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He found himself watching Trima, even as he laughed and ate and made humorous attempts to communicate through gesture. She seemed solemn, even for her. At one point, she spoke in low tones with Weymar. They both looked solemn after that.

Midway through the feast, Paris looked up and noticed that Trima had quietly left. Where had she gone? Sudden, illogical fear rushed through him. Maybe something bad had happened. He rose and looked around the happily eating and laughing crowd, ascertaining that she really was gone and not just off talking with someone else.

As unobtrusively as possible, he excused himself and went to look for her. He was not foolish enough not to realize that sometimes young lovers wanted privacy, but Trima, like Matroci before her, had remained most definitely unpaired. He wondered if that was part of the requirements of a Culil or simply an individual choice.

There was light coming from her hut. He rapped on the door. 'Trima? It's Tom. May I come in?"

He heard scuffling noises from within. "Just a moment," Trima called hi English. When she opened the door, she looked harried. "What do you want?"

"Are you all right? You left the party and I just wondered...." His voice trailed off. He shouldn't have come. Trima was Culil of the village, its spiritual head. She could take care of herself.

But Matroci hadn't been able to.

Her stern expression softened. "Yes, I am all right. Thank you for your concern. It's just, well, I received some bad news and I wished to be alone. To meditate on it," she added hastily.

"What bad news?"

She hesitated, then relented. "Everyone will know about it by tomorrow anyway. I might as well tell you now." She stepped back and indicated that he might enter. She poured them both a cup of tea. Paris sipped, tasting the earthy herbs.

"Weymar was saddened to see that I, not Matroci, stood to greet him as Sumar-ka's Culil. But he wasn't surprised." She looked into her cup, as if she could glean information from the leaves floating there. "You see, it was not the first time the Traveling People had come to a village to learn that the Culil had died. It has happened before-in five of the eight villages they have visited this season. All under strange circumstances."

She lifted her blue eyes to Tom's. "The Traveling People fear that someone is murdering the Culils. And I fear that they are right."

He took a chance. "Matroci didn't die from inhaling the smoke of the Sacred Plant, did he?"

Trima straightened, and the mask descended on her pretty features. "Of course he did."

"Okay, yes, that's what eventually killed him, but you dressed the body, Trima. You saw what I saw. A dark blue mark, right on the abdomen."

Trima rose and busied herself clearing away the dishes. She almost snatched his cup from his hand, never mind that he had only taken a few sips. "Perhaps you ought to leave."

"It was the mark of a directed energy weapon," he persisted. "Someone stunned him, so that he wouldn't be in any position to fight. And someone is killing the other Culils. Trima, if you know anything about this, you have to tell me."

"Why?" She whirled, anger suffusing her pale blue face. "You are a Stranger. How do I know that you didn't kill him? Or Chakotay?"

Paris thought fast. "Because I know that Matroci confiscated our weapons. And you know that, too."

She wilted before his very eyes. Her hands stopped their busy movements. "I do," she confessed. "But I did not kill Matroci. He was a good, kind man. Everyone loved him. I never had any desire to become Culil." She sat down, slowly, as if she had suddenly aged. "It is good, to talk of mis with someone at last Have you

ever kept a secret, Paris? Have you ever lied for a long, long time?'

Tom thought about the lies he had spun to keep himself out of prison. Lies that to this day haunted him. "Yes," he said quietly. "And it's not a good feeling."

"No, it's not. Not even when you think you are doing good by telling these lies." Finally,