Children of Chaos

'No! I will not!'

'What are you going to do? Scream?' He laughed sweetly. 'No one will hear. Even if they did, you know what they would do to you, finding you in here.' He grabbed for her.

She tried to run, but she was barefooted and he still had shoes. He caught her arm before she had taken three steps. 'Come, my dear. You are required to sacrifice blood, dignity, and some pain. Shall we begin with a kiss?'

'No!' She squirmed as he pulled her into an embrace and offered that soft, slobbery mouth.

Hate!

Pukar released her and stepped back. 'What did you do? That hurt!' He sounded more puzzled than worried.

Hate! Hate! Liar and procurer and blackmailer. Killer of unborn babies. Detestable slug.

'Stop!' Now he screamed, trying to shield his face with his arms as if she were an intolerable brightness. He reeled back faster.

She followed, still hating, wondering if she could frighten him away altogether—and, if not, how long she could hold him off with this strange power she had been taught. Hate! Hate! Hate!

Now his scream was piercing. Stones rattled away from his feet and fell, clattering down, down. 'Mercy!'

'Mercy? You don't know what that means!' Rapist!

Hate!

He took one more step back and began waving his arms wildly to regain his balance. She could have saved him, perhaps, but without an instant's hesitation she stepped forward and pushed hard with both hands. He vanished. She heard his scream stop as he hit, starting a rush of loose stones. He hit once or twice more. The clatter of falling pebbles died away into silence.

¦

He was certainly not conscious down there, wherever 'down there' was. If he was alive there was nothing she could—or would dare—do for him.

Trembling, she went back to kneel at the altar. She did not know what to say ... but that was just because she had not decided what she was thinking. Was she sorry? No. It had been self-defense. He had been prepared to use force on her because he thought he was the stronger. If one-twelfth of the stories about Master Pukar were true, then he deserved what had happened.

Would she do the same again under the same circumstances?

Yes.

'Holy Xaran, I, Fabia Celebre, give thanks for this deliverance. I offer the blasphemer Pukar as sacrifice to You. Accept his blood and death as my offering, I pray You.'

After a moment she added, 'Amen.'

twenty-one

FABIA CELEBRE

dressed again in the remains of her sodden gown. Shivering from cold and delayed shock, she found and appropriated Master Pukar's leather cloak, into whose capacious inner pocket she stowed her pearl bracelet and the few other trinkets that had survived. His wrap she tossed into the shaft after him as a shroud. She found no lamp, but the possible significance of that absence did not occur to her until she was almost back at the outer door, navigating the unlit passage with little trouble. Of course a Chosen would be able to see in the dark! That realization shook her more than anything that had happened yet, even Pukar's death. She was one of them now. Had Pukar been one or an imposter? The seer had warned her that there was never any way to tell.

Inconspicuous slits and knotholes in the ancient door provided a complete view of the alley outside, so that Mother Xaran's worshipers could depart unseen. The thunder had moved on but rain still roared and the alley was a stream. Fabia had very little idea of where she was or even where she should be trying to get to—home, palace, or Pantheon? The same monster wave that had smashed the Eelfisher bridge must have taken several others, so the way home would be a long detour around by Live Ringer and Handily. The palace was no closer and she could not go there looking like something spurned by seagulls. The Pantheon was nearest and would offer help.

A few people in cloaks and hoods splashed along, bent against the downpour. Fabia halted a woman at random and traded one of her precious mother-of-pearl combs for directions and a pair of reed sandals—chuckling at the thought of what Horth would say if he knew. After that she could manage a better pace, limping through the mud and rain while her business associate stared after her openmouthed.

The rocky bowl where the chariots waited for their owners to return from the Pantheon was a knee-deep lake packed with wailing multitudes and angrily braying onagers. Rain was hammering down unhindered, but as much of the stairway as she could see was dangerously crammed. There were also far too many onagers in the crowd, like snakes in a vegetable patch, and if she reached the steps without being kicked or bitten or both it would be—

'Mistress! Mistress Frena! Aee!'

—a miracle.

Black hair did have its uses. Verk was standing high, obviously in a chariot, waving both arms wildly. She acknowledged the wave and headed in his direction. The ribbons and flowers on the car were almost as bedraggled as she was.

When she arrived he looked her over and said 'Aee!' several times. 'I must take you