Children of Chaos

employee, Master Pukar. Based on his habits, if he is not a chthonian himself, he must know some who are... But exercise extreme caution!'

'Wait!' Frena caught the seer's cape. 'You would aid a Chosen?'

She jerked loose. 'I said I knew no definition of evil, Fabia Celebre, but 'the Children of Hrag' comes very close. I will aid anyone who opposes them, anyone at all, and I am not alone. But beware! There are nine Witnesses in Skjar just now, and not all agree with me. Trust no one who does not come in the name of Mist.'

'Mist?'

'Our leader in this. Twelve blessings, Fabia Celebre.' White robes swirling, she strode nimbly up the rest of the stairs and vanished through the gate.

¦

High Priestess Bjaria was of mature years, majestic in stature, stentorian of voice, and the biggest bore on all Dodec. She could sit through an entire banquet without ever seeming to draw breath, while eating more than anyone else and chattering on whatever subject currently held her personal fancy. Frena was careful never to invite her unless Saltaja was certain to be present, because the satrap's wife was the only person who ever dared interrupt her. Yet she was inept, not ill-intentioned. She received Frena in a large and crowded robing room—dim, breathless, smelling of rot—and enveloped her in an odor of godswood and a giant sweaty hug. After a mere three or four sentences she pushed her visitor back to arm's length to peer at her with well-bagged eyes.

'Are you feeling well, child? You look poorly. Nerves, I assume; perfectly normal for any girl just before her —'

'Headache... weather—'

'Ah, the humidity, I know exactly how you feel, we have a priestess of holy Nastrar who is absolutely devastated in the wet season, throwing up all day long... Why don't we go straight over to the shrine of holy Sinura and you can say a quick prayer, perhaps leave a small offering, and I am sure the goddess will send you some relief.'

'No, I'm quite all right,' Frena said hastily, any other form of speech being impossible near the Reverend Bjaria. 'When we get there—'

'As you will. Then let me begin by introducing ...'

The high priestess presented a dozen minions and two dozen deputy minions, some male, some female, all unnecessary, but all expecting a gratuity from Frena's purse. None of them managed to slip in more than two words of greeting before Bjaria swept the entire procession off on a tour of the Pantheon.

Very soon Frena discovered that her headache had dropped to a bearable level. She had made a decision of sorts, she realized, by refusing to appeal to holy Sinura—she had decided to put off a decision until she had a chance to reflect on the Witness's astonishing revelations. Daughter of a doge, whatever that was. Fabia was an intriguing name, exotic. Aristocratic. She must practice thinking of herself as the Lady Fabia. Three brothers? Ruler of a strategically important city?

Murder?

Like a mother goose, Bjaria led her entourage along a tended path through irregular parkland, up and down, winding between rocks and ancient trees from one shrine to another, all around the top of the hill. Other worshipers and clerics scuttled out of her way, wide-eyed. Today the monologue was on the history of Temple Island and Skjar itself, the need to preserve and restore. Although she did not mention Horth's gold, that was obviously what had provoked this interest.

She kept saying very old. 'Holy ground from ancient times, even older than the Arcana in parts, evidence of very old primitive worship...' All the shrines were made of wood, some in styles of great antiquity, very old. The timbers themselves were quite recent, of course, but for centuries every building had been replaced at intervals of about twenty years, the copy reproducing the original as exactly as possible. This work was now overdue and being planned. Bjaria's only endearing quality was that conversation with her required no effort whatsoever, not even speech.

'This shrine of holy Weru is very old, perhaps the oldest of the preserved designs, because the gorge is called after Him and there is no doubt that in the so-called Expansionist Period the city regarded Weru as its patron god, but of course in those days Skjar was not much more than a pirates' stronghold, although we mustn't say such things, must we, even if we know they're true, and anyway it was their expertise at building more seaworthy ships than anyone else that let the expansionists extend their sway over half the shores of Ocean, and all the lake so that was why holy Hrada was regarded as His consort and They were worshiped as joint patrons—'

Frena managed to squeeze in a word. 'I have always understood that holy Hrada is a virgin goddess?'

'Well nowadays of course,' the high priestess said airily, 'but this was a long time ago.' She barged ahead in blithe unawareness of what she had just said. 'A donation of an embroidered scarf is traditional but we can supply a jeweled container for a reasonable fee ...'

It was most curious that the seer had seemed so tolerant of the Dark One. It was also very comforting. Perhaps Frena's ... Perhaps Paola Apicella had been both a Chosen and also the loving person whose memory Frena... Fabia... cherished. To believe that would resolve a whole mountain of misery and incomprehension.

'Holy Demern's shrine obviously dates from very old dynastic times when He and holy Veslih were guardians of Skjar, as you can see from the roofline and upturned gables and there is an inscription which seems to note the number of rebuildings ...'

Did Frena really have any decision to make? The outcome was inevitable. Two days hence Horth would drive her here, to the Pantheon, with an escort of armed guards. Many sixty friends, employees, associates, and hangers-on would witness her dedication, including her renunciation of Xaran and all other gods outside the Twelve—of which she could remember none offhand. If she balked she would be dragged away and buried alive, which would absolutely ruin the afternoon—

'Did you say something?'

'Oh, no, Holiness.' Just a nervous snigger. 'My headache is much better. Do please continue.'

'Then as I was saying, the so-called Democratic Interregnum does not seem to have left any lasting marks on