spectacles, “but please, come.”
And she nods sideways after a long moment, sending a last glare through the window-that-is-not, and follows him to the main Hand’s office. The other Hands follow them, trying to look like they just casually happen to be going that way but failing entirely.
“My dear,” the Hand says, hurriedly standing and coming around his desk as Helen enters the room. He looks miserable. “The time has come for the second part of your training. You must go forth as an exile and traverse the worlds until you have learned enough the expiate your sin.”
Helen does not push her hair aside-it makes him more uncomfortable when she leaves it in her face. “Why? What sin?”
“You have blasphemed against Uquar,” he says, almost hopefully.
“Yes, I have,” says she. “I don’t think he exists.”
“No, no!” he says. “You have called the gift of your hand a deformity.”
“Yes, I did,” she agrees with a sideways nod. “But that isn’t why you’re sending me, is it? When are They going to allow me to come back?”
“You will find your way back Home,” he continues, avoiding her question. “And that will be a sign your sin is expiated.” The Hands are deathly quiet outside the door, and Pani just inside it, as the head Hand sits and she stands in front of his desk (refusing to sit across from him). He explains what she should expect at the traverses.
When he is done, she says, anger very obvious in her voice. “I am glad to go. I’d rather be an exile than a piece in a game played by Them.”
But he doesn’t listen, and instead wrings his hands. “Then you will leave tomorrow morning.”
And she nods to him, with a sideways nod, and leaves the room. The Hands - her teachers, the closest thing she has to a family, people she has known since she was five years of age - part before her and watch her leave with worried eyes.
“Haras-uquara - ” begins Pani, but she interrupts him.
“We are going to the archives, Pani.”
But even as she curses at it, the carved door in the house of treasures that leads to that other world (a place where she could find out why, could put an end to Them before she is cast out), does not open.
And none would ever dare accuse the Hand of Uquar of doing something as heretical as lying.
Finally Pani comes and says, “Haras-uquara. The head Hand asked me to bring you to him.”
“Why, Pani?” Helen asks, chin poking forth obstinately out of her hair.
“I do not know,” he admits, his worry showing through as he readjusts his spectacles, “but please, come.”
And she nods sideways after a long moment, sending a last glare through the window-that-is-not, and follows him to the main Hand’s office. The other Hands follow them, trying to look like they just casually happen to be going that way but failing entirely.
“My dear,” the Hand says, hurriedly standing and coming around his desk as Helen enters the room. He looks miserable. “The time has come for the second part of your training. You must go forth as an exile and traverse the worlds until you have learned enough the expiate your sin.”
Helen does not push her hair aside-it makes him more uncomfortable when she leaves it in her face. “Why? What sin?”
“You have blasphemed against Uquar,” he says, almost hopefully.
“Yes, I have,” says she. “I don’t think he exists.”
“No, no!” he says. “You have called the gift of your hand a deformity.”
“Yes, I did,” she agrees with a sideways nod. “But that isn’t why you’re sending me, is it? When are They going to allow me to come back?”
“You will find your way back Home,” he continues, avoiding her question. “And that will be a sign your sin is expiated.” The Hands are deathly quiet outside the door, and Pani just inside it, as the head Hand sits and she stands in front of his desk (refusing to sit across from him). He explains what she should expect at the traverses.
When he is done, she says, anger very obvious in her voice. “I am glad to go. I’d rather be an exile than a piece in a game played by Them.”
But he doesn’t listen, and instead wrings his hands. “Then you will leave tomorrow morning.”
And she nods to him, with a sideways nod, and leaves the room. The Hands - her teachers, the closest thing she has to a family, people she has known since she was five years of age - part before her and watch her leave with worried eyes.
“Haras-uquara - ” begins Pani, but she interrupts him.
“We are going to the archives, Pani.”
But even as she curses at it, the carved door in the house of treasures that leads to that other world (a place where she could find out why, could put an end to Them before she is cast out), does not open.