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did not see Weed wheel quickly around behind him raising a long, thin dagger. She drove it into his back through his long, black, shining hair . . .
    He dropped to his knees, coughing. He fell forward, and that helped her pull out the dagger. She stooped, pulled his head back with his hair, and cut his throat.
    Her mother was beside her, panting and crying, “Ash, Ash, what is it, Ash!”—kneeling over the man, embracing him, her grey hair falling over him. “What did he do? What have you done?” she cried, staring blindly at her daughter.
    The Standing Man had turned toward her. It was making its senseless, agonized groaning. The Lady of Odren stood up in panic to run from it. It caught her effortlessly in its blunt arms, crushing her body against itself. Holding her it labored with its clumsy, stiff steps across the ground to the wooden stairs that led down to the stony beach a hundred feet below, walked past the head of the stairs to the cliff’s edge, walked out onto the air, and fell.
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    The light wind of sunrise blew eastward from the land. The young man crouched shaking and gasping on the path in front of the house. His sister stood gazing at the bright empty air above the sea. The sorcerer lay like a heap of bloody clothes on the pathway. There were people in the doorway, faces at the windows.
    Weed threw down the dagger. “That’s yours,” she said to her brother. “It’s all yours, now.”
    He looked up at her. His face was blank, his lips trembled. “Where are you going, Lily?”
    â€œHome.”
    She walked past the gardens of Odren, across the fields of the domain and the sheep-commons, to Bay’s farmlands. The sun was up when she reached Hill Farm, but no one was about. She went in. The farmer, his daughter, and Hovy were indoors, silent, waiting.
    â€œIt’s done. It’s finished,” she said.
    They were too shy to question her. The girl, Clover, finally whispered, “The sorcerer?”
    â€œDead. And my mother is dead. Poor soul.”
    No one dared ask more.
    â€œAnd the stone is broken.” She drew a deep breath. “My brother has come into his inheritance.”
    Hovy asked with his eyes if he could go. She nodded.
    â€œClover, have you let the chickens out?”
    The girl slipped out after Hovy.
    The farmer stood by his table, his hands hanging at his sides.
    â€œSo. You’ll go back there,” he said at last in his deep, timid voice.
    â€œThere? What for?” She went to the back of the room and into the scullery. She filled a bowl of water and began to wash her hands. “Why would I leave you and Clover?”
    He said nothing.
    She came back to the front of the room, dried her hands on a cloth, and stood facing him. “You took me into your house, Bay. You married me. You’ve been kind to me. And I to you. What does the rest matter?”
    He stood unconvinced.
    â€œI’m free,” she said.
    â€œA poor freedom.”
    She took his thick-fingered hand and put her lips to it, then pushed it back at him. “Go on, go to work. My brother’s the master now. May he be kinder than the last one. I’ll bring lunch to the Low Meadow.”



About the Author
    U RSULA K. L E G UIN was born in Berkeley, California, in 1929. Among her honors are a National Book Award, five Hugo and five Nebula Awards, the Kafka Award, a Pushcart Prize, and the Harold D. Vursell Memorial Award from the American Academy of Arts and Letters. She lives in Portland, Oregon.
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    www.ursulakleguin.com