He strolled toward the wall dividing the compound for the comfort of those in Renewal. It was shorter than the outer wall and not as sturdy, a token wall to be honored by those not in Renewal. One day it would probably be replaced by the more usual hedgerow that signified, Here children play and youths try their strength.

On top of the wall near the gate a young piol sat erect, nibbling busily on something held between two paws, almost as if waiting for the children to come out to play. He recalled Cyrus feeding the piol on the porch. The Outriders had made a home of their on-duty quarters, the kind of home one should only make inside a Renewal park.

He toyed with the idea of going inside. The central gate was constantly open, just two sections of wall overlapping in a curve. He'd never seen with his own eyes what they'd built in there. Unbidden, the rules of courtesy for entering a Renewal park rose to his mind. There were no children, let alone youths, here yet. So he would simply have to keep his eyes off mated women and not discuss the affairs of the world as if they were as vital as children.

Given his state of mind, that wouldn't be difficult. He really belonged over there more than he did here. He stood staring at the gate, knowing that to breach it now would give license to his desires. His will could be swamped, and he might not regain the objectivity needed to Center.

Twilight faded. Night swallowed him, but he shunned the automatic Oliat awareness that replaced vision, confronting the alien dark of this world. Then he heard the singing.

Faintly at first, wafting this way and that on the evening breeze, the voices of dozens of Dushau women joined in the old, familiar harmonies of the Aliom evening chants as they walked to the site of their Temple. A painful warmth rose in his chest. Even without an Active Priest, Aliom was organizing a community.

He hadn't thought about it in more than a thousand years, but suddenly he yearned for the daily routine of Renewal– walking to the Temple at dawn, chanting the men's songs, giving the dawn music lesson, conducting the mealtime study, training and teaching drills, and theory classes, coming home to play with his babies or joining them in silent discovery of the universe, feeding his children, dancing and playing sports with his youngsters—and giving dayclose table ceremonies for his family, dancing and singing with his wife—and the tight cycle of commemorative days altering the content of the routine but not the daily rhythm.

They would have to make new commemoratives. He quailed before the size of the task. He would have no one senior to him to teach him. He couldn't lead this community.

But the distant music swept him back into visions of sweet days filled with routine, building a secure world for growing minds. How beautiful it was to dwell with family, every shared event deepened by shared insights into the errors of old habits. How wonderful to share the unfolding evolution of a mate's soul—waking each morning not quite sure who this person would be today, or who you, yourself, would be.

He appreciated the truth of the old saying, "Children give birth to the parents." Raising Darllanyu's children would make him a completely different person than he could become raising any other woman's children.

Even knowing that much of their time here would be spent constructing buildings or producing basic goods, he was ready to get started. But he could not enter those gates alone.

As he stood captivated by the distant women's song, their voices faltered. Softly he sang the tune, as if to teach them. They needed an Active Priest. And—if any of them were to survive adjusting to this planet—they needed him to ignite the complementary worldcircle in the Active Temple. Its ruddy glow would be perceptible only to die Aliom-trained, who could enter the Temple, but the influence of the pair of circles would vitalize the whole community. They could use the circles to help those fighting dysattunement. Pregnant women would come to the Active circle to dedicate their children to Completion.

He saw Darllanyu, pregnant as could be, standing in that rosy glow, happily leading the women's chant. The image faded. He scrubbed his face with both hands, hoping, though he had no gift, that this was prophecy.

"Jindigar?"

It was a very tentative whisper, and Jindigar turned to find Threntisn hesitating at a distance. "We're adjourned."

Threntisn approached, hands tucked into the deep pockets of his loose black jerkin. He was wearing a dark turban with a deep purple shirt and trousers, making himself virtually invisible. Jindigar could sense the presence of the Archive, a glittering swirl, muted now by the wards placed around it for tomorrow's debriefing. He knew what it was like to carry that Archive but not what it might be to feed it data and watch it grow, to ask it questions and find answers put there lifetimes ago by custodians long dead and forgotten.

"Do you recall the Century Song?" asked Threntisn.

"You know I was raised in a Historian family. How could I not?" The children's song enumerated the centuries of a life leading to Completion, assigning a lesson to each century, a challenge to be conquered. It had been one of Jindigar's favorite songs.

"Will you teach it to your children?"

"I'll let you do that when you come into Renewal," answered Jindigar mildly, not liking where this was leading.

"Will you come with them to lessons?"

"If necessary. When they're very young."

"Jindigar, don't evade. If you get out of this alive, you'll be lucky. Aliom isn't taking you to Completion. And—I admit I'm impressed with how you protected Grisnilter's Archive. With training you could be an Archivist."

"And where would I get an Archive? You've got the only one on Phanphihy."

"Oh, Phanphihy will produce its own Archive one day."

"A new Archive's Eye will open? You can't predict that!"

"Certain historical stresses surround the opening of all the

Eyes we know of. The signature is with us, Jindigar, but none of our trainees has any real talent—the kind that runs in your family. We need you."

"No, Threntisn." Is there any way to make him stop this? Jindigar had known and cherished too many ephemerals. His mind was riddled with grieving scars too painful to touch, and the loss of Krinata was going to be the worst. Lacking wholeness, he could never work the Historian's path. With the muted dazzle of the Archive dancing so near him, Jindigar thought, for the first time in a long time, that maybe he had made a mistake, choosing Aliom. But it was a choice made and could not be rescinded. Threntisn knew that but apparently could understand it no more than Jindigar's father did. "I have too many scars—too many memory blockages."

"You're young yet. We could train you around them."

Threntisn only wanted to give him hope, something to live for so he'd fight harder to extricate himself from the trap that held his Oliat. The Historian didn't understand the anxieties his offer raised, for a Priest gave his whole self to the Aliom, forsaking all other possibilities for Completion. Gently Jindigar replied, "Perhaps you could train me, but I told you once, I'll enter the Historians' Temple the day you become an Aliom Priest."

"And, as I said, perhaps that means we'll go down to dissolution/death together." He shook himself and turned away, saying, "I didn't mean to be so gloomy. I'll try to be more cheerful tomorrow." He went toward his own Temple where he would no doubt spend the night preparing for the debriefing.

Jindigar walked until nearly midnight, wanting to lose himself in simple physical activity. When he came into the Oliat "quarters, the room seemed hot and stuffy, but everyone else was asleep. He found a dinner plate left aside for him on the warmer hearth, a napkin made of the rough-woven native cloth folded into a tent over it—Krinata's work. There was dried fruit; tea; hard, thin bread; nuts. Each of his officers had left him a portion of their favorite food.