Eleal began to shiver uncontrollably. She could not tell whether that was from the change of temperature or from nervous reaction, but she felt in danger of falling apart.
"Hot soup!” the woman proclaimed as if invoking a major god. Granting the range fire a few moments’ mercy, she knelt to bundle her visitor's feet in her own still-warm fleece coat.
Eleal forced her reply through chattering teeth. “That would be wonderful, thank you."
"Vegetable or chicken broth?"
"No chicken please!"
"I'm Gim's mother, Embiliina Sculptor, and you must be Eleal Singer."
"Yes, but how—"
"Explanations later!” Embiliina insisted. She was much less bulky without her coat and hood. In fact, she was slim and surprisingly youthful to be mother of a boy as old as Gim. Her features were fine-drawn, her complexion pale and speckled with millions of tiny fair freckles. Her hair was a spun red-gold, hanging in big loose curls to her shoulders. She wore a quality dress of the same blue shade as her eyes. She wore a smile.
T'lin Dragontrader strode in, filling the room, black turban almost touching the ceiling. His weather-beaten face and coppery beard seemed vulgar and barbaric alongside Embiliina's more delicate red-gold coloring. He began to peel off outer garments, scowling at nothing with a taut, grim expression. When he stepped closer to warm his fingers at the range, he was still avoiding Eleal's eye.
And the door closed behind the man who must be Gim's father. He was of middle height and husky, although he looked small alongside the dragon trader. He clasped Eleal's icy hand in one twice as large and rough as a rasp, studying her with solemn coal black eyes. He was as swarthy as his wife was fair.
"I am Kollwin Sculptor."
"Eleal Singer."
He nodded. “You are younger than I imagined. If you did what I think you did, then you're a brave lass.” He spoke with great deliberation, as if reading his words.
"I d-d-didn't have time to think! The honor is G-g-gim's."
The dark man shook his head. “The honor is the god's. Gim has gone to thank him for a safe return. When you are ready, you will wish to visit him also?"
"Of course! At once.” Eleal stood up shakily.
"Later!” Embiliina said, clattering pots. “The child's half-froze to death and the soup—"
Eleal had almost resumed her seat when the sculptor said, “First things first.” His voice was slow, but not to be argued with. “You will promise not to discuss or reveal the place I am about to take you?"
That settled Eleal's indecision—her curiosity reared like a startled dragon. “Of course! I swear I never shall,” she said eagerly.
The sculptor nodded and turned to T'lin. “Dragontrader?"
But T'lin had found himself a chair and spread out his long legs. He was a startling, many-colored sight in variegated leggings and a doublet of embroidered quilting. He was also a figure of menace. His long sword in its green scabbard lay by his feet, he still wore his black turban. He shook his head. “Secrets make me nervous. They are more often evil than good."
Kollwin's ruddy face seemed to bunch up with shock at the refusal. “It is no great secret, a shrine to Tion. Just ... private."
T'lin's green eyes stared back coldly. “Then why require oaths of secrecy?"
"Because there are valuables there and I do not want them talked around. Not everyone is above stealing from a god."
"Gods can afford the loss better than us poor workers. No, I shall give thanks in my own fashion later."
Kollwin scratched a dark-stubbled cheek in contemplation. “Has that ring in your ear some special significance, Dragontrader?"
T'lin drooped his red eyebrows menacingly. “If it has, then it did not deter your god when he needed my assistance."
The sculptor thought for a moment and seemed to accept the reasoning, although he was not pleased. “Come then, Eleal Singer."
"Just a moment!” Embiliina barred the way like an enraged deity. “You are not to drag that poor child outside again on a night like this in her bare feet."
There was a minor delay while Eleal donned her hostess's boots and fleece coat, all much too large for her. There was another minor delay when Kollwin tried to go out and came face-to-face with a dragon. Starlight, being as nosy as any of his kind, had wriggled forward to see what was going on and his head filled the doorway.
"Try opening the drape,” T'lin said drily from his chair. “And close the door before he tries to come in."
That worked. The great head swung over to peer in the window, and then the sculptor was able to squeeze out past the scaly shoulder, followed by Eleal, stepping over claws like sickles.
Ysh's tiny disk shed her cold blue light through a gap in the clouds, sparkling like frost on the dragon's scales. Carrying a lantern, Kollwin Sculptor led Eleal all around the dragon to reach a small shed against the wall of the yard. The door was open, but she noticed that the timber was thick and it bore at least three locks. If that was merely “private,” then what was “secret” like? The inside was cluttered with all the litter she might have expected: tools and balks of wood and oddly shaped scraps of stone or metal. More interesting than those was the trapdoor in the floor, and a staircase descending.
The sculptor went first, lighting the way. “This is very old.” His voice echoed up eerily. “There was probably a temple here, once upon a time."
And now there was a shrine. The room was small and low, more like an oddly shaped volume of shadow than a chamber, a bricked-off portion of an ancient cellar. Where the walls were visible, some parts were of very rough, crude masonry, others had been cut out of living rock. The only light came from a pair of braziers standing on a rug, thick and richly colored and oddly out of place. Those were the only furniture. The air was chill and yet headily scented with incense.
Beyond the rug was an alcove, and in the alcove stood the god.
Gim knelt on stone in the center of the chamber, but he must have concluded his devotions, because he scrambled to his feet and turned to smile a welcome as the newcomers approached. It was the first time Eleal had really seen him. He was still bulky as a bear in his coat, but he had removed his hat, revealing a floppy tangle of gold curls, and his eyes were as blue as his mother's. His lip bore a faint pink fuzz, which he probably thought of as a mustache. Politely disregarding that, she concluded that her rescuer could be considered a very handsome young man—how appropriate! She returned his smile. Only then did she look at the god.
The image had not been set in the alcove. Rather, the mottled yellow stone of the cave had been dug out to leave Tion in high relief, exquisitely carved. He was life-size, identifiable by a beardless face and by the pipes he held. The Youth was most often depicted nude, but here he wore a narrow scarf around his loins—an impractical garment that would rapidly fall off any mortal. He was striding forward out of the rock, one foot on the floor and the other still buried in the wall. He held his head slightly bent and turned, as if he were about to put the pipes to his lips or had just finished playing, while his eyes looked out at the visitors with a curiously enigmatic smile. As the creeping flames of the braziers danced, reflections moved on his limbs, his shadow fidgeted on the back of the hollow. He almost seemed to breathe.
"He's gorgeous!” Eleal whispered. “You made him yourself, Sculptor? Oh, he is beautiful!” Then she took a longer look at that perfect face and swung around to stare down at Gim, who bent his head quickly.