caught a glimpse of one wheel disappearing downstream, but otherwise her chariot and onagers had vanished.
She stood up, still clinging to the wall. Water sucked at her shins; mud slid away under her toes. She stumbled, bare feet finding all the sharpest rocks, but heading uphill anyway because there might be more waves yet. Although she passed a couple of doors, she never thought of banging on them to beg for shelter. The alley jittered in and out of sight, daylight-bright lightning alternating with utter, sepulchral dark. Between the clashing, clattering madness of thunderclaps, she heard another, ominous sound, the roar of hail. In seconds the torrent turned white with floating ice, and soon hailstones were battering the buildings all around her—big hailstones, the kind that could do serious harm.
But by now she was at the door, a curiously misshapen door in a corner between a wall and a rocky knob, just as she had seen it time and again in her dreams. She stumbled over to it, never hesitating, and when she reached it her feet were clear of the water for the first time. The fastening was a simple latch, but she had to struggle against the pressure of the wind to force the flap open. She squeezed inside and let it slam shut behind her.
¦
For a long while she just stood in the dark and shivered. It might not be much of a refuge, but it was better than drifting out to sea as a corpse. There were no ghosts, no voices, only strangely leafy, earthy smells. Thunder continued to rage and for a while hail rattled persistently against the planks behind her, then stopped as quickly as it had begun. The rain roared on—a storm like this might last for days.
Careful fingers found living rock on one side, rough-dressed stonework on the other, and a low roof of flagstones. Toes, even more cautious, located a step up. Then another. The air was not cold, but the waterlogged remains of her gown were. She was almost tempted to strip it off, but discretion suggested waiting until she knew where she was—she might lose it, and then what? Ten steps brought her to a level passage. She took stock again. The tunnel was now a true cave, or rather a slanted gap between two massive rocky slabs that leaned against each other; the roof was dangerously low on one side, too high to reach on the other. Someone had packed gravel in underfoot to make a level floor.
Soon the wall on her right disappeared. So did her nerve. The danger of becoming hopelessly lost seemed all too obvious. She sat down and hugged her knees in misery for a while. But obviously that was not going to help; she must go on or go back into the storm ... and either her eyes were playing tricks in the dark or there was a very faint glimmer ahead. The thunder's petulant rambles were coming from that direction. She rose and began feeling her way along the left-hand wall, testing every step.
That she had been brought here could not be doubted—but surely not by the Bright Ones! The Dark One was also known as the Womb of the World; the grave was a return to the womb. Had Paola come here sometimes, instead of going to the Pantheon? This was a well-traveled path, a prepared way. The Pantheon must be somewhere overhead.
Frena came at last to a grotto. The roof was lost far overhead, but in at least two places it was open to the sky, admitting enough light for her dark-adjusted eyes to distinguish the outlines of a huge, irregular chamber. When lightning flashed, wet rock faces twinkled like silver moldings. The floor squelched below her bare feet, but she could not tell how much was moss and how much just mud. The air felt soporific with fetid, humic odors, which she did not find unpleasant; and, yes, there was sanctity here, immortal timelessness. Water dripped everywhere in staccato irregular counterpoint, but also trickled serenely. She tracked that sound to its source, to drink and lave her muddy hands.
The altar was a wide flat slab against one wall, like a slightly tilted sleeping platform, and the image inscribed in the wall behind it was the outline of a very obese woman, styled in pillow shapes—head, breast, belly, buttocks. High Priestess Bjaria had mentioned traces of
Frena removed her dress, confident that there was enough light for her to find it again. Most of her ornaments and jewels had gone. She debated making an offering of the rest and then discarded the thought. Naked, aghast at her own audacity, she went to kneel before the altar and was not surprised when her groping fingers found jagged fragments of rock on the floor in front of it. She cleared a space for her knees.
'Mother?' she whispered.
No response.
Louder, boldly: 'Mother, I have come as you bade me. You saved my life in the Edgelands when I was a helpless infant, so it belongs to you. Only tell me what you want, of me and I will obey.' She took up a sliver in her left hand and slashed her right palm. That hurt, but it was supposed to. She let the blood dribble onto the stone, then laid her hand there, bowing her head.
'By
'Not bad,' Master Pukar said.
Frena cried out in shock and sprang to her feet, stumbling and banging her knee against the altar rock as she turned. He glimmered like an oversized white maggot in twilight.
'I wondered if you would find your own way here. The bond must be very strong already.' He came closer. 'But that is only the beginning, my dear. A dribble of blood from a cut hand? You expect the Mother to be satisfied with that?'
She detected his sour, fishy odor. His words were fishy, too. She backed up a step and almost lost her balance. The floor was treacherous for bare feet.
'Keep away from me! What do you want?'
'It is not what I want, child,' he lisped, 'but what the Mother requires. You really think a
'No!'
He sighed. 'But you promised to pay the price and to endure. This is the sacrifice required of a maiden who wants to be a Chosen. Here, spread that out and lie down.' He threw the cloth onto the altar.
