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Trima frowned primly, if such a thing were possible. "That is a rare sacrament, as you must surely know, Culil. Even we who are called to serve the Grafters do not partake other than at Midtime."

"We are bound to offer spiritual aid," said Matroci, standing up straighter. "Surely letting them partake of the Sacred Fruit is offering such aid."

"Yes, but-"

"Who is Culil, Trima?"

She colored at that, pale blue suffusing her soft, rounded cheeks. "You are, of course."

"You will do well to remember that," he said, with a harshness he did not feel. "Your tenure of trial is not yet over. Another could still take your place."

The color that had rushed to her pretty face now ebbed and her eyes opened wide in horror. Matroci regretted his words at once, but he had to admit, they had produced the desired effect. A Sa-Culil preoccupied with keeping her position was a Sa-Culil not inclined to challenge him. Normally, he did not mind her chastisements thinly disguised as innocent comments. He even enjoyed them. It kept him sharp, having so keen a student.

But the Strangers, the Strangers! It would seem that they were changing everything.

"Go and carry out my wishes, Sa-Culil Trima. See to it that the Strangers have plenty of the fruit, that

they may fill themselves with righteousness." And fill starving, aching bellies with something that might help them survive, he thought grimly.

Obediently Trima made the threefold gesture and backed out of his so-called radiant presence. She closed the two doors behind her, eyes on the floor.

Matroci stared at the door for some time after she had gone. Trima was right. He was playing with fire, twisting the words of the Grafters in such a way. Passing the fruit of the Sacred Plant off as spiritual aid was dangerously close to blasphemy. He bent his aching knees onto the soft pillow for another round of prayers.

There was silence from the pit. Soliss's gut wrenched as he approached. Perhaps they had fallen into an uneasy sleep at last, worn out with lack of food, of water, of care for their infected wounds. Blasphemous though he knew it to be, there were times when he despised the words of the Grafters, and never more than now.

He felt eyes upon him and knew that the rest of the village was watching his every move. Even though it was part of their faith that all had a calling and no one should be jealous of another, he knew that folk mistrusted his gift for healing. It skirted the line between the Culilann and the Alilann. His herbs smacked of artificially manufactured medicines, his knowledge of anatomy, of scientific curiosity and skill. Unlike the potters and weavers and artists, Ministers, as the Culilann called their healers, were the only ones with a counterpart in the Alilann caste.

And were, therefore, not to be trusted.

His visiting the Strangers so frequently was certain to be noted and commented upon, perhaps even to the Culil himself. Still, Soliss strode forward boldly, his head held high and his spine straight. Let them say what they would. He had to be true to himself.

He slowed as he approached the pit. Would that the long days of the Ordeal had passed and he could haul away the grate that covered it. As it was, he knelt beside the hole in the earth, shielded his eyes from the light of his planet's twin suns, and peered down.

The slighter one was asleep, his broken arm cradled protectively against his chest. Soliss did not know what the alien's race looked like when well, so the red spots on the cheeks that seemed almost gray could be normal. He doubted it. He did not need to be familiar with the Stranger's species to know fever when he saw it.

The other one, heavier of build, glanced up as Soliss's shadow fell across the grate. He, too, was injured, but appeared more hale than his compatriot. Still, the ragged tears in his abdomen wanted attention. Soliss felt a brief surge of fury that he was forbidden to give it.

"Greetings," he