In the Hall of Audience his father awaited him: a fierce gray-haired man crowned with iron, his hands clenched on the heads of iron chimaeras that formed the arms of the throne. Rikard knelt and with bowed

A voice answered like an iron door moving on unused hinges: "Well done, prince."

"I bring you a seagift, Lord." Still with head bowed, Rikard held up the wooden box.

A low snarl came from the throat of one of the carven monsters of the throne.

"That is mine," said the old king so harshly that Rikard glanced up for a second, seeing the teeth of the chimaeras bared and the king's eyes glittering.

"Therefore I bring it to you, Lord."

"That is mine—I gave it to the sea, I myself! And the sea spits back my gift." A long silence, then the king spoke more softly. "Well, keep it, prince. The sea doesn't want it, nor do I. It's in your hands. Keep it—locked. Keep it locked, prince!"

Rikard, on his knees, bowed lower in thanks and consent, then rose and backed down the long hall, never looking up. As he came out into the glittering anteroom, officers and noblemen gathered round him, ready as usual to ask about the battle, laugh, drink, and chatter. He passed among them without a word or glance and went to his own quarters, alone, carrying the box carefully in both hands.

His bright, shadowless, windowless room was decorated on every wall with patterns of gold inset with topazes, opals, crystals, and, most vivid of all jewels, candle flames moveless on golden sconces. He set the box down on a glass table, threw off his cloak, unbuckled his swordbelt, and sat down sighing. The gryphon loped in from his bedroom, talons rasping on the mosaic floor, stuck her great head onto his knees, and waited for him to scratch her feathery mane. There was also a cat prowling around the room, a sleek black one; Rikard took no notice. The palace was full of animals, cats, hounds, apes, squirrels, young hippogriffs, white mice, tigers. Every lady had her unicorn, every courtier had a dozen pets. The prince had only one, the gryphon which always fought for him, his one unquestioning friend. He scratched the gryphon's mane, often glancing down to meet the loving golden gaze of her round eyes, now and then glancing too at the box on the table. There was no key to lock it.

Music played softly in a distant room, a ceaseless interweaving of notes like the sound of a fountain.

He turned to look at the clock on the mantel, an ornate square of gold and blue enamel. It was ten minutes of ten: time to rise and buckle on his sword, call up his men, and go to battle. The Exile was returning, determined to take the city and reclaim his right to the throne, his inheritance. His black ships must be driven back to sea. The brothers must fight, and one must die, and the city be saved. Rikard rose, and at once the gryphon jumped up lashing her tail, eager for the fight. "All right, come along!" Rikard told her, but his voice was cold. He took up his sword in the pearl-encrusted sheath and buckled it on, and the gryphon whined with excitement and rubbed her beak on his hand. He did not respond. He was tired and sad, he longed for something—for what? To hear music that ceased, to speak to his brother once before they fought ... he did not know. Heir and defender, he must obey. He set the silver helmet on his head and turned to pick up his cloak, flung over a chair. The pearly sheath slung from his belt clattered against something behind him; he turned and saw the box, lying on the floor, open. As he stood looking at it with the same cold, absent look, a little blackness like smoke gathered about it on the floor. He stooped and picked it up, and darkness ran out over his hands.

The gryphon backed away, whining.

Darkness flowed over his face. He looked about him, for the distant music had stopped and things were very silent. Candles burned, dots of light picking out flecks of gold and flashes of violet from walls and ceiling. But all the corners were dark, behind each chair lay darkness, and as Rikard turned his head his shadow leapt along the wall. He moved then, quickly, dropping the box, for in one of the black corners he had glimpsed the reddish glow of two great eyes. The gryphon, of course. He held out his hand and spoke to her. She did not move, but gave a queer metallic cry.

"Come on! Are you afraid of the dark?" he said, and then all at once was afraid himself. He drew his sword. Nothing moved. He took a step backward toward the door, and the monster jumped. He saw the black wings spread across the ceiling, the iron beak, the talons; her bulk was on him before he could stab upward. He wrestled, the great beak snapping at his throat and the talons tearing at his arms and chest, till he got his sword arm free and could slash down, pull away, and slash again. The second blow half severed the gryphon's neck. She dropped off, lay writhing in the shadows among splinters of glass, then lay still.

Rikard's sword dropped clattering on the floor. His hands were sticky with his own blood, and he could hardly see; the beating of the gryphon's wings had blown out or knocked over every candle but one. He groped his way to a chair and sat down. After a minute, though he still gasped for breath, he did as he had done on the dune top after battle: bowed his head and hid his face in his hands. It was completely silent. The one candle flickered in its sconce, mirrored feebly in a cluster of topazes on the wall behind it. Rikard raised his head.

The gryphon lay still. Its blood had spread out in a pool, black as the first spilt darkness from the box. Its iron beak was open, its eyes open, like two red stones.

"It's dead," said a small soft voice, as the witch's cat came picking its way delicately among the fragments of the smashed table. "Once and for all. Listen, prince!" The cat sat down curling its tail neatly round its paws. Rikard stood motionless, blank-faced, till a sudden sound made him start: a little ting nearby! Then from the tower overhead a huge dull bell stroke reverberated in the stone of the floor, in his ears, in his blood. The clocks were striking ten.

There was a pounding at his door, and shouts echoed down the palace corridors mixed with the last booming strokes of the bell, screams of scared animals, calls, commands.

"You'll be late for the battle, prince," said the cat.

Rikard groped among blood and shadow for his sword, sheathed it, flung on his cloak, and went to the door.

"There'll be an afternoon today," the cat said, "and a twilight, and night will fall. At nightfall one of you will come home to the city, you or your brother. But only one of you, prince."

Rikard stood still a moment. "Is the sun shining now, outside?"

"Yes, it is—now."

"Well, then, it's worth it," the young man said, and opened the door and strode on out into the hubbub and panic of the sunlit halls, his shadow falling black behind him.

URSULA K. LEGUIN DARKROSE AND DIAMOND A Boat-Song from West Havnor Wheremy love is going There will I go. Where his boat is rowing I will row. We will laugh together, Together we will cry. If he lives I will live, If he diesI die. Where my love is going There will I go. Where his boat is rowing Iwill row. In the west of Havnor, among hills forested with oak and chestnut,is the town of Glade. A while ago, the rich man of that town was a merchantcalled Golden. Golden owned the mill that cut the oak boards for the shipsthey built in Havnor South Port and Havnor Great Port; he owned the biggestchestnut groves; he owned the carts and hired the carters that carried thetimber and the chestnuts over the hills to be sold. He did very well fromtrees, and when his son was born, the mother said, "We could call himChestnut, or Oak, maybe?" But the father said, "Diamond," diamond being in hisestimation the one thing more precious than gold. So little Diamond grew upin the finest house in Glade, a fat, bright-eyed baby, a ruddy, cheerful boy.He had a sweet singing voice, a true ear, and a love of music, so that hismother, Tuly, called him Songsparrow and Skylark, among other loving names,for she never really did like "Diamond." He trilled and carolled about thehouse; he knew any tune as soon as he heard it, and invented tunes when heheard none. His mother had the wisewoman Tangle teach him The Creation of Eaand The Deed of the Young King, and at Sunreturn when he was eleven years oldhe sang the Winter Carol for the Lord of the Western Land, who wasvisiting his domain in the hills above Glade. The Lord and his Lady praisedthe boy's singing and gave him a tiny gold box with a diamond set in the lid,which seemed a kind and pretty gift to Diamond and his mother. But Golden wasa bit impatient with the singing and the trinkets. "There are more importantthings for you to do, son," he said. "And greater prizes to beearned." Diamond thought his father meant the business -- the loggers, thesawyers, the sawmill, the chestnut groves, the pickers, the carters, the carts-- all that work and talk and planning, complicated, adult matters. He neverfelt that it had much to do with him, so how was he to have as much to do withit as his father expected? Maybe he'd find out when he grew up. But in fact Golden wasn't thinking only about the business. He had observed somethingabout his son that had made him not exactly set his eyes higher than thebusiness, but glance above it from time to time, and then shut his eyes. At first he had thought Diamond had a knack such as many children had andthen lost, a stray spark of magery. When he was a little boy, Golden himselfhad been able to make his own shadow shine and sparkle. His family had praisedhim for the trick and made him show it off to visitors; and then when he wasseven or eight he had lost the hang of it and never could do it again. When he saw Diamond come down the stairs without touching the stairs, hethought his eyes had deceived him; but a few days later, he saw the childfloat up the stairs, just a finger gliding along the oaken banister-rail. "Canyou do that coming down?" Golden asked, and Diamond said, "Oh, yes, likethis," and sailed back down smooth as a cloud on the south wind. "How did youlearn to do that?" "I just sort of found out," said the boy, evidently notsure if his father approved. Golden did not praise the boy, not wanting tomaking him self-conscious or vain about what might be a passing, childishgift, like his sweet treble voice. There was too much fuss already made overthat. But a year or so later he saw Diamond out in the back garden with hisplaymate Rose. The children were squatting on their haunches, heads closetogether, laughing. Something intense or uncanny about them made him pause atthe window on the stairs landing and watch them. A thing between them wasleaping up and down, a frog? a toad? a big cricket? He went out into the