by Dave Duncan
She stood up, still clinging to the wall. Water sucked at her shins; mud slid away under her toes. She stumbled, bare feet finding all the sharpest rocks, but heading uphill anyway because there might be more waves yet. Although she passed a couple of doors, she never thought of banging on them to beg for shelter. The alley jittered in and out of sight, daylight-bright lightning alternating with utter, sepulchral dark. Between the clashing, clattering madness of thunderclaps, she heard another, ominous sound, the roar of hail. In seconds the torrent turned white with floating ice, and soon hailstones were battering the buildings all around her—big hailstones, the kind that could do serious harm.
But by now she was at the door, a curiously misshapen door in a corner between a wall and a rocky knob, just as she had seen it time and again in her dreams. She stumbled over to it, never hesitating, and when she reached it her feet were clear of the water for the first time. The fastening was a simple latch, but she had to struggle against the pressure of the wind to force the flap open. She squeezed inside and let it slam shut behind her.
♦
For a long while she just stood in the dark and shivered. It might not be much of a refuge, but it was better than drifting out to sea as a corpse. There were no ghosts, no voices, only strangely leafy, earthy smells. Thunder continued to rage and for a while hail rattled persistently against the planks behind her, then stopped as quickly as it had begun. The rain roared on—a storm like this might last for days.
Careful fingers found living rock on one side, rough-dressed stonework on the other, and a low roof of flagstones. Toes, even more cautious, located a step up. Then another. The air was not cold, but the waterlogged remains of her gown were. She was almost tempted to strip it off, but discretion suggested waiting until she knew where she was—she might lose it, and then what? Ten steps brought her to a level passage. She took stock again. The tunnel was now a true cave, or rather a slanted gap between two massive rocky slabs that leaned against each other; the roof was dangerously low on one side, too high to reach on the other. Someone had packed gravel in underfoot to make a level floor.
Soon the wall on her right disappeared. So did her nerve. The danger of becoming hopelessly lost seemed all too obvious. She sat down and hugged her knees in misery for a while. But obviously that was not going to help; she must go on or go back into the storm ... and either her eyes were playing tricks in the dark or there was a very faint glimmer ahead. The thunder's petulant rambles were coming from that direction. She rose and began feeling her way along the left-hand wall, testing every step.
Blood and birth; death and the cold earth.
That she had been brought here could not be doubted—but surely not by the Bright Ones! The Dark One was also known as the Womb of the World; the grave was a return to the womb. Had Paola come here sometimes, instead of going to the Pantheon? This was a well-traveled path, a prepared way. The Pantheon must be somewhere overhead.
Frena came at last to a grotto. The roof was lost far overhead, but in at least two places it was open to the sky, admitting enough light for her dark-adjusted eyes to distinguish the outlines of a huge, irregular chamber. When lightning flashed, wet rock faces twinkled like silver moldings. The floor squelched below her bare feet, but she could not tell how much was moss and how much just mud. The air felt soporific with fetid, humic odors, which she did not find unpleasant; and, yes, there was sanctity here, immortal timelessness. Water dripped everywhere in staccato irregular counterpoint, but also trickled serenely. She tracked that sound to its source, to drink and lave her muddy hands.
The altar was a wide flat slab against one wall, like a slightly tilted sleeping platform, and the image inscribed in the wall behind it was the outline of a very obese woman, styled in pillow shapes—head, breast, belly, buttocks. High Priestess Bjaria had mentioned traces of very old worship on Temple Island. The Old One. The Womb of the World.
Frena removed her dress, confident that there was enough light for her to find it again. Most of her ornaments and jewels had gone. She debated making an offering of the rest and then discarded the thought. Naked, aghast at her own audacity, she went to kneel before the altar and was not surprised when her groping fingers found jagged fragments of rock on the floor in front of it. She cleared a space for her knees. Blood and birth; death and the cold earth.
"Mother?" she whispered.
No response.
Louder, boldly: "Mother, I have come as you bade me. You saved my life in the Edgelands when I was a helpless infant, so it belongs to you. Only tell me what you want, of me and I will obey." She took up a sliver in her left hand and slashed her right palm. That hurt, but it was supposed to. She let the blood dribble onto the stone, then laid her hand there, bowing her head.
"By blood and birth; death and the cold earth, I swear to obey and endure." Pause. She sensed power seeping up through the rock like a welcome. Love and joy played a silent song, and she felt a strange warmth. It might only be her imagination, and she dared not look in case it was, but she had a strong impression that someone else was there with her...
"Not bad," Master Pukar said.
Frena cried out in shock and sprang to her feet, stumbling and banging her knee against the altar rock as she turned. He glimmered like an oversized white maggot in twilight.
"I wondered if you would find your own way here. The bond must be very strong already." He came closer. "But that is only the beginning, my dear. A dribble of blood from a cut hand? You expect the Mother to be satisfied with that?"
She detected his sour, fishy odor. His words were fishy, too. She backed up a step and almost lost her balance. The floor was treacherous for bare feet.
"Keep away from me! What do you want?"
"It is not what I want, child," he lisped, "but what the Mother requires. You really think a virgin can become a Chosen? You have more precious blood to offer, the sacred blood of maidenhood." He tugged, and his wrap fell away in his hand. It made almost no difference—he was still a great pale worm in the gloom. He was also much larger and stronger than she was.
"No!"
He sighed. "But you promised to pay the price and to endure. This is the sacrifice required of a maiden who wants to be a Chosen. Here, spread that out and lie down." He threw the cloth onto the altar.
"No! I will not!"
"What are you going to do? Scream?" He laughed sweetly. "No one will hear. Even if they did, you know what they would do to you, finding you in here." He grabbed for her.
She tried to run, but she was barefooted and he still had shoes. He caught her arm before she had taken three steps. "Come, my dear. You are required to sacrifice blood, dignity, and some pain. Shall we begin with a kiss?"
"No!" She squirmed as he pulled her into an embrace and offered that soft, slobbery mouth.
Hate!
Pukar released her and stepped back. "What did you do? That hurt!" He sounded more puzzled than worried.
Hate! Hate! Liar and procurer and blackmailer. Killer of unborn babies. Detestable slug.
"Stop!" Now he screamed, trying to shield his face with his arms as if she were an intolerable brightness. He reeled back faster.
She followed, still hating, wondering if she could frighten him away altogether—and, if not, how long she could hold him off with this strange power she had been taught. Hate! Hate! Hate!
Now his scream was piercing. Stones rattled away from his feet and fell, clattering down, down. "Mercy!"
"Mercy? You don't know what that means!" Rapist!
Hate!
He took one more step back and began waving his arms wildly to regain his balance. She could have saved him, perhaps, but without an instant's hesitation she stepped forward and pushed hard with both hands. He vanished. She heard his scream stop as he hit, starting a rush of loose stones. He hit once or twice more. The clatter of falling pebbles died away into silence.
♦
He was certainly not conscious down there, wherever "down there" was. If he w
as alive there was nothing she could—or would dare—do for him.
Trembling, she went back to kneel at the altar. She did not know what to say ... but that was just because she had not decided what she was thinking. Was she sorry? No. It had been self-defense. He had been prepared to use force on her because he thought he was the stronger. If one-twelfth of the stories about Master Pukar were true, then he deserved what had happened.
Would she do the same again under the same circumstances?
Yes.
"Holy Xaran, I, Fabia Celebre, give thanks for this deliverance. I offer the blasphemer Pukar as sacrifice to You. Accept his blood and death as my offering, I pray You."
After a moment she added, "Amen."
twenty-one
FABIA CELEBRE
dressed again in the remains of her sodden gown. Shivering from cold and delayed shock, she found and appropriated Master Pukar's leather cloak, into whose capacious inner pocket she stowed her pearl bracelet and the few other trinkets that had survived. His wrap she tossed into the shaft after him as a shroud. She found no lamp, but the possible significance of that absence did not occur to her until she was almost back at the outer door, navigating the unlit passage with little trouble. Of course a Chosen would be able to see in the dark! That realization shook her more than anything that had happened yet, even Pukar's death. She was one of them now. Had Pukar been one or an imposter? The seer had warned her that there was never any way to tell.
Inconspicuous slits and knotholes in the ancient door provided a complete view of the alley outside, so that Mother Xaran's worshipers could depart unseen. The thunder had moved on but rain still roared and the alley was a stream. Fabia had very little idea of where she was or even where she should be trying to get to—home, palace, or Pantheon? The same monster wave that had smashed the Eelfisher bridge must have taken several others, so the way home would be a long detour around by Live Ringer and Handily. The palace was no closer and she could not go there looking like something spurned by seagulls. The Pantheon was nearest and would offer help.
A few people in cloaks and hoods splashed along, bent against the downpour. Fabia halted a woman at random and traded one of her precious mother-of-pearl combs for directions and a pair of reed sandals—chuckling at the thought of what Horth would say if he knew. After that she could manage a better pace, limping through the mud and rain while her business associate stared after her openmouthed.
The rocky bowl where the chariots waited for their owners to return from the Pantheon was a knee-deep lake packed with wailing multitudes and angrily braying onagers. Rain was hammering down unhindered, but as much of the stairway as she could see was dangerously crammed. There were also far too many onagers in the crowd, like snakes in a vegetable patch, and if she reached the steps without being kicked or bitten or both it would be—
"Mistress! Mistress Frena! Aee!"
—a miracle.
Black hair did have its uses. Verk was standing high, obviously in a chariot, waving both arms wildly. She acknowledged the wave and headed in his direction. The ribbons and flowers on the car were almost as bedraggled as she was.
When she arrived he looked her over and said "Aee!" several times. "I must take you to the sanctuary of holy Sinura at once, mistress."
Suddenly she felt incredibly weary, as the stressful days and sleepless nights caught up with her. "No. Just home. The Healers will be overloaded with far worse injuries than mine. I took a tumble, is all. Nothing serious." The cut on her hand would not be noticed among all the other scrapes.
Yelling and cracking his whip, Verk began the tricky process of guiding the onagers out of the crowd, but they were almost uncontrollable, driven out of their asinine minds by the rain and tumult.
"What are all these people doing?" she demanded.
"Giving thanks for not being drowned, mistress."
The disaster had allowed her to make her vows of the Old One as she had wanted, but she did not like to think that it might have been sent for that purpose. "What about those who did drown?"
His pale eyes twinkled. "They were impious people who deserved what happened."
They laughed together. Unkind, yes. Blasphemous, certainly. But they were alive when so many were not, and it was only human to rejoice. Between cursing at idiots of two and four legs both, Verk explained how he had seen the bridge go, but only after Fabia had already vanished into the rain. He had taken a roundabout way to the Pantheon and been waiting and watching for her ever since, overhearing news of terrible destruction on the seaward islands—Crab, Blueflower, Saltgrass, and Strand—and lesser damage as far upstream as Slanted. Naturally, he had no information on what had happened to Horth since the Werists had carried him off.
She gave him a vague account of her accident, reflecting that if she told him the whole story he would faint right out of the chariot. She had not yet grasped all the consequences of her actions. From now on her life would never be free of danger. And what had she gained, in return for a lifetime of jumping at shadows? A long lifetime, supposedly, if she could avoid being buried alive too early. She could see in the dark better than before, which might be useful, but what of the strange power that had destroyed Pukar and Satrap Karvak? A knack for making men walk backward was certainly not a skill to be displayed in public, and of limited usefulness, since she could not count on finding rebel archers or bottomless chasms in the background very often. It might be a form of the evil eye. The seer had hinted that Paola had brought down some of her Werist assailants in her death struggles, and polytheists could not do that. Fabia needed a teacher, but she just could not imagine herself hailing down Saltaja Hragsdor with a cheerful demand for lessons in cursing.
Fabia had killed a man. She tried not to think too hard about that...
"Verk?"
"Mistress?"
"Why did you come here and wait for me? You must have known I was heading for the palace?"
The chariot lurched down the muddy street. Verk stared straight ahead, rain dribbling from his helmet to his craggy, fresh-shaven face and on down his shiny mail.
"A lucky mistake, mistress."
"Yes, but now tell me the real reason."
He squirmed. "Last night, mistress ..."
"Well?"
"I had a dream. I was in that place and many, many people were wailing. And you were there, calling me ... mistress." He shot a nervous sideways glance at her, eyes all white.
Dreams came from the Mother of Lies, of course. And Fabia had tried to rescue the Chosen at Bitterfeld. That was why he looked so frightened.
"Then it was a miracle. But I will see that Father rewards you well."
She was very tempted to add, "And I give you my blessing." But Verk had been very loyal, and it would not be fair to terrify him even more.
♦
The crisp smell of the sea bore sinister, sour overtones. Weed and debris on the streets were the first signs of flooding, but not the last, and soon the destruction was total—ships on top of houses and houses on what had once been ships. Skjar had not been smitten so badly in many lifetimes. Many bridges had gone, but Verk found a way back to Crab, where great stretches of island had been swept clean.
Horth's extravagant habit of building in stone had paid off, for the Wigson residence remained standing, solitary defiance in the midst of desolation, with lights showing in downstairs windows. There had been damage, of course—doors and shutters ripped away, the grounds devastated, the main floor gutted. Dazed servants were digging golden goblets out from heaps of sand, seaweed, and shattered furniture.
Fabia's appearance was greeted with cries of joy. Dozens crowded around her, gabbling out all the good news hidden behind the bad. The first warning surf had come surging over the docks just after she left, they said, while everyone had still been in the great hall, no doubt enjoying a juicy gossip about the master's abduction and his daughter's unorthodox departure. Master Trinvar had rushed everyone upstairs and there had been no casualties, a
s there surely would have been had the staff been scattered throughout the whole complex as usual.
So the goddess of death had spared this house? The Bright Ones expected praise and sacrifices when they behaved nicely, but even to suggest these for holy Xaran would be regarded as blasphemy.
Fabia had just established that there had been no news of the master himself when more cheering from the entrance announced his return, and Horth limped forward into the torchlight. His hat had gone, his jeweled robes were muddy and sodden, and the city's richest inhabitant resembled a bedraggled, shipwrecked bindlestiff, but he seemed to be unharmed, which was all that mattered. Fabia ran to him and they hugged, two battered waifs jabbering delight and relief, tears and laughter. She ex plained about her narrow escape on the bridge and the chariot upset.
He sighed. "So we will have to start over. You will have to organize a new celebration. We must ask the high priestess to set a new date for your vows."
Thereupon Fabia had what seemed like a brainwave. The idea of swearing false oaths was repugnant; Paola had passed on her dislike of hypocrisy. "Celebration, yes, but when I reached Temple and the bridge fell behind me, and the storm came, and ... well, I realized that there could be no banquet or anything today... but I found that little shrine on Steep Street and made my vows there. Very simple, just the bare ritual, no celebration. But that part's done!"
Horth's expression was oddly distrustful. "Congratulations!" He embraced her again.
Had her fast fable been plausible? She had made her vows, and Master Pukar had witnessed them, even if the ceremonial had been not quite what he had expected. Surely a single little lie today was better than forswearing herself to all the Twelve a few days from now?