Children of Chaos

wrist. She let blood dribble on the rock, laid her hand on the stain. Then came recognition, acknowledgment of sacrifice. And love, of course. But ruthless love, love in its most adamantine aspect, the sort of love that will count no costs. Again she hesitated, fearing... But it must be done, for better or worse.

'Mother,' she whispered, 'hear me, help me. Grant me strength, Mother, to succor this little one I bring You. Grant her the strength to live, so that she does not die in this horrid place.'

Now she must move fast. She tugged with laces and buttons, clumsy in her haste. There could be little in her teats to suck, and the babe at her breast had not cried for ages. She pulled it out, foul in its soiled wrapping because there had been no usable moss around for days. It whimpered faintly as the cold bit. She wondered if she had waited too long. The suppliant should be stripped for first contact, but there was no time; a body so minute would not survive more than a few heartbeats in this temperature.

She turned the babe over, and made a cut on the underside of the tiny thigh. For a moment she thought there was not enough blood in it to bleed, but then a drop or two fell on the rock.

'Mother, I pray You choose this child to be one of Your own. Take her living body, or take her spirit, as You please. But I beseech You to give her life that she may serve You in future days.'

She pressed the tiny hand to the tinier bloodstains, already frozen. The child uttered a sudden lusty cry, as of outrage at such treatment. Then another, even stronger.

With a shout of joy the woman snatched it up and plunged it back into the warmth of her bosom. It was like embracing a fish, but the tiny lips found her nipple at once and began to suck. She sighed with rapture as she felt the milk surge. A tide of warmth flowed out from her teat, through the babe and through her also. Even the love of a man, even the ecstasies Stavan had been able to inspire in her, could hardly compare with the sucking of a babe.

She closed her garments over her charge, warm already.

'There, there!' she muttered. 'Now you are Hers, as I am. But you will live. It is better so.'

¦

When her heart stopped hammering so crazily, Frena rose and found her bronze hand mirror. She examined the back of her thigh by the jerky light of a lamp almost out of oil. She found no scar there, but that was hardly surprising after so long and so much growth. She sprawled back down on the platform, knowing she would sleep no more that night. How could she possibly find five measures of gold, trust Master Pukar if she did, get away with him unobserved to wherever the sacred place was, or even trust him not to deal foul with her then? She had only one more night left.

No headache now—she had made her decision. She knew what she wanted to do. For Paola's sake. But she would need help from the Old One.

fifteen

THEREK HRAGSON

paced his chambers in twilight gloom. Click... click... click... Where was that accursed seer? What could be keeping the woman?

He paused at the window to stare down the trail to Tryfors. The sky was a wild effulgence of red, orange, and salmon, with the sun a distorted bloody blur. Sunsets lasted forever in Nardalborg.

He spun around and headed back. Click... click... click... Indoors, in this light, he could not see his bench and table, or even his sleeping platform. He timed his pacing by the scratch of his claws on the boards.

From the east window he could look up the trail, toward the Ice, and there the sky was already velvet black, sprayed with stars. This morning he had studied the incoming caravan descending the pass for an age before the watch noticed it and sounded the alarm. He'd been depressed to see how small it was. In the old days there would have been an endless train of slaves bent under their masters' booty; but now there were just a handful of traders, a dozen or so repatriated wounded, and a couple of apparently healthy Werists whose satchels doubtless contained dispatches from Stralg.

Why was that Witness taking so long? It would be dark soon.

Back again to the west. He'd intended to return to Tryfors right after the oath taking, days ago. Gods knew he had enough work waiting down there with green troops pouring into the city on their way to die for Stralg in Florengia, and Heth did a fine job of running Nardalborg without his hostleader breathing all over his collar. Therek had stayed because of that accursed Orlad hostage. The look in the kid's eyes! Not when Therek hung the chain on him and gave him that disgusting ceremonial embrace—he'd been only a hard, warm blur then. But earlier, a few minutes before, when that drunken ruin Gzurg Hrothgatson had been announcing his distorted judgment, the brownie had been lurking at the back of the hall. He had known what was coming, obviously, without realizing that anyone was watching him. Ha! Therek had seen the treason burning in those freakish black eyes.

So instead of heading back to Tryfors the next morning, Therek had sent for a seer to join him, and she'd arrived by yak wagon this morning. All he needed was her confirmation of what his own judgment told him—just in case Saltaja ever asked—and he was going to put that young brute to death. Chain collar? Hang him in it!

Knuckles rapped on timber.

He said 'Enter!' and pretended to study the scenery.

'Lord!'

It was a man's voice—probably Heth, but one word was not enough to identify him. Therek could not make out the color of his sash. 'At ease. What do you want?'

'My lord is kind.' Heth straightened. 'A caravan has come.'

'I saw.'