Fabia cursed herself for stupidity, trying to match wits with a seer. Should she answer yes or no?
"I was in Skjar that day," the voice went on, "and I saw you take your vows, Fabia Celebre. It is true that the disastrous storm was overloading us, but the eyes of Mayn do not see as your eyes do. We see truth and my sisters and I saw you take your vows. What you said, where, and with whose help were not revealed to us. You may have been in the house of the Bright Ones or below it in the realm of the Mother. Few of my sisters would agree with me, I admit, but I personally do not care if you gave a lily to Veslih or spilled blood to the Old One, just as long as you oppose the vile Saltaja. If you are now a Chosen and she discovers this, she may destroy you or try to enlist you. I do not pretend to read anyone's thoughts, let alone hers. May whatever gods you serve guide you through perils to come, Fabia Celebre."
"Wait! What happens when I reach Kosord?"
There was no reply.
♦
At first light Fabia dressed hastily, hoping for a private word with Horth, but Flankleader Cnurg was asleep across her tent door as usual, and came instantly alert, like a watchdog. She nodded sourly and walked around him. The levee swarmed with Werists in various stages of nudity as they turned their palls from bedclothes into day wear.
Horth was already kneeling in the crowd around the fire, participating in the group's usual hasty breakfast. Strangely, the endless boredom of the river seemed to agree with him; he had gained an appetite and lost his painful leanness. He was being idle for the first time in his life.
The party numbered fifty-three. Fabia and Horth had brought no servants and Saltaja only a single handmaid, the moronic Guitha, but the Queen of Shadows had not skimped on guards—Huntleader Hrothgatson led a pack of young Werists on their way to join Stralg's horde in Florengia. They were more jailors than protectors, of course. Cnurg, flankleader of the center, was Fabia's shadow, and Ern, his counterpart of the rear, kept equally close watch on Horth. The rest were never far away.
They traveled in a convoy of five boats: Blue Ibis, Mora, Redwing, Beloved of Hrada, and Nurtgata. The sixty or so men, women, and children who crewed these vessels lived in complicated, ever-changing relationships never explained to passengers. New faces might appear overnight and others vanish. People changed vessels from day to day, just for variety in company, and Fabia was certain they exchanged sleeping partners as readily—argument and bad feeling would build toward explosion and then suddenly vanish, leaving new smiling pairings and new scowls of jealousy.
With so many people striking camp, attending to toilet, and snacking on leftovers from the evening meal, the dawn departure was predictable confusion. She found herself a safe haven between a smoldering fire and a heap of bales and there, where she would not likely be stepped on, hunkered down to chew a crust and shiver herself properly awake. She laid her free hand on the cold earth of the levee and registered the power of the Old One.
Perag was strutting around, being objectionable. The huntleader was a foulmouthed bully, detested even by his own men. No doubt Fabia's nightmare of him murdering Paola had been sent by the Dark One, but the Mother of Lies had not lied in that instance, because a Witness had now confirmed his guilt It was time to bring the murderer to justice, lest he vanish out of Fabia's reach when they reached Kosord. Ever since Yormoth she had been requesting and receiving instruction from the Dark One and now she had dreamed everything she needed.
Saltaja had not yet emerged from her pavilion. There was time, but it must be done before they left land and Fabia lost contact with the Mother.
First Fabia must create a darkness to shield herself from notice. Dearest mistress, You must sometimes cloak Your children and obscure the sight of others. Do so now, I pray You, and protect Your servant. Thinking veil, she wove strands of obscurity around herself. This was her newest skill, but she felt confident that she was using it correctly. The sparkle of light on the river dimmed, and even the chattering voices seemed to fade as if muffled by fog.
Now the hex. She had never seen snow in her life that she could remember, but she had heard tell of it, and in her dreams she had been standing in a field of malice like black snow. Gathering up a handful, she began smalclass="underline" One for spitefulness and maltreating the men you command. Then she squeezed a second handful into the first to make a black snowbalclass="underline" Two for disrupting my dedication party. Three for forcing your foul kisses on me that day. And so on. For twice abducting and humiliating Horth Wigson. Finally much larger handfuls for the despicable assault on Paola Apicella. By then Fabia had amassed a seething mass of hatred. It felt adequate, but if nothing happened in a few days, she could try a stronger hex. By blood and birth; death and the cold earth, she mentally threw the malice at Perag. There were no visible results at all, which was as it should be. She dissolved her veils of darkness.
Saltaja had emerged with Guitha and her tent was already being dismantled. It was time to embark. All that Fabia had left to do to complete her hex was the lie: Instruct them, my lady, that if I were truly one of Your Chosen, I would not dare strike at him so blatantly in front of another chthonian who is my foe and has vastly greater experience and knowledge of Your ways. Convince them all that Perag's misfortunes must be pure chance, a sending from holy Cienu, and nothing to do with me. Amen.
♦
The passengers followed the riverfolk custom of shifting from boat to boat, and that morning Fabia scrambled down the bank to embark in Ibis, closely followed by Cnurg and another eight Werists, mostly from right flank. Generally the riverfolk kept to the stern, leaving the area between the two masts for baggage and cargo, reserving the bow and its seating for passengers. She took her favorite place at the end of the starboard shelf, where she could lean back against the side and watch what the sailors were up to. Cnurg sat close to her, inevitably. Most of the Werists shunned the benches and perched on various barrels and crates they had collected. Two remained standing as punishment for some minor offense, their haggard expressions suggesting that they had been on their feet most of the night. The last to board were Perag and Saltaja, who took the bench opposite. Fabia smiled a welcome, mentally consigning the day to a dunghill.
"Twelve blessings on you, my lady. And on you, Packleader."
Saltaja inclined her head in imperious acknowledgment. However evil, she was at least courteous. The Werist just scowled at the mockery. Although he now commanded only a pack of four flanks, he still wore a huntleader's green sash; everyone but Fabia still granted him his former rank.
The moment the lines were cast off, the riverfolk began squabbling. Fabia watched with amusement, unable to understand their curious twanging speech, but reading their gestures and emotions easily enough. Evidently some of the male sailors had been helping Nymphs worship Eriander in the night, so the women were threatening to start offering favors to Werists. The brighter Werists caught on and called out promises of cooperation until Perag barked at them to stay out of it. The argument spread wider when Hrada came near enough for shouted exchanges.
The Wrogg was not as huge here as it had been at Yormoth, and boats swarmed on it like midges, tacking back and forth in complex dance. The vessels were long, lean, and open, offering no shade from a sun much fiercer than Skjar ever knew.
Fabia's childhood ambition to explore all Vigaelia now lay in ruins. So far she had found travel hideously boring. Although many towns and villages lay along the great river, all she ever saw from the boats were the levees, for they were high enough to cut off her view of anything else. The coastal ranges had dwindled until they were lost behind the wall of the world. Some days she managed to organize sing-alongs or, rarely, conversations that did not consist entirely of Werists bragging about their toughness, but neither was ever possible when sourpuss Perag was present.