Children of Chaos

Blood and dark... No, that wasn't right. Blood and... something. No matter. In her dream straggles she had opened the cut the rock had made at Bitterfeld.

She could have rescued that man, had she realized in time what was happening. A bold effort could have done it: two chariots, two swordsman, and she screaming curses to frighten the mob. It had been when they turned away that the pack had gone for them.

Dawn could not be far off—she had been up until long after dark with scribes and tallymen and stewards, making plans. Time had frothed by in a deluge of meetings, decisions, edicts, and even a few temper tantrums to break down resistance. At dawn the invitations would go out, still warm from the oven, and by morning a sizable fraction of the population of Skjar would be working on her dedication.

The underlying ritual could not be simpler. A girl of poor family went with her mother to any altar of Veslih and offered the goddess a flower or a barley cake, making her vows without a single priestess in sight. It was the rich who showed off with banquets and parades, with the girl's mother driving her to the Pantheon, where all her family and friends and her parents' friends waited to witness. Then the new woman would make a vow and a sacrifice at each of the twelve shrines, before driving her mother home, leading the parade of chariots to the banquet.

Frena's problem was that the people she wanted to invite had almost all fled to the hills. Nobody would willingly miss a grand feast in the Wigson mansion, but how many could return before Father's absurd deadline? Three days? They would all assume she was being rushed into wedlock before the baby arrived. Even collecting food in time would be almost impossible. Guests must be given expensive gifts. And entertainment? She must have dancers and musicians, tumblers and mimers, even performing animals, but the professionals had followed their patrons to the hills. Arrgh!

She sat on the edge of her sleeping platform with her head in her hands. It throbbed.

On such a night...

On just such a night, three years ago, heat and worry had kept her from sleeping. She had donned a robe and gone downstairs to see how her mother was faring. For three days Paola had lain abed, bandaged and splinted, coughing up blood and suffering terribly. Healers would not normally accept a patient so grievously injured, so close to death, but Horth's wealth had persuaded one—braver or greedier than the rest—to offer an attempt at a cure. Paola had refused him. She had refused all aid from holy Sinura, and even holy Nula. She had persisted in her refusal despite her daughter's tears and her husband's entreaties. Although Horth had fetched the best extrinsic apothecaries and surgeons available, internal injuries were beyond their skills. Paola's life had been visibly ebbing away.

Yet that night Frena had walked in and found the sleeping platform empty, her mother gone, and Quera—that sad excuse for a night nurse—snoring in a chair. Somehow the immobilized invalid had vanished. Curiously, young Frena had not run screaming for her father. She had not wakened Quera, nor yet raised the alarm among the servants. She had run back to the inner court to search among the trees and flowers, knowing that the garden she tended personally was her mother's favorite place, the view she always wanted from her room. A trail of discarded clothes and bandages had led Frena to Paola's corpse, facedown under some bushes.

The cold earth ... Blood and the cold earth? No, that wasn't right

Paola had been laid to rest where she died—in a respectable grave, it was worth remembering, in a marble sarcophagus and faceup. Half the population had come to the service. She had been a loving, most utterly perfect mother, not an evil monster. Her almsgiving had been the wonder of the city. Everyone who knew her had loved her well.

But...

But she had not merely been lax in offering sacrifice in the Pantheon. In the long dark of the night, Frena could not recall any instance of her mother going there to offer sacrifice. As the wife of one of the wealthiest men on the Face, she must have seen fewer of life's troubles than most women, but had there been no sicknesses or worries to prompt her to importune the Bright Ones? No friends or favored servants in trouble? In her final illness, why had she rejected all physical help from holy Sinura and comfort from holy Nula? And the manner of her death—had some ghastly aspect of Xaran dragged the dying woman from her bed, stripping her near-naked, before sucking out the last of her life under some bushes? Or had Paola Apicella returned voluntarily to a dark mistress and the cold earth?

Had the watchdog Quera been incompetent or victim of some evil art?

If Frena for the first time in her life did not trust what her mother had been, she must also admit that, for the first time in her life, she did not trust what her father said. His excuse for rushing her into a dedication ceremony in such disreputable haste did not ring true. What did he know or suspect that he would not discuss?

twelve

ORLAD ORLADSON

threw off his covers and was on his feet before the last note of reveille faded. Shivering. He heard groans and grumbles from adjoining stalls.

The sun was not yet up, and he could barely see the bunk he had just left. In contrast to its prolonged and bloody sunsets, Nardalborg's dawns were dramatic. The sun's coronal glory rose into a night sky full of stars that refused to fade until the ineffable disk itself came burning up over the Ice. For a few moments the world was monochrome white—glittering white castle set in stark white moorland; there was never a night without frost or snow at Nardalborg. Only when the sun itself showed above the horizon did the sky reluctantly begin to turn blue.

This was the day he must march out and face the world; face down the other nine, he and his little flank of runts. He was alone in his stall. A stall it was, with a drape across the front, a shelf, a few hooks, just a blanket and sleeping rug on the floor. This was how cadets and probationers were billeted. Last night there had been celebrations and women's voices in his neighbors' stalls. Normally there would be no lack of willing female companionship for a new runtleader, perhaps even for a Florengian runtleader, if such a thing could be imagined, but Orlad kept clear of women. They offered too many opportunities for hurt. When he had won his brass collar and shown the men what he could do, then he would show their women also.

Donning a Werist pall without help was no small matter. Start by tossing one end back over the left shoulder, long enough to reach the kidneys. Drape the rest across the chest, wrap it around to cover the back, then the left hip, privates, right hip, buttocks; bring it up across the back, under the left arm, and over the right shoulder. If it had been judged correctly, the end should come to the kidneys, level with the other. All correct so far. Then—