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?”
“I will not tell you. Your reign is over, Queen of Shadows.”
Saltaja laughed, thinking of the sacrifice she had made in the herb garden that morning. “Not by a menzil! Tell!” She forced an answer.
“My brother Benard and his goddess. Stop it! How did you do that?”
Saltaja was an old hand at manipulating dreams. She willed and instantly closed with the girl, so they were nose-to-nose.
“And where are you now, child? Your spirit roams the dreamland, but where do you sleep? Take me there.”
Celebre’s shout of protest was useless. The cavern melted and shifted. It became a place of grass and leafless trees, of stars peering between low clouds, a smell of the river. And there they were, all four of them, the accursed Celebres, sitting together, brown faces barely visible in the darkness, leaning forward, conspiring. They did not know Saltaja was there, of course, because she wasn’t. This might not be happening right now, but they could not have fled very far from Tryfors yet. She could probably strike at them-but that would be a serious waste of power. They no longer mattered. One day she would hunt them down and enjoy their deaths at leisure.
The Dantio one was a temptation, though. How had the Witnesses managed to deceive her for so long? He had not died in Skjar that day, but he must have gone to the slavers’, because the tops of his ears were missing. “Stand!” she said, and he was on his feet, facing her, but blank, unaware of her. The rest of the vision had gone, there was only him. Yes, she could remember that soft, unformed face. She willed away his covering and confirmed that he had been emasculated, too, as she had ordered.
“Turn!”
He turned his back. She smiled at the scars, recalling how he had screamed and begged for mercy when he was being flogged. But the familiarity was more than that.
“Look at me. I know you. Answer!”
He smiled, flashing white teeth. “I was a slave on the river, all the way from Skjar. For half a year I hid from you in plain sight! I stayed out of your boat, but you must have caught glimpses of me.”
That voice! The Mother veiled him for her, shrouded him in white.
“So that was you, too,” she said. “Yesterday in Tryfors, the seer?”
“It was me.” He laughed aloud. “I lied and you believed.” Flames of revenge and triumph blazed up around him like green wreaths.
She kept her rage in check, for now. “Not Nuthervale, then? You told us Nuthervale. So the rebels’ camp is not near Nuthervale! Where is it?”
His eyes widened in shock as he felt her control. “Near Tryfors, of course, on the Milky River. Why would anyone put it near Nuthervale?”
“Speak on!”
“I sent word,” his image said. “The night before we reached Tryfors. I told them to strike soon, so they can catch you as well as Therek.” He began to fade, but his eyes burned bright with hate. “The jaws are closing, monster! They are coming for you. The gods will have revenge.”
Saltaja started awake with a pounding heart and a sour taste of pursuit in her throat. It was many, many years since she had been hunted and the sensation was distasteful. After leaving Zorthvarn, Hrag and she had been harried from place to place. Producing four sons in seven years, they had needed enormous amounts of power to Shape them. Too many unexplained disappearances soon made neighbors suspicious.
She was lying on the flagstone floor of Halfway Hall, in a corner walled off by three upturned tables. Her new Guitha was curled up nearby, snuffling unpleasantly in her sleep. The rest of the upland shelter was packed with sleeping Werists, most of them forced to sit upright, leaning against the walls or one another. The place reeked of male bodies and throbbed with massed snoring.