“Suicidal you mean,” Benard growled. “I decline. I understand your debt, brother, but I have a lover and unborn child to consider. When Horold finds out your seer is gone, he will overrun the islands looking for her. Then he will find Ingeld.”
“And find you,” Orlad said. “Ah, the wages of adultery! And the wages of sympathy. Let’s hear the plan first and collapse in mirth after.”
Paradoxically, Dantio said “Oh, you wonderful, adorable brother!” as if the Werist had already promised to help. He must be reading the inside of Orlad’s head. “Their camp’s spread over three islands. The boats are beached, eighteen or twenty of them. Tranquility’s in one near the middle, with two Werist guards. I have to assume they’ll be asleep. It’s a dark night, isn’t it? We slip aboard, cut two throats. Launch the boat, then push it up- stream-the channels are shallow enough to walk in. When it’s missed, Horold will assume it’s drifted downstream.”
Benard snorted. “No, he won’t. He looks like a pig, he stinks like a pig, but he thinks a little better than your average hog. He’ll see where you pushed the boat off. Riverfolk pull boats high enough that they don’t just float away.”
“Well said, Bena!” Orlad said. “Our seer is talking wind. You prayed Fabia out of the dungeon last night. Can’t you pray one old woman out of a camp full of Werists tonight?”
“Don’t blaspheme.”
“You avoid the question?”
“No. The answer is no. I can’t.”
The Werist still mocked. “Dear Dantio, even our rock-basher brother can see that you are gibbering mad. How many sentries overall? You really think that the two guarding the prisoner will be asleep? Then you don’t know Heroes. You really think you can cut their throats without making any noise? The best two cuts out of three? Or push a boat off unnoticed and unheard? You’re not that stupid! What god do you pray to, Fabia?”
Benard grunted, “Huh?”
“What do you mean?” Fabia said, more shrilly than she intended.
“It wasn’t Dantio’s brains they cut off,” Orlad said. “He needs a couple of strong-arm men. That explains us, but why are you here? Why include you in this conspiracy? Answer!”
She had distrusted the eldest brother and underestimated the youngest. He was more than just brute carnivore. She felt a chill of panic. “No! No, I won’t!”
“Thank you for that answer.” Orlad sounded very smug. “Bena can’t help. He’s got his doxy to comfort and he makes more noise than dueling thunderstorms. I’ll go with Dantio if you’ll come too.”
“Me?” Her voice cracked.
“I might even vote for you as dogaressa.”
Dantio laughed.
Benard had his penetrating artist’s gaze locked on her. “Are you?”
“If I were, would I tell you?”
“You just did,” Orlad said. “How powerful are you? Can you curse? How’s your evil eye?”
“Stop it!” She scrambled to her feet and looked down at her three brothers, six eyes in the gloom. “You mustn’t say such horrible things about me! People might believe them.”
“You could be a big help to us. Or not.”
“Leave her alone,” Dantio said. “Saltaja stinks of evil. Fabia doesn’t.”
“Not yet, you mean?” Benard muttered.
She fought for calm. Orlad was threatening to denounce her. She had escaped from Satrap Therek’s dungeon and that would be enough evidence to rouse a Vigaelian mob against a woman with black hair and brown skin.
She said, “I’ll sleep on it. If any of you do decide to commit suicide, I hope you’ll wait until just before dawn, so the rest of us can escape before the satrap gets here. Just before the rebels arrive would be even better.”
Trembling, she stalked away. She had not handled that well. If she was to serve the Mother of Lies, she must learn to lie better.
SALTAJA HRAGSDOR
stood in the great cavern and breathed deeply of its ancient essence, the majesty of sanctified death, the power that vanquished all others: love, hate, ambition, hope. This cave was the temple of the Dark One in Skjar and she knew it well-the altar stone, the inscribed image above it that was older than any of the upper gods, the bottomless chasm that Hrag called the Mother’s Bowels. Many had gone to meet the Old One down there with the help of Saltaja Hragsdor.
The vision was as sharp as a skull’s smile. The offering she had made in the herb garden had been rewarded with increased power and favor. So why had she been brought here now? And when was now? Night, she thought, and yet there was some light filtering down from the chimneys. Ah, that was lightning! A great storm, and with the instant certainty of dreams she knew it was the tempest that struck the city just before she left, back in the spring. There was the proof she had wanted-the girl, kneeling before the altar with her arms raised. Naked, naturally, and about to give blood.
Blood fell from her hand like drops of fire…
Could this be her actual dedication, that very day? A seer had confirmed that Fabia had made her dedicatory oaths then, but Xaran might have blinded the seer as to which god had received them. Alone? Well, why not? Formal rituals were games the little gods played, but the Mother scorned them. She could accept a solitary dedication if She wanted. No doubt the Apicella woman had instructed the child… Was that to be all? A minor self- inflicted scratch?
Ah, there was another person present, a man emerging from the shadows, gross, repulsive, shining evil, tumescent. Punar? Pukar? Some name like that. One of Her minor servants around Skjar. Saltaja hugged herself, savoring the game. Celebre tried to flee, he caught her, dragged her struggling to the altar. Watching this unequal contest took Saltaja back to her own youth, her own dedication in the hills above Zorthvarn. Hrag had not told her what he planned or why she must accompany him down into the odious crypt. Once in there, he had stripped her without a word, ignoring her pleas and screams. He had thrown her down on the altar and repeatedly forced her. With terror, disbelief, and pain he had introduced her to the worship of the Mother. As one began Her worship, so one continued it, he said later, and Saltaja had come to understand what a fine and fitting initiation it had been. She owed her ruthlessness to it. The Ancient One had given them Therek as a reward for that first dramatic coupling.
But this might not be the same. The girl was using Dominance. Clumsily, but effectively enough. How had she learned that? From Paola Apicella, no doubt. That was amusing, too, watching that whale of a man retreating, lust turning to terror, the sudden detumescence. Not quite enough power, though. The girl had used up her pathetic smear of blood. He was rallying. Rape it would be… Then, a quick shove by the girl and a wonderful scream of horror as he went down into the chasm, to the Ancient One’s embrace.
All death was Her service and deliberate death Her worship.
Saltaja clapped. “That was beautifully done, girl. I wondered how you had come by the power to dispose of Perag Hrothgatson.”
Celebre turned to scowl across the cavern at her. “This is your playroom, I suppose? Where you dump the bodies?”
“Bodies alive or dead. Are you seeking a moral high ground, child?”
“Like Paola’s bodyguards, the two swordsmen who disappeared?”
“One was a body before. The other became one here, to Her glory. You are a fool, you know. Together we could have done wonderful things. You should have confided in me.”
The girl showed her teeth. “You killed Paola. I will see you die for that.”
Oh, the folly of youth! But also the firm breasts and tight belly, the thick hair and smooth skin of youth. She was still a virgin! By the Mother, a virgin and a Chosen! That must be very rare.
“Apicella died because she slew my brother. Your threats are ludicrous. Who let you out of that cell last night in Tryfors?”
