Like all the others, Danaer cast off his mantle, baring his head, then kneeling. He glanced around the gathering and saw Gordyan among them, to his left. All the murmurings ended as the priest began to chant. One of the women put by her robe and started to sing. This delisich was gifted in the divine speech of the goddess, and her voice sent a thrill through the soul. Clear and vibrant, it enraptured the hstener.
As the song rose to the stars, the priest dropped the blood of sacrifice on the altar, slashing his own arms and breast and cheeks to honor Argan. White-faced
with ecstasy, he cried out the reverence that now held them all.
"Goddess, smile on us! Kant, prodra . . . and those who would declare oath, let them be heard ..."
A number of men got to their feet and broke their silence. Fanatic zeal shone in their countenances. Their oaths were bloody—to avenge the death of a friend or kinsman, to bathe in the gore of the Markuand they intended to kill, to send to Argan the souls of those they would slay, each branded by a marked face or missing limb.
"Goddess, smile, and witness those who bind themselves in your honor ..."
It .was Danaer's turn to stand, and Gordyan's. Danaer would have remained Gordyan's blood friend till death, without the blessing of this ceremony. But now the promise was sealed even beyond the portals of Keth the Dreadful. Now they might know one another in a Hfe reborn, if the goddess chose. Once again they would meet and mingle their blood and call one another hyidu. It was so.
There were other rituals, and then began the chant of the fall to flame and the rise to grandeur. In a sonorous voice which blended well with the pure song of the delisich, the priest gave them Azsed—the Rule, the Will of Argan, she who was ruler of wills. As one, the Destre shouted her praise. "Kant, prodra Argan ..."
The legend continued in song and speech, whipping their pulses and exciting them still more. When it seemed the mood must break, the second priestess dropped her cloak and walked to the carpet of embers. She was shorter and slimmer than her holy sister of the goddess-voice. But she was beautiful, dark and delicate, rather like Lira in form, though her face was sharper.
The prayer changed and the delisich's song climbed to inhumanly high notes. This was not invocation but evocation. Call Argan, not to witness. Call her to earth, to reenact her fall to the depths, ere she rose again in immortal fire.
The dancer to Argan, the ha-usfaen, pranced grace-
fully, and her diaphanous orange-colored gown swirled dangerously close to the fire and the glowing coals.
"When shall we call thee goddess? May any of earth call to her? Let who will, speak, and she will live to eternity!"
It was the ritual challenge of the divine ones, as they sought to keep Argan from her sacred place. As one, the assembled warriors roared the answer, embracing the daughter of the evil god, proclaiming her victory over them all.
"Rejoice, yaen of fire-hair! She rules!"
The priest shut his lips and the delisich sang a different melody, rich and trembling. The ha-usfaen danced more quickly, her small bare feet scattering coals, though she evinced no pain. Some worshippers moaned in near delirium. The ha-usfaen was changing —^before their eyes! In truth, no man could bear to look anywhere else but at her. The slender dancer grew taller and her body bloomed with voluptuous flesh. Her dark hair lengthened and curled and became as flame, the sacred color of Argan. Her very garments altered and seemed to take on the character of the fire. Not even her face was now her own; it was the face of Argan! The ha-usfaen was bathed in fire, a woman of fire, a goddess of fire. She was possessed, at one with Argan, becoming Argan, for a few incredible moments.
Was there any man who did not lust for her? But a strange sort of lust this was. By taking that perfect body, even in his dreams, a man became as the ha-usfaen, one with the goddess—possessing and possessed. His blood and bone were hers, to work her will. Women, too, professed that they felt allied with Argan in this moment of transformation—that they felt themselves become the goddess, tasting with the ha-usfaen the awesome joy of fire and immortaUty. Each worshipper became incomparable and invincible as the dancing form changed.
It was a power far overshadowing any herb-healer's potion or wizard's enchantments.
The priestess put her hands into the flames, laughing as they parted harmlessly for her. She threw back her
head, tossing her fire-bright hair. She had complete rule over the destroying blaze.
The delisich sang of victory, and of Andaru. Osyta's prophecy seemed to flow and join with the chanted legends. But Danaer felt no fear. He wished he stood at this instant on the walls of Deki, weapon in hand, facing a countless horde of Markuand! He would kill them all. And if he died, his blood would become part of Andaru! Markuand would fall, a sacrifice to Argan. Gordt te Raa had said it: Argan would drink the blood of the Markuand armies, and their wizards as well!
The song stopped on a high, pure note and the ha-usfaen posed amid the flames, her transformation at its climax.
Then she was gone, leaping free of the fire, wrapping herself in her robe and fleeing into the night before she could change back to mortal form. The worshippers must remember her as she appeared in the ceremony, holding fast to the dedication they had felt then. The singer followed her sister priestess a moment later. The priest intoned once more from the ritual and spoke again of Andaru, sealing all the vows that had been made here. Then he too was gone into the night, leaving a circle of emotionally spent Azsed-Y.
Danaer's knees trembled and he dripped with sweat, not alone from the heat of the fire. It was not only the aftermath of weariness but the weakness of holy ceremony. All felt the same. They would remember this ritual in battle and use it to flog themselves to a frenzy that terrified their foes. The lit could never know this transport, but they could fear its results. Danaer was glad that now Destre battle fever would be turned against Markuand, not against Yistar and Shaartre and many another good soldier comrade. Even Branraediir of the Bloody Sword was now their ally and would fight beside them.
Branra. Danaer recalled the officer's request, and he wended his way through the warriors, going to Gordyan. They had exchanged friendship with their eyes across the worship circle. Now they spoke together warmly.
"Hyidu! Joy in Argan, joy to call you maen." Gordyan gave Danaer an exuberant hug. His craggy face was full of that same rapture which had touched them all.
"It was a fine ritual..."
"Ai! That ha-usfaen is the most glorious Argan I have ever beheld. There will be many more most savage oaths made this night, and many a Markuand will shed blood because of this ritual. Come to my tent, hyidu. We will share wine and make pledges of our own to cut down all the enemies of the Rena."
"I would," Danaer said ruefully, "but I may not stay. Yistar wants an early start, and there are . . . problems." He did not wish to talk of wizardry, nor especially of the illusion of Kandra. Danaer did not wish to ruin Gordyan's delight in the ceremony and the mood it had left. "Are the holy ones still in the Zsed?"
"Ai. They will spend the night in a tent near mine." Gordyan seemed puzzled over Danaer's attitude, but he did not probe its reasons.
"Then would you beg the priest to speak prayers for the continued health and strength of Branraediir? I will pay for the sacrifice." Danaer took coin from his small pouch, then saw Gordyan's expression. "I know Branra has fought most bloodily against us in the past. But now he is our ally. Gordyan, his sword will strike for us, as the Commander and Gordt te Raa would want. He is like the Commander's son—a promise of the future of Krantin, both Azsed and lit. He has put aside any wish to kill us, wanting only to slay Markuand now."
Slowly Gordyan smiled down at Danaer and again clasped his friend close in a rough hug. "Ai! If you wish it, hyidu. Branra wins your praise. Then he must be worthy. I will see that the priest offers strong chants. May Branraediir's sword kill ten times the Markuand that he ever slew us—and Krai^tin may need no other warrior!"
The inspiration Danaer h
ad felt at the ritual did not fade quickly. His fatigue was held off by the rich memory as he rode back toward the army's camp.
Again he wished they were already at Deki, on the walls, and that he confronted the Markuand—killing them.
If only he could kill the Markuand wizards as well!
Other memories came to him, crowding his tired mind. Would Lira spend the night treating with her Web again? And would the shadowy assassin stalk her tent? She said she could beat back the evils, and that he must not trouble himself, but he had not told her of the figure in the darkness. Nothing must distract the sorkra from her spell-casting. The caravan depended on her, as did Ulodovol and the Royal Commander.
So much burdening those small shoulders!
He left his roan at the pickets and spoke briefly to Shaartre; the veteran and Gordyan were men of different worlds, and Danaer's comradeship with Shaartre lacked the bond he had sensed at once with Gordyan. But they shared a rough affection, and this time Shaartre made only a few jokes, readily guessing where Danaer would go.
"Well, who would not, if he were on such terms with a woman, out here in this blasted hell?" Shaartre said with a chuckle. "Though after Vidik, I marvel that you—ah! You youngsters!" He slapped dust from Danaer's uniform, then waved Jiim on his way, saying, "But get some sleep, eh?"
That reminder tweaked Danaer's humor, though only a trifle. He was growing weary again, fighting off an aching languor. He strolled through the camp and was startled when Lira came to meet him well away from the staff tents. She seemed much reUeved to find him safe. "I ... I had heard that the Destre are most fervent in their worship, that sometimes they kill each other, or themselves, to please their goddess," she explained timorously.
Danaer laughed softly. "You should not believe foolish rumors. Argan heartens us to slay our enemies, and the enemy is Markuand." He sighed and said, "I wish you could have seen the wonderful ha-usfaen."
"Ha-usfaen? Is that a priest?"
Surprised that her great knowledge did not extend so far, Danaer explained, "She-who-dances-the-
goddess. A priestess who may safely enter the ritual fire and become Argan ..."
"A power over fire? And how does she become your goddess?" Lira was obviously deeply interested in the phenomenon.
Danaer spread his hands helplessly. "She . . . she is Argan. Her form and garments change. She becomes the holy one." Lira's eyes were wide and gleaming in the torchlight. "It ... it is the gift of the ha-usfaen. It is Azsed," he finished simply.
Lira frowned, and he wondered if his faltering description had annoyed her in some way. Then she smiled. "How is this wonderful gift first discovered, Danaer? When does a ha-usfaen first learn that she has been blessed by the goddess in such fashion?"
Ill at ease as she pressed him, Danaer said, "They . . . they are known to the priests of the Zseds. When the girls are young, the priests find them and teach them of the holy rituals. And when a ha-usfaen enters womanhood, then she is able to walk the fire and take on the form of Argan at Nine-day."
Lira clasped her hands to her breast, greatly excited. "Oh, Danaer! We must communicate with them!"
"We?" ^
"My Web! We did not know about these ha-usfaen, not in all our sorkra searchings. It must be because their gifts are hidden in religion. We had thought there must be sorkra yet unknown to us, and we have found, to our sorrow, that it is so, when the traitors struck from The Interior. But among the Destre-Y? We had not imagined it. How many ha-usfaen may there be? And what shame it is that our Web has never focused upon them. Such a waste! This could mean great things."
"A ... a ha-usfaen is . . . you say she is a sorkra?" Danaer stammered in amazement.
"She must be! And if the priests are able to seek out these gifted girls, they too must be latent sorkra of some power. They must touch the minds of the children and discover their specialness . . ."
Chilled by that, Danaer reminded her in a hurt
tone, "You said the sorkra did not look into the minds of any but their own Web."
"Danaer, oh, my Sharp Eyes!" Lira caressed his cheek. "Never against their will, never to do harm. Only if invited, not as an invasion. But . . . how shall I explain it? When a child is of the sorkra kind, a potential member of a Web, he or she explores, seeking others who speak across distance and own such powers of illusion and conjury. I did. So do all who have joined us. And your Destre holy people have formed such a Web among themselves, one we did not know existed! I must contact the Traech Sorkra and tell him."
Lira's face was drawn from lack of sleep and her constant need to deal in magic by both day and night. Even in the storm, she had been busy with her spells, holding back the worst of the rain with sorkra arts. She had won, but at fearful cost, the price written in her face and body.
"He demands too much of you," Danaer said sharply. "A ha-usfaen is a holy thing, nothing to do with the sorkra. It is not like that image of Kandra."
"Yes," Lira murmured, anger chasing away tiredness. "That, too, I must speak of. How dare she? This . . . this foul creature who tries to make you believe she is the Lasiimte! To take the form of a princess of your people, one who might capture your loyalty and . . . you did not tell anyone eLse of this, Danaer?" she said anxiously.
He was a bit sheepish. "No, my apprentice thought me sun-stricken. He could not see her and assumed that I talked to the air. I did not tell Gordyan, either, because ... he would be tormented by such a thing. And as helpless as I am to strike back at such wizardry."
"But I am not," Lira said, staring toward her tent.
Danaer caught her arm. "Are you UlodovoFs slave?"
"I am sorkra! I choose my calling freely. Let me go! You do not understand the strength of our enemies, Danaer. You must let me tell Ulodovol, that we may defend ourselves," Lira cried. She had begun her pro-
test with almost angry desperation. Now she seemed distraught and near tears. Would this wizardry never give her peace?
More gently, Danaer said, "You must not tell him about the ha-usf aen. It is a sacred thing, not magic."
Lira gazed up at him intently a long moment, then nodded. She behaved as if she were bending some oath in doing so, and agreed only for his sake. Danaer's fingers relaxed, and instantly she slipped away from him into the darkness. He cursed his weariness that slowed his reactions. Then Danaer ran after her, hoping to catch her before she gained the sanctuary of her tent and her wizard Web.
He was too late. Lira knew the route better than he, and by the time he reached the staff area, the flap of her little dwelling was already closed and tied. Again a lamp was being lit and eerie, aUen chants had begun, as on the night before.
The encampment was very quiet. Men had been too worn to eat much, and after slaking their thirst, most had fallen on their blankets, asleep almost at once. A few sentries had been posted, leaning heavily on their lances and trying not to doze on duty. In the ofl&cers' tents, there were some lights and soft conversation; Yistar, despite his own exhaustion, would want to plan for the morrow.
Danaer stood in the clearing, listening. Lira sounded like a hurt little creature, moaning those strange phrases in a language of sorcery.
Danaer peered around blearily, wondering if Hablit and his assassins had tracked the caravan through the Sink. They were Destre-Y, familiar with the terrain, not hindered as the army was with wagons and the black horses so ill-bred to this climate. Further, Hablit was an ally of the Markuand wizard. No freakish storms or mirages would be thrown across his path to confuse him. Was he even now lurking nearby, waiting for a chance to strike? The Markuand wizard wished Lira dead, and so did Hablit and the traitors. Her magic had turned back their witchcraft and heartened the caravan, though she was only the apprentice, not the master sorkra they had earher tried to kill.
Once more he sat down outside her tent, ready to guard her from harm. His limbs ached and his eyes burned. Stars wheeled above the Wells of Ylami. Here in this green haven on the burning desert, night life croaked
and sHthered near the pool and in the grasses, a softly repetitious murmuring that lulled him. Despite his best efforts, his eyelids were drooping.
Suddenly Danaer came fully awake, his hand on his knife. Someone was standing before him. He came to his feet, ready to parry a blow, then let out his breath. It was Branra who faced him.
The ofl&cer looked past Danaer at Lira's tent and the shadow on the cloth. He said quietly, "This is not the first time you have stood sentinel for our sorkra, is it?" Danaer blinked and rubbed his eyes, trying to mujBBie a yawn. He was too sleepy to deny the accusation. "If you keep to this task, you will be too weary to read landmarks tomorrow. Get to your units, and some sleep. I will stay and guard the sorkra."
Danaer was about to yield, then felt the warmth of the obsidian taHsman. Something made him say, "No, I must be close to her. I will get no rest elsewhere. And ... are you not also tired, my lord?"
"I need less sleep than most men." It did not seem a boast, but simple truth. Branra studied him a moment, then pointed to the spot where Danaer had been sitting. "Very well. Stay. But sleep. If trouble comes, I will wake you."
"Hablit has been stalking the caravan ..."
"Yes, I have heard, from the Captain. I will be wary. And I think you will allow I have some skill in coping with even the fiercest Destre tribesman."
Danaer smiled feebly and muttered, "Lira ... the Lady Nalu . . ."
"If she needs you, I will wake you," Branra promised again. He spoke no oath and called on no god, but it was a pledge, one Danaer accepted readily. Too spent to argue, he sank down and drew up his knees, pillowing his head on his crossed arms. From the comer of his eye he saw Branra's feet move this way and then that, patrolling the space before Lira's tent hke any common sentry.
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