Ingrey stood silent, abashed, but Ijada lifted her face, and said steadily, “No, my lord, for my part. Give him to the river. Tumble him down in the thunder of Your cataract. His loss is no gain of mine, nor his dark deserving any joy to me.”
The god smiled brilliantly at her. Tears slid down her face like silver threads: like benedictions.
“It is unjust,” whispered Ingrey. “Unfair to all who-who would try to do rightly….”
Ingrey swallowed nervously, not at all sure the question was rhetorical, or what might happen if he said yes. “Let Ijada's be the choosing, then. I will abide.”
“Alas, more shall be required of you than to stand aside and act not, wolf-lord.” The god gestured to Boleso. “He cannot enter in my gates so burdened with these mutilated spirits. This is not their proper door. Hunt them from him, Ingrey.”
Ingrey stared through the bars of Boleso's ribs. “Clean this cage?”
“If you prefer that metaphor, yes.” The god's copper eyebrows twitched, but his eyes, beneath them, glinted with a certain dark humor. Wolf and leopard now sat on their haunches on either side of those slim booted legs, staring silently at Ingrey with deep, unblinking eyes.
Ingrey swallowed. “How?”
“Call them forth.”
“I…do not understand.”
“Do as your ancestors did for each other, in the purifying last rites of the Old Weald. Did you not know? Even as they washed and wrapped each body for burial, the kin shamans looked after the souls of their own. Each helped his comrade, whether simple spirit warrior or great mage, through Our gates, at the end of their lives, and looked to be helped so in turn. A chain of hand to hand, of voice to voice, cleansed souls flowing in an unending stream.” The god's voice softened. “Call my unhappy creatures out, Ingrey kin Wolfcliff. Sing them to their rest.”
Ingrey stood facing Boleso. The prince's eyes were wide and pleading. I imagine Ijada's eyes were wide and pleading that night, too. What mercy did she get from you, my graceless prince? Besides, I cannot sing worth a damn.
I have no mercy in me, lady. So I shall borrow some from you.
He took a breath, and reached down into himself farther than he'd yet done before. Keep it simple. Picked out one swirl by eye, held out his hand, and commanded, “Come.”
The first beast's spirit spun out through his fingers, wild and distraught, and fled away. He glanced at the god. “Where-?”
A wave of those radiant fingers reassured him. “It is well. Go on.”
“Come…”
One by one, the dark streams flowed out of Boleso and melted into the night. Morning. Whatever this was. They all floated in a now somewhere outside of time, Ingrey thought. At last Boleso stood before him, still silent, but freed of the dark smears.
The red-haired god appeared riding the copper colt, and extended a hand to the prince. Boleso flinched, staring up in doubt and fear, and Ijada's breath caught. But then he climbed quietly up behind. His face held much wonder, if little joy.
“I think he is still soul-wounded, my lord,” said Ingrey, watching in bare comprehension.
“Ah, but I know an excellent Physician for him, where we are going.” The god laughed, dazzlingly.
“My lord-” Ingrey began, as the god made to turn the unbridled horse.
“Yes?”
“If each kin shaman delivered the next, and him the next…” He swallowed harder. “What happens to the last shaman left?” The Lord of Autumn stared enigmatically down at him. He extended one lucent finger, stopping just short of brushing Ingrey's forehead. For a moment, Ingrey thought he was not going to answer at all, but then he murmured, “We shall have to find out.”
INGREY BLINKED.
He was lying on hard pavement, his body half-straightened, staring up at the curve of the dome of the Son's court. Staring up at a ring of startled faces staring down at him: Gesca, a concerned Lady Hetwar, a couple of men he did not know.
“What happened?” whispered Ingrey.
“You fainted,” said Gesca, frowning.
“No-what happened at the bier? Just now?”
“The Lord of Autumn took Prince Boleso,” said Lady Hetwar, glancing over her shoulder. “That pretty red colt nuzzled him all over-it was very clear. To everyone's relief.”
“Yes. Half the men I know were betting he'd go to the Bastard.” A twisted grin flitted over Gesca's face.
Lady Hetwar cast him a quelling frown. “That is not a fit subject for wagering, Gesca.”
“No, my lady,” Gesca agreed, dutifully erasing his smirk.
Ingrey hitched up to sit leaning against the wall. The motion made the chamber spin in slow jerks, and he squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them again. He had felt numb and bodiless during his vision, but now he was shuddering in waves radiating out from the pit of his belly, though he did not feel cold. As though his body had experienced some shock that his mind was denied.
Lady Hetwar leaned forward and pressed a stern maternal hand to his damp brow. “Are you ill, Lord Ingrey? You do feel rather warm.”
“I…” He was about to firmly deny any such weakness, then thought better of it. He wanted nothing more passionately than to remove himself from this fraught scene at once. “…fear so, my lady. Pray excuse me, and excuse me to your lord husband.” I must find Ijada. He clambered to his feet and began to feel his way along the wall. “I would rather not pitch up my breakfast on the temple floor in the middle of all this.”
Over by the altar, the choir was again singing, forming up to lead the procession out, and people were beginning to shuffle themselves back into their positions. Ingrey was grateful for the covering noise. Across the crowd, he thought he saw Learned Lewko crane his neck toward his disruption, but he did not meet the divine's eyes. Keeping to the walls, half for support and half to skim around the throng, he made his escape. By the time they exited the portico, he was towing Gesca.
“Leave me,” he gasped, shaking off Gesca's hand.
“But Ingrey, Lady Hetwar said-”
He didn't even need the weirding voice; Gesca recoiled at his glower alone. He stood staring in bewilderment as Ingrey weaved away through the crowded square.
By the time Ingrey reached the stairway down to Kingstown, he was nearly running. He bolted down the endless steps two and three at a time, at risk of tumbling head over tail. By the time he passed over the covered creek, he was running, his long coat flapping around his boot heels. By the time he pounded on the door of the narrow house, and stood a moment with his hands on his knees, wheezing for breath, he had nearly made his lie to Lady Hetwar true; his stomach was heaving almost as much as his lungs. He fell through the door as the astonished porter opened it.
“Lady Ijada-where is she?”
Before the porter could speak, a thumping on the stairs answered his question. Ijada flew down them, the warden in her train crying, “Lady, you should not, come back and lie down again-”
“I saw-”
“Come!” He yanked her into the parlor. “Leave us!” he shouted back over his shoulder. Porter, porter's boy, warden, and housemaid all blew back like leaves in a storm gust. Ingrey slammed the door upon them.
The handgrip turned into a shaken embrace, having in it very little romance but a great deal of terror. Ingrey was not sure which of them was trembling more. “What did you see?”
“I saw Him, Ingrey, I heard Him. Not a dream this time, not a fragrance in the dark-a daylight vision, clear.” She pushed him back to stare into his face. “And I saw you.” Her look turned to disbelief, though not, apparently, of her vision. “You stood face-to-face with a god, and you could find nothing better to do than to argue with Him!” She gripped and shook his shoulders. “Ingrey!”