Frena removed her dress, confident that there was enough light for her to find it again. Most of her ornaments and jewels had gone. She debated making an offering of the rest and then discarded the thought. Naked, aghast at her own audacity, she went to kneel before the altar and was not surprised when her groping fingers found jagged fragments of rock on the floor in front of it. She cleared a space for her knees. Blood and birth; death and the cold earth.
"Mother?" she whispered.
No response.
Louder, boldly: "Mother, I have come as you bade me. You saved my life in the Edgelands when I was a helpless infant, so it belongs to you. Only tell me what you want, of me and I will obey." She took up a sliver in her left hand and slashed her right palm. That hurt, but it was supposed to. She let the blood dribble onto the stone, then laid her hand there, bowing her head.
"By blood and birth; death and the cold earth, I swear to obey and endure." Pause. She sensed power seeping up through the rock like a welcome. Love and joy played a silent song, and she felt a strange warmth. It might only be her imagination, and she dared not look in case it was, but she had a strong impression that someone else was there with her...
"Not bad," Master Pukar said.
Frena cried out in shock and sprang to her feet, stumbling and banging her knee against the altar rock as she turned. He glimmered like an oversized white maggot in twilight.
"I wondered if you would find your own way here. The bond must be very strong already." He came closer. "But that is only the beginning, my dear. A dribble of blood from a cut hand? You expect the Mother to be satisfied with that?"
She detected his sour, fishy odor. His words were fishy, too. She backed up a step and almost lost her balance. The floor was treacherous for bare feet.
"Keep away from me! What do you want?"
"It is not what I want, child," he lisped, "but what the Mother requires. You really think a virgin can become a Chosen? You have more precious blood to offer, the sacred blood of maidenhood." He tugged, and his wrap fell away in his hand. It made almost no difference—he was still a great pale worm in the gloom. He was also much larger and stronger than she was.
"No!"
He sighed. "But you promised to pay the price and to endure. This is the sacrifice required of a maiden who wants to be a Chosen. Here, spread that out and lie down." He threw the cloth onto the altar.
"No! I will not!"
"What are you going to do? Scream?" He laughed sweetly. "No one will hear. Even if they did, you know what they would do to you, finding you in here." He grabbed for her.
She tried to run, but she was barefooted and he still had shoes. He caught her arm before she had taken three steps. "Come, my dear. You are required to sacrifice blood, dignity, and some pain. Shall we begin with a kiss?"
"No!" She squirmed as he pulled her into an embrace and offered that soft, slobbery mouth.
Hate!
Pukar released her and stepped back. "What did you do? That hurt!" He sounded more puzzled than worried.
Hate! Hate! Liar and procurer and blackmailer. Killer of unborn babies. Detestable slug.
"Stop!" Now he screamed, trying to shield his face with his arms as if she were an intolerable brightness. He reeled back faster.
She followed, still hating, wondering if she could frighten him away altogether—and, if not, how long she could hold him off with this strange power she had been taught. Hate! Hate! Hate!
Now his scream was piercing. Stones rattled away from his feet and fell, clattering down, down. "Mercy!"
"Mercy? You don't know what that means!" Rapist!
Hate!
He took one more step back and began waving his arms wildly to regain his balance. She could have saved him, perhaps, but without an instant's hesitation she stepped forward and pushed hard with both hands. He vanished. She heard his scream stop as he hit, starting a rush of loose stones. He hit once or twice more. The clatter of falling pebbles died away into silence.
♦
He was certainly not conscious down there, wherever "down there" was. If he was alive there was nothing she could—or would dare—do for him.
Trembling, she went back to kneel at the altar. She did not know what to say ... but that was just because she had not decided what she was thinking. Was she sorry? No. It had been self-defense. He had been prepared to use force on her because he thought he was the stronger. If one-twelfth of the stories about Master Pukar were true, then he deserved what had happened.
Would she do the same again under the same circumstances?
Yes.
"Holy Xaran, I, Fabia Celebre, give thanks for this deliverance. I offer the blasphemer Pukar as sacrifice to You. Accept his blood and death as my offering, I pray You."
After a moment she added, "Amen."
twenty-one
FABIA CELEBRE
dressed again in the remains of her sodden gown. Shivering from cold and delayed shock, she found and appropriated Master Pukar's leather cloak, into whose capacious inner pocket she stowed her pearl bracelet and the few other trinkets that had survived. His wrap she tossed into the shaft after him as a shroud. She found no lamp, but the possible significance of that absence did not occur to her until she was almost back at the outer door, navigating the unlit passage with little trouble. Of course a Chosen would be able to see in the dark! That realization shook her more than anything that had happened yet, even Pukar's death. She was one of them now. Had Pukar been one or an imposter? The seer had warned her that there was never any way to tell.
Inconspicuous slits and knotholes in the ancient door provided a complete view of the alley outside, so that Mother Xaran's worshipers could depart unseen. The thunder had moved on but rain still roared and the alley was a stream. Fabia had very little idea of where she was or even where she should be trying to get to—home, palace, or Pantheon? The same monster wave that had smashed the Eelfisher bridge must have taken several others, so the way home would be a long detour around by Live Ringer and Handily. The palace was no closer and she could not go there looking like something spurned by seagulls. The Pantheon was nearest and would offer help.
A few people in cloaks and hoods splashed along, bent against the downpour. Fabia halted a woman at random and traded one of her precious mother-of-pearl combs for directions and a pair of reed sandals—chuckling at the thought of what Horth would say if he knew. After that she could manage a better pace, limping through the mud and rain while her business associate stared after her openmouthed.
The rocky bowl where the chariots waited for their owners to return from the Pantheon was a knee-deep lake packed with wailing multitudes and angrily braying onagers. Rain was hammering down unhindered, but as much of the stairway as she could see was dangerously crammed. There were also far too many onagers in the crowd, like snakes in a vegetable patch, and if she reached the steps without being kicked or bitten or both it would be—
"Mistress! Mistress Frena! Aee!"
—a miracle.
Black hair did have its uses. Verk was standing high, obviously in a chariot, waving both arms wildly. She acknowledged the wave and headed in his direction. The ribbons and flowers on the car were almost as bedraggled as she was.
When she arrived he looked her over and said "Aee!" several times. "I must take you to the sanctuary of holy Sinura at once, mistress."
Suddenly she felt incredibly weary, as the stressful days and sleepless nights caught up with her. "No. Just home. The Healers will be overloaded with far worse injuries than mine. I took a tumble, is all. Nothing serious." The cut on her hand would not be noticed among all the other scrapes.