Mriga found it difficult to look at Siveni as they drove westward down Governor's Walk, and Siveni would not look at her at all. It needed no omniscience to hear the anger rumbling like suppressed thunder in her. "Look," she whispered to Siveni, "you know I'm right."
"No, I don't." Siveni paused a moment, watching the dark, familiar streets go by, and then said, "You wrecked it, you know that? You and he would have been out of here by now. And I would have managed: I always manage." She paused again. "Dammit, Mriga, I'm a maiden goddess! He's in love with me, and I can't give him what he wants of me! But you can. And if I stay down here, you get my attributes-all but that one. My priest gets what he wants-me. And you get him-"
Mriga looked long at Siveni, who would not look back, and began to love her crazily, in somewhat the same manner as she had crazily admired Ischade. "I thought you were the one claiming that the attributes would stay down here-"
Siveni ignored this. "I wasn't entirely myself when he called me back," she said. "I made him lose a hand for my sake. The least I could do is make sure he lives long enough to get some use out of his new one."
The chariot turned south, past the tanners' quarter. "You're a full immortal," said Mriga. "You can't die."
"If I really want to ... yes, I can," Siveni said, very quietly. "She did it, didn't she?"
There was no arguing with that, whatever Ischade's opinions on the subject might be. Mriga let out a pained breath.
Ahead of them Tyr was running excitedly past the town animal pens, toward a bridge. It looked exactly like the bridge over the White Foal, where corpses had so often been nailed and gangs had scuffled over their boundaries. Past the bridge crouched the Downwind's ramshackle houses, Ischade's neighborhood. But the river running under the old bridge was that cold, black river that smoked its mists into the thunder-gray day. The ferryman was nowhere to be seen. On the far shore, in the streets among the shanties and rotting houses, milled dark crowds of the dead, but none of them used the bridge.
Tyr galloped up the curved upstroke of the bridge and skidded and galumphed and almost fell down the down-stroke of it, yapping crazily. The chariot followed. Hooves that should have boomed on the planks did not. Tyr was already down off the bridge, arrowing through the crowds like a hound on a line, giving tongue. Confused, the dead parted before and behind her, leaving a road the chariot could follow. And then Tyr went no further, but they saw her jump almost up to head level once or twice, licking in overjoyed frenzy at the face of a dark form burdened with some long awkward object over his shoulders ...
"Harran!"
Mriga was out of the chariot and running without knowing quite how she'd managed it. Beside her Siveni was keeping pace, tucking her tunic up out of the way, the spear bobbing on one shoulder and spitting lightning like fireworks. The dead got hurriedly out of their way. Mriga shot Siveni a second glance: that tunic was more gray than black, suddenly. But Siveni didn't seem to notice or care. And there, there, confused-looking, grimy, shadowed, but tall and fair and bearded, dear and familiar, him ... They managed to slow down just enough to avoid knocking him over, but as soon as his eyes cleared he knew them, and their embrace was violent and prolonged.
"What-why-how are you-"
"Are you all right? Did it hurt much?"
"No, but- What's she doing here?"
"She showed us the way. No, Tyr, he means Ischade, don't look so hurt-"
"We buried you, why didn't you-"
"I couldn't leave him. He's hurt. Look, there's an arrow through his-"
"You ass, you're deadf"
"... Leg-yes, I know! But he's-"
Stillness fell all around them. The black chariot stood hard by, and as the white-robed figure stepped down from it, Harran looked up. Most carefully he sank to one knee in the dirty street, laid down the limp, bloodied young man he was carrying, and kneeling, bowed himself slowly double. He was a priest, and a healer, and had worked in Death's shadow before: he knew her when he saw her.
Siveni looked at him, and at Mriga, and tossed her spear away. It lay scorching the dirt, afire as if it lay yet in the furnace where the thunderbolts were forged. Her robes shimmered gray, and the Queen's blinding white, in its light. Quickly, and none too gracefully-for she had had little practice at this sort of thing-she went down on her knees in front of the Queen of hell, and bowed her bright head right down to the dirt. Her helmet slipped off and rolled aside; she ignored it. "Madam, please," she said, in a muffled voice, "take me. Let them go."
"What?" Harran said, looking up from Tyr, who was washing his face again.
"Your goddesses have come to beg your life of me," said the Queen. "But you know the ancient price for letting a soul go back up that road once it's come down."
"No!" Harran said, shocked. And then, remembering to whom he spoke, "Please, no! I'm dead-but my town's not. It needs her. Mriga, talk her out of this!"
Mriga could only look at him, and not steadily: Her eyes were blurring. "She also has offered to pay the price," said the Queen. "They almost came to blows over it. They cannot choose. I offer you the choice."
Harran's jaw moved as his teeth ground. "No," he said at last. "I won't go-not at that price. Send them home. But-"
"We're not leaving without him," Mriga said.
Siveni looked up from the dirt, her eyes flashing "Certainly not."
The place was becoming brighter. Was it Siveni's spear, Mriga wondered, or something else? The buildings seemed almost as bright as if Sanctuary's usual greasy sunlight shone on them. All around, the dead were blinking and staring. "Let him at least go," Mriga said. "We'll both stay."
"Yes," Siveni said.
Death's Queen looked somberly from one of them to the other.
Tyr slipped away from Harran's side and up next to Siveni-then jumped up and put her delicate, dusty forefeet right on the white robes of the Queen. She looked up into her face with big brown eyes.
"I'll stay too," Tyr said.
Mriga and Siveni and Harran all started violently. Only Ischade looked away and hid a smile.
The Queen looked down at the dog with astonishment, and finally reached out to scratch her behind one ear. She looked over at Ischade. "This orgy of self sacrifice," she said, with the slightest, driest smile, "comes on behalf of Sanctuary?"
"More or less, madam," said Ischade, matching the smile. "I question whether it deserves it."
"It does not. But how rarely any of us get what we deserve. Which may be for the best." The Queen looked at her supplicants-one mortal and one goddess kneeling, one goddess standing, and (apparently) one more leaning against her and having the good place behind her ears scratched. "No wonder you two have been having such trouble achieving union. It's a trinity you're part of, and without your third there's never agreement on anything. But with him-"
"Them," Tyr said.
The Queen looked wry. "A four-person trinity?- Assuredly, I must get rid of all of you somehow," she said. "There would be no peace for any of us with all of you walking around here shining and tearing up the place. And arguing." In this warming, melting light, she seemed much less grave and awful than she had. Mriga even thought that her eyes crinkled in amusement; but in the growing radiance, and the way it reflected dazzling from her veil, it was becoming hard to tell. "But the law is still the law. The price must be paid-"
There was a long pause.
"We could split it four ways," Harran said.
Siveni looked at him in shock, then smiled. "Why, you're my priest indeed. Each of us could spend a quarter of our time here," she said to the Queen. "We could take it in turns-"