Free The Doors Of The Universe by Sylvia Engdahl Page A

end—the facing of the mob, the pain of the wounds, the dying—was very hard.
    “Actually, the danger in the last dream is negligible for you now,” Stefred told him, “far less than during your first subjection to it, when you were less mature and when you had no foreknowledge of the outcome. We’ll go right on through, though of course I’ll monitor for your safety as well as for the editing.” He turned to check a panel of dials; as he did so, Noren caught sight of motion in the doorway to the corridor.
    A woman stood there, dressed in the beige tunic and trousers all Inner City people wore, yet looking somehow strange in them. She was too tall, for one thing; her skin was too pale; and her hair…
    “I woke,” she said simply. “So I thought it must be time to go on. Probably I should not have come here—but then, my door wasn’t locked, and I suppose you’re not surprised if a heretic doesn’t stick to the rules of proper behavior.”
    Noren stared. Cool, self-composed, strong—yes, she was all that, and more. He had never seen a woman with so much poise. Nor had he seen one with piercing blue eyes and hair near-white in youth… .
    Her hair! That was what was wrong—her hair had already been cut short. Stefred had not mentioned that; but of course he wouldn’t have, for the indignities she’d suffered before entering the City need never be generally known. The cropping of one’s hair was among the humiliations to which one submitted voluntarily on the day of one’s public recantation; short hair was therefore common, and in no way mortifying, among young Scholars. No one who’d not seen her during her candidacy would suspect that Lianne had borne such a badge of shame beforehand.
    How had it happened? The High Law stated specifically that convicted heretics must be turned over to the Scholars unharmed; no village official would have dared to cut this woman’s hair after her trial. Only earlier, during the night in jail, perhaps, as the best friend of his childhood had been murdered by an enraged mob, as he himself, while in bonds, had been beaten senseless by drunken bullies—but even they had not gone so far as to crop his hair. If that had been done to Lianne, what more had she undergone? Had she hidden the rest from Stefred, unable to speak of it, not yet guessing, of course, the depth of understanding and compassion he would ultimately offer her? How painful it must have been for him to put her through an inquisition harsh enough to buoy her self-esteem.
    Whatever he’d done, it had been successful. Despite the shorn curls, she held her head high, as if she were already on the platform outside the Gates, already grasping the symbolic significance of that ritual exposure to an abusive crowd. Small wonder he considered her promising.
    Only a moment had passed since she’d spoken; Stefred, his back to the doorway, had not seen her enter. As he swung around, startled, Noren glimpsed his eyes, and for an instant there was more in them than professional concern. Of course , Noren thought. She’s a match for him, certainly! And then, No wonder he feared his decision to let me do this wasn’t objective enough .
    He hoped fervently that Lianne wouldn’t choose a suitor before Stefred was free to seek her love.
    She stepped forward into the cubicle. “It was stupid of me not to realize that I must wait my turn,” she said. Then, to Noren, “Are you a heretic, too?”
    He could not give her any clue, of course; he said shortly, “I’m a Scholar.”
    “But you’re as afraid as I am!” Her blue eyes penetrated him. Then suddenly she lowered them, regretting, apparently, that she’d revealed such intuition of his thought.
    “It’s frightening for everyone, sometimes,” Noren told her. “Still we choose to dream.”
    “To learn, as I’m learning?”
    “Yes—or to reach beyond what can be learned.” He had not expressed this even to Stefred; he was not quite sure that it made