The Blackgod

them, buoyed up by the heat rising in lazy spirals from the earth. Another bird flew with her, she saw, a keen- beaked falcon with the Huntress' twinkle in her eye.

She followed the falcon down, until she could easily pick out the weary faces of the men, see the perspiration on their brows.

And so, at last, with a braided mixture of joy and horror, she saw Ghan. On a horse! He rode listlessly, but in his face she could see mirrored the blaze of thought mat must burn behind his weariness.

Near Ghan, she made out another familiar face—Moss. And now she could see what he had hidden from her before: the spirits crowded within him. No wonder the bull had found them so easily, no wonder Moss had ridden through the herd unscathed! He was the gaan, the great shaman.

And with them rode another figure, one that even in mortal vision shimmered with such power and elicited such fear that she could not mistake him: he was the Life-Eater, the web of blackness.

He was Yen.

* * *

SHE came back to herself on the roof, her drum still held in nerveless fingers, her face salty and wet. All of her fear and horror bloomed when she pierced back through the drum into the living world, and nearly it was too much to bear. For a long time she shuddered, and each tear seemed to empty her heart, to hollow her, until soon enough she feared that her skin would collapse in upon nothing. Before that could happen, she clambered back into the damakuta, still weeping. She padded into its halls and into another room, until she found the sleeper she searched for. There she curled against him, until he woke, snuffled in confusion and then, without comment, wrapped the immense bands of his arms around her and rocked her gently. She slept the rest of the night in Tsem's arms, as if she were five years old—desperately wishing she were.

AT breakfast, Perkar wondered at how drawn and weary Hezhi looked. Dark circles lay below her eyes, and her face seemed pinched. She only picked at the food they were served, though it was the best breakfast any of them had enjoyed in some time—wheatcakes, sausage, and fresh eggs. Of course, his own meal tasted like wood in his mouth, for he had not slept at all until the very break of day, then only dozing into nightmare images of the same waking dream he had suffered all night: the Stream Goddess, his love, devoured.

He wondered, briefly, if Hezhi had been shown some similar vision, if she, too, were filled with a wintry resolve. He had cried as much as he would; now there would only be killing and dying. His death or that of the Tiskawa, he cared not which.

The irony was that the goddess had spurned his love because she did not want to see him grow old and die. It was an irony that would drive his sword arm, he was certain.

After the meal, he confronted Hezhi. He tried to find some warmth in his voice if only for her sake. Part of him wanted to ask what was troubling her, to comfort her with a hug, but it seemed like too much trouble, and in her mood she might reject him anyway. He added this to his coldness; whatever tender feelings had developed between the two of them were doomed, and he knew it. He had never been honest with her about all he knew, and now he never would be. The destruction of the Changeling was too important to rest on the whims of a thirteen-year-old girl, even one he cared for. In the end, he might have to use force to get her to the River source. He did not want to do that, but he would. Now he would.

“We ride out by noon,” he told her. “Sheldu and his men will go with us.”

“That's good,” Hezhi murmured. “We may need more warriors.”

“Why do you say that?” he asked, aware of the frost in his voice but unable to do anything about it.

Hezhi's face reflected his tone; hurt and then anger passed over it, ultimately replaced by weariness.

“Never mind,” she whispered. “I'll get ready to ride.” She turned away, and Perkar realized for the first time that she had traded her Mang clothing for the embroidered yellow riding skirt and woolen shirt of a woman of his own people. It looked wrong on her somehow; the Mang attire suited her better.

“Yes,” he said to no one. “I'll get ready to ride, too.”

From the corner of his eye, he caught Ngangata's reproving and concerned gaze, but he shook it off, striding with purpose to the stables.

IN the stables, he eyed Sharp Tiger, wondering if the beast would yet accept him on his back. His last try at riding the fierce stallion had been two days after Moss escaped them, and that had ended with a nasty bite that Harka had taken three days in healing, “to teach him a lesson.” He decided there was no point in trying, and for the hundredth time he regretted his vow to the doomed Good Thief to watch after his mount. Still, Sharp Tiger did not object to packs, and a packhorse was valuable on journeys such as this one. It was just a shame for such a fine war-horse to go unridden, and his own mount, T'esh, was showing increasing signs of rebellion, perhaps having been exposed to one or two too many strange sights and smells. He packed Sharp Tiger and was cinching on T'esh's saddle when Ngangata arrived. He nodded at his friend.

“Two days' hard riding and we'll be in Balat again,” the half-ling observed. “We'll have come full circle.”

“Not quite,” Perkar said.

“No? This is how we met, equipping an expedition to ride into the realm of the Forest Lord. Now we are back to that point.”

“I suppose. For you and me, this is full circle. Full circle for me will be when we reach the mountain. That's where my mistakes began.”

“Oh, no,” Ngangata said. “Your mistakes began here, too, listening to Apad and Eruka—allowing their prejudices and fears to become your own—and hiding your agenda. The Kapaka would never have taken you along had he known you were in love with a goddess.”

“Is that what this is about? Are you here to dissuade me?”

“Yes. Your last quest to slay the Changeling brought all to ruin. Surely you remember.”

Perkar kneed T'esh roughly in the side; the stallion was blowing out so that the saddle would be loose, and today Perkar was having none of that.

“As usual, Ngangata, you know best. I even agree with you. Deep down, I no longer even believe in this quest. I do not think the Changeling can be slain, and I do not think I can put all my mistakes back the way they were. But I no longer have any choice in the matter.”

“You always have a choice.”

“Remember your diatribe against heroes, Ngangata? About how they are merely fools who have been glorified in song, how they are death to their companions?”

“I remember.”

“Then for the last time, ride away, because I think that soon I will die. And if I am a hero, we both know what will happen to my companions.”

Ngangata turned to his own mount. “I know this,” he said. “But does sheV

“Hezhi? No. Truth to tell, I don't think I am the hero this time at all, Ngangata. I think she is. Maybe she always was. And that means we are to die in her service. What point in telling her that? Perhaps she can slay the Changeling, as Karak says. Maybe I'll live long enough to see that. Gods granting, I'll take my revenge on his instrument, at least.”

Ngangata shook his broad head and waved away a horsefly. “You are intimately familiar with several gods, Perkar. Do you think them likely to grant you anything?”

“If it serves them, yes.”

“Very well,” he conceded. “But listen to me.” He turned his dark, Alwa eyes upon Perkar, eyes Perkar had once found so intimidating. Time and friendship had taught him to see the deep expressiveness of them, the concern there—but they still gave him pause. “I will not leave you, Perkar. I will not allow you to throw your life from you like a worn bowstave. Whatever else you may be, you are my friend, and I can say that of very few. So when you ride to meet death, think of me by your side.”

“I don't want that responsibility,” Perkar sighed.

“You don't have it,” Ngangata grunted, in answer. “But if I force you to think of me—or anyone—before yourself, I've done a good thing.”

Perkar watched as Ngangata finished saddling his mount and then led his horse from the stall. “Will we win, Ngangata? Can we defeat the Changeling?”

Ngangata uttered an odd little laugh. “Of course,” he answered. “Why not?”