The Farthest Shore by Ursula K. Le Guin Read Free Book Online Page A

he wove against Morred was so mighty that even when he was slain it could not be halted, and the island of Soléa was overwhelmed by the sea, and all on it perished. Those were men in whom great strength and knowledge served the will to evil and fed upon it. Whether the wizardry that serves a better end may always prove the stronger, we do not know. We hope.”
    There is a certain bleakness in finding hope where one expected certainty. Arren found himself unwilling to stay on these cold summits. He said after a little while, “I see why you say that only men do evil, I think. Even sharks are innocent; they kill because they must.”
    “That is why nothing else can resist us. Only one thing in the world can resist an evil-hearted man. And that is another man. In our shame is our glory. Only our spirit, which is capable of evil, is capable of overcoming it.”
    “But the dragons,” said Arren. “Do they not do great evil? Are they innocent?”
    “The dragons! The dragons are avaricious, insatiable, treacherous; without pity, without remorse. But are they evil? Who am I, to judge the acts of dragons? . . . They are wiser than men are. It is with them as with dreams, Arren. We men dream dreams, we work magic, we do good, we do evil. The dragons do not dream. They are dreams. They do not work magic: it is their substance, their being. They do not do; they are.”
    “In Serilune,” said Arren, “is the skin of Bar Oth, killed by Keor, Prince of Enlad, three hundred years ago. No dragons have ever come to Enlad since that day. I saw the skin of Bar Oth. It is heavy as iron and so large that if it were spread out it would cover all the marketplace of Serilune, they said. The teeth are as long as my forearm. Yet they said Bar Oth was a young dragon, not full-grown.”
    “There is a desire in you,” said Sparrowhawk, “to see dragons.”
    “Yes.”
    “Their blood is cold and venomous. You must not look into their eyes. They are older than mankind. . . .” He was silent awhile and then went on, “And though I came to forget or regret all I have ever done, yet would I remember that once I saw the dragonsaloft on the wind at sunset above the western isles; and I would be content.”
    Both were silent then, and there was no sound but the whispering of the water with the boat, and no light. So at last, there on the deep waters, they slept.
    I N THE BRIGHT HAZE OF morning they came into Hort Harbor, where a hundred craft were moored or setting forth: fishermen’s boats, crabbers, trawlers, trading-ships, two galleys of twenty oars, one great sixty-oared galley in bad repair, and some lean, long sailing-ships with high triangular sails designed to catch the upper airs in the hot calms of the South Reach. “Is that a ship of war?” Arren asked as they passed one of the twenty-oared galleys, and his companion answered, “A slaver, I judge from the chain-bolts in her hold. They sell men in the South Reach.”
    Arren pondered this a minute, then went to the gear-box and took from it his sword, which he had wrapped well and stowed away on the morning of their departure. He uncovered it; he stood indecisive, the sheathed sword on his two hands, the belt dangling from it.
    “It’s no sea-trader’s sword,” he said. “The scabbard is too fine.”
    Sparrowhawk, busy at the tiller, shot him a look. “Wear it if you like.”
    “I thought it might be wise.”
    “As swords go, that one is wise,” said his companion, his eyesalert on their passage through the crowded bay. “Is it not a sword reluctant to be used?”
    Arren nodded. “So they say. Yet it has killed. It has killed men.” He looked down at the slender, hand-worn hilt. “It has, but I have not. It makes me feel a fool. It is too much older than I. . . . I shall take my knife,” he ended, and rewrapping the sword, shoved it down deep in the gear-box. His face was perplexed and angry
    Sparrowhawk said nothing till he asked, “Will you take the oars now,