Illyra hammered both fists on the table. Neither he nor the Sight would move as she wished. "You aren't listening to me! There's no poison in Arton's blood, Half-Brother. Spirits seek him. Godspirits raised on a White Foal altar. What could you do for Arton that I have not already done? What could bare-breasted Beysin women do while the spirit of a Stormgod sits on its altar, waiting for another chance? Destroy the altar; I'll save my son."
Walegrin assessed her with one eye, then the other, and left the breastplate lying on the table. "Illyra, my men struggle to contain the Maze. There is more murder and intrigue in this town than one man can imagine, and you would have me stomp through the White Foal marsh, looking for a broken-down pile of stones. If it's only the altar you care about, then tell Dubro-he'll do it with his hammer."
"I have not told Dubro."
He raised an eyebrow, having believed that the pair had no secrets between them, and was about to ask more questions when she turned toward the fireplace.
"I don't know why I've come to you for help." She turned and studied the room. "The Sight ends, and I don't know what to do now."
"You can wait here," he said, almost kindly. "I'll make my report in the morning. Or, I'll guide you back to the Aphrodisia, and Arton and you can wait there."
The silver clarity of Sight was gone and she could not, of course, guess when it might return. The preternatural confidence it had given her was fading. She had too many terrified childhood memories of the barracks to linger there, and so accepted his offer. Walegrin called Cythen and two others to be her escort. They each carried torches heavy enough to serve as weapons. Once, they were delayed by the sound of a fracas in a blind alley. "PFLS," Walegrin muttered as the combatants scattered but to Illyra, illiterate and Bazaar-bound, the expression made no sense.
Myrtis welcomed the mercenaries with cups of fortified wine. Illyra escaped to the nursery where, as she expected even without the Sight, her son's condition had not changed. Dubro had taken the unconscious child from the cradle and was hiding the mite in his arms while Lillis, exhausted and worried beyond understanding by her brother's behavior, sat wild-eyed on the floor, clinging to Dubro's leg.
"You have been following some S' danzo intuition?" Dubro asked with accusation.
"I had thought Walegrin might help." Illyra let the cloak fall back from her shoulders. "He will try, though I'm not sure if he will help or hurt in the end. We'll pray it is enough."
"Do you pray?" her husband asked as if speaking to a stranger.
"To the one who wants our son-yes."
In time the sky grew rosy, then bright blue. Arton grew no worse, though no better. Despite their anxiety, Illyra and Lillis both leaned against the smith and dozed. Those children who normally made a noisy shambles of the nursery before breakfast were bundled off to some distant part of the house, and the family waited in silent isolation.
A black bird, not so great as the one Illyra had made of her Sight but undeniably real, cawed noisily outside the window. Illyra awoke and hoped it might be the Sight returning to her. Before she could know one way or the other, there was a furor in the hallways which ended with the appearance of the Hierarch of Vashanka, Molin Torch-holder, at the nursery entrance.
"Illyra," the priest said, ignoring everyone else in the room. Not knowing any other response, Illyra knelt before him: the priest's power was real even if his god was not. "How is the child?"
She shook her head and took Arton from Dubro's arms. "No better. He breathes, but no more than that. How do you know? Why are you here?"
Molin gave a sardonic laugh. "I had not expected to be the one answering questions. I know because I make it a point to know what is going on in Sanctuary and to find the patterns by which it can be governed. You went to the garrison. You said your son had been 'taken.' You spoke of spirits and of the Stormgod, but you did not mention Vashanka. You wanted your brother to deal with the altar, but you were going to deal with rest.
"They say you have the legendary S'danzo Sight. I'd like to know exactly what you've been Seeing." The priest did not seem surprised when Illyra's only response was to stare forlornly at the floor. "Well, then, let me convince you."
He took her gently by the arm and guided her toward a tiny atrium where the rook was already perched in a tree. Dubro rose to follow them. Two temple mutes, armed with heavy spears, convinced him to remain with the children.
"No one has betrayed you, Illyra, nor will betray you. Walegrin does not see the larger picture when he tells me the details, but you-you might see a picture even larger than my own. You have the Sight, Illyra, and you've looked at the Stormgod, haven't you?"
"The S'danzo have no gods," she replied defensively.
"Yes, but as you yourself have admitted, something has touched your son, and that something is involved with known gods."
"Not gods, godspirits-gyskourem."
"Gyskourem?" Molin rolled the word across his tongue, and the rook tried its beak on the sound as well. "Spirits? Demonfolk? No, I don't think so, Illyra."
She sighed and turned away, but spoke louder so he could still hear what no suvesh had heard before. "We have Seen the past as well as the future. Men begin the creation of gods. There is a hope, or a need; the gyskourem come, and then there is a god-until there is no hope or need anymore. When they begin, the gyskourem are like other men, or sometimes demonfolk are summoned as gyskourem, but when they are filled then they become gods truly and they are more powerful than any man or demon. The S'danzo do not hope or need, lest we call the gyskourem to us."
"So Vashanka is not the son of Savankala and Sabellia. He is the hope and need of the first battles fought by the first Rankan tribes?" The priest laughed from some secret bemusement.
"In a way. It could be so. That is the pattern, although it is very hard to see so far back as for a god such Vashanka," Illyra temporized. The man was Vashanki priest, and she was not about to tell him of the birth or death of his god.
"But not so hard to see forward, I should think. My god has fallen on hard times, hasn't he, S'danzo?" Torchholder's tone was harsh and bitter, causing Illyra to turn to face him, though she feared for her life. "Don't pretend, S'danzo. You may have the Sight, but I was there. Vashanka was ripped from the pantheon. Ils was there, but I do not think that he or his kin can fill Vashanka's void. And there is a void, isn't there? A hope? A need? The Rankan Stormgod: the Might of Armies, the Maker of Victory, isn't here anymore."
She nodded and picked nervously at the fringe of her shawl. "It has never happened before, I think. He was changing, growing, even when he was tricked and banished. There is a great web over Sanctuary, High Priest; it was there before Vashanka was banished, and it's still there now. There is much to be Seen and little to be understood." She spoke to him as she would any other querent and for a moment he looked properly chastened.
"How much hope does it take, S'danzo? How much need? Can the god of one people usurp the devotion of another?" The priest seemed to ignore her then, digging deep into the hem of his sleeve, producing a sweetmeat for the rook, which flew tamely to his wrist for the treat. When Molin began again his voice was calm.