"They're sayin' it's our fault," the apprentice said when the fire had been banked for the night and the stew was bubbling on the fire-grate. "They say it's him," the youth elaborated, glancing fearfully at Arton's borrowed cradle.
"It's the time for storms, nothing more. They forget every year," Dubro replied, digging his fingers into the boy's shoulders.
The apprentice ate his meal in silence, more frightened of the smith's infrequent anger than of the unnaturalness of the child, but he laid his pallet as far from the cradle as possible and invoked the protection of every god he could remember before turning his face to the wall for the night. Illyra took no notice of him. Her attention fell only on Arton and the honey-gruel she hoped he would swallow. Dubro sat frowning in his chair until the lad had begun to snore gently.
A single gust of wind churned through the Bazaar, then, with no greater warning, the rain thundered against the walls and shutters. Illyra blew out her candle and stared past the cradle.
"Tears again?" Dubro asked. She nodded as her own tears began to fall. '"Lyra, the lad's right: people gather by Blind Jakob's wagon and stare at the forge with fear in their eyes. They do not understand-and I do not understand. I have never questioned your comings and goings; the cards or your Sight, but 'Lyra, we must do something quickly or the town itself will rise against us. What has happened to our son?"
The huge man had not moved, nor had his voice lost its measured softness, but Illyra looked at him in white-eyed fear. She searched her mind for the right words and, finding none, stumbled across the room to collapse into his lap. The Sight had revealed terrible things, but none hurt her as much as the weariness in her husband's face. She told him everything that had happened, as the suvesh told their tales to her.
"I will go into the city tomorrow," Dubro decided when he had heard about Zip's altar, Molin's god-child, and the Stormgod's demise. "There is an armorer who will pay good gold for this forge. We will leave this place tomorrow- forever."
Another gust of wind whipped through the awning and, beyond that, the sound of a wall, somewhere, crashing down. Dubro held her tightly until she cried herself to sleep. The little oil lamp beside him guttered out before the squall had abated and the household tried to sleep.
Illyra did not know if she'd heard the crash under the awning or if she only awoke because Dubro had heard it, had shoved her aside, and was already wading into the storm and mud. By the time she lit a candle from a coal in the cooking fire, Dubro had retrieved the young man whose visit'had precipitated all their misfortune.
'Thinking to steal, lad?" Dubro growled, lifting the sewer-snipe by the neck for emphasis.
Mustering his courage. Zip twisted his leg for a kick where it would hurt the smith most and found himself thrown face-first onto the rough-wood floor for his unsuccessful effort.
"What did you want? Your gold coin?" Illyra interceded, grabbing her shawl and twirling it modestly around her as she rummaged through her boxes. "I've kept it for you." She found the coin and threw it onto the floor by his face. "Be thankful and begone," she warned him.
Zip grabbed the coin and scrabbled to his knees. "You stole Him. You cursed me and kept Him for yourself. His eyes were fire when I called Him back to me. He doesn't need me anymore!" The young man's face was torn and bloody, but the edge of hysteria in his voice came from something deeper than physical pain. "This is not enough! I need Him back." He cast the coin aside and produced a knife from somewhere around his waist.
Maniacal rage was not unknown to Illyra who had, more than once, said the wrong words to a distraught querent, but then she had been behind a solid wood table with a knife of her own. Zip lunged at her before she or Dubro comprehended the danger. The blade bit deep into her shoulder before Dubro could move.
"He'll take me back with this," Zip said in triumph from the doorway, brandishing his bloody knife before disappearing into the storm.
Zip's knife had left a small, deep wound that did not, to Dubro's eye, bleed heavily enough. They would need poultices and herbs to keep the cut from going to poison, and that would have meant Moonflower, if she'd been alive. Without Moonflower they had only their instincts to guide them until morning. Caring for Illyra was more urgent than chasing Zip. The frightened apprentice was sent to the well for clean water while Dubro carried his Illyra to their bed.
The apprentice had just set the water on the fire-grate when the doyen of the S'danzo in Sanctuary darkened the doorway. Tall, raw-boned, and bitter, she was not the e.ldest of the amoushem, the scrying-women, nor certainly the most far Sighted, but she was the most feared. Her word had prohibited Moonflower from bringing the abandoned, orphaned Illyra into her home. S'danzo and suvesh alike knew her as the Termagant and even Dubro shrank back when she made the hand-sign against evil and entered the room.
Illyra pushed herself up from the pillows. "Go away. I don't want your help."
With a loud, disdainful sniff the Termagant turned away from Illyra and plucked at the blankets in Arton's cradle. "You've brought us all to the edge of death, and only you can bring us back-only you. You See the gods, but do you ever close your eyes to look around you? No. Even Rezel-and your mother's Sight was better than your half-blood will ever be-knew better than this. Suvesh pray and meddle with magic, but they are Sightless creatures and no one notices them. When a S'danzo woman opens her eyes... Even the mightiest of gods don't have the Sight, Illyra; remember that."
The crone looked away, unwilling to say more. Illyra slumped back against the pillows, her rage and fear dampened by doubt. Rezel had never troubled to tell her toddling daughter about the S'danzo ways. Moonflower had tried, but with the Termagant herself threatening and cursing from the shadows, Illyra had learned dangerously little about the people whose gifts she used.
"I have not sought gods or gyskourem," she whispered in her own defense. "They found me."
"There're demon ships sailing the harbor; black beasts rampaging through the Maze, and the wretched storms besides. The suvesh are making themselves a war god, Illyra, and the gyskourem they draw to Sanctuary will stop at nothing to become that god. It is not the time for S'danzo to be using cards and Sight for them."
"I have not used the Sight for them. I have not had the Sight since just after my son was touched..." She would have continued, but the herbal infusion had begun to steam and the Termagant moved swiftly to make a poultice with it that took Illyra's breath away when it rested against her shoulder.
"Fool, you cursed the suvesh, not the gyskourem that drove him," the crone whispered now that Illyra alone could hear her. She glanced at Arton's cradle, her disdain replaced by naked concern. "Does he have the Sight?"
Illyra would have laughed, had it been possible. Men did not inherit the Sight, and girl-children did not know if they possessed it until well after Lillis and Arton's age.
The Termagant noticed Illyra's half-smile. "S'danzo men do not have the Sight. Who is to say what he might have. You care little enough for the S'danzo-and, maybe I did wrong to mis-See danger in you, to try to keep you and the S'danzo separate. Know this then: it has been many generations since a new god was made from the gyskourem, and never have they taken the place of so powerful a god as Vashanka. But if gyskourem are to become a god, they must first be drawn by need and sacrifice; then they must become Gyskouras-become one with a chosen mortal. It will be so, even with the new Vashanka.
"They have chosen your son as Gyskouras. Through him they have Blinded you. Gods have never been a threat to us but this one, this Gyskouras-who was your son will have the Sight, and will be invincible."
"But the Gyskouras will be Molin Torchholder's child in the temple...."
"Many men hope and sacrifice, Illyra, but there can only be one Gyskouras. It is not yet decided. One child or the other must die before the Gyskouras can emerge to be among men before becoming a god. You have loved your son. If you can't free him from the gyskourem web, then kill him before it is too late for us all S'danzo and suvesh."
<
br /> She pressed the clothes against the wound and, knowing that their sting would keep the young woman speechless for some time longer, turned to her husband. "You must avenge her," she said to Dubro as she began the first of four silken stitches which would hold the wound shut. "You may wait until she recovers or dies, or you can kill him outright for the insult to all the S'danzo. She will pay, but so must the suvesh who did this to her. None of us who use the cards are safe if this is unavenged."
Dubro shook his head. "If I had caught him before he left, he would be dead, but I cannot hunt a man to the death, old woman. I will send word to the town garrison. They'll be glad enough of a reason..."
"No." Illyra struggled to sit up. "No, let him go. Let him have my blood on his altar. If it will free Alton, it's small enough price. Let him be the Gyskouras of the new Stormgod."
"He attacked a S'danzo seer; his destiny is not for gods or gyskourem to decide. The S'danzo have no gods to protect them-only vengeance!" The woman raised her hand over Illyra's face and found it caught there in Dubro's bone-crushing fist.
"She is but half-S'danzo, old woman. You and the rest cast her out before. If she does not want vengeance, then you shall not give it to her." Dubro released the old woman and shoved her through the door into the abating storm. He frowned as he wiped the tears from his wife's cheek.
"Shall I go to the barracks?" the apprentice asked into
the silence.
"Not yet. We'll wait and see what happens." Illyra slipped into sleep, but Dubro sat, staring, in his chair. At dawn he awoke his wife and told her his intentions had not changed. He would sell his forge to the armorer and quietly buy a wagon. They would be gone from Sanctuary by sundown. His wife did not argue and pretended to go back to sleep. The Termagant's medicine had done its work well; the wound was cool to the touch. Once Dubro had left, she was able to dress herself, invent chores for the apprentice, and sit on the bench beside the forge to wait anxiously for her husband's return while Lillis played in the dust at her feet.
She was dozing, almost oblivious to the ache in her shoulder and the clamor of the mid-moming bazaar around her, when a heavy shadow fell over the forge. The storms came this way: darkness, then wind and rain. Pushing herself to her feet, she told the apprentice to tie the wooden shutters closed before even looking up at the sky. The Bazaar became deathly quiet as Illyra, and everyone else, looked at the cloudless sky. Nothing could be heard but the frantic calling of great flocks of birds seeking shelter. Evening stars appeared on the horizon, then the white-gold disk of the sun could be seen in the sky-with a black disk sliding over it. Someone nearby shouted that the sun itself was being devoured. The Bazaar, and the city beyond it, which had endured more of natural and unnatural disaster in the past weeks than it cared to remember, succumbed to widespread panic.
Illyra clutched the children to her and sat transfixed as the sun shrank to a glistening crescent of light. Then, just as it seemed it would vanish forever, a halo of white fire appeared around the black sun. It was too much-in a single unfeeling movement she dragged Lillis and the apprentice inside, where they cowered on the floor beyond Alton's cradle. The darkness became a storm that swept water and mud through the open doorway. Gusts of wind lifted the awning, beat it against the stones of the forge, then bore it away. Lillis and the apprentice whimpered in tenor while Illyra tried to set an example of courage she did not feel.
The storm had begun to die down when Illyra realized her son was crying aloud. Letting the apprentice hold onto Lillis, she crawled to the cradle and looked into it. Alton had thrown off his blankets and wailed mightily, but his tears were as dark as the storm itself. She gathered him into her arms and was assaulted by something which was not Sight and yet which showed her the ravening gyskourem, fueled by the ambitions and sacrifices of men like Zip, pushing aside Alton's mortal spirit, making him and themselves together into the Gyskouras of the new Stormgod. There was Sight as well, or at least empathy. She felt her son's terror and knew that in mercy and love she should take his life before the gyskourem did, but there was something beyond that: a glimmer of hope and sacrifice that might yet succeed. Ignoring the pleas and screams of the apprentice, she wound her shawl around herself and Arton and went through the doorway into the storm.
The wind carried more smoke than rain as Illyra made her way through the overturned carts and stalls. Damage and injury were everywhere, but in the chaos no one had the time to notice a lone woman picking her way carefully toward the gates with a bundle in her arms. Fewer dwellings had been leveled in the town, but great plumes of smoke were rising in some quarters. Gangs ran through the streets, some to rescue, while others went to wrest fortune from the misfortunes of their peers. Illyra thought of Dubro, somewhere in the tangle of streets himself, but she had no time to search for him as she continued on her way to the palace.
It was not like the last time she had made her way boldly through the streets of Sanctuary. Her path was not etched in the silver clarity of Sight, and she could not have confronted the palace guards with the Sight of their destinies. But the palace, well-lit by lightning from the storm, was the largest building in Sanctuary, and the guards, busy consoling aristocrats and arresting looters, had better things to do.
Within the palace walls Illyra moved with the frantic courtiers, searching for something she could not name. Her shoulder throbbed from the strain of carrying Arton. The sense that was not quite Sight led her to a half-enclosed cloister. There, sheltered from the wind, rain, and casual glances of the palace residents, she crumpled into a comer. Tears were flowing down her cheeks when exhaustion mercifully closed her eyes and sent her to sleep.
"Barbarians!"
Illyra awoke to the echo of a shrill yell. The storm had passed, leaving in its wake brilliant blue skies and only a faint trace of smoke in the air. Her shelter had become the scene of a private quarrel between a pair she could see quite well but who could not, thanks to the patterns of bright sun and contrasting shadows, see into her comer. It was just as well: the woman was Beysib by her accent, though she seemed dressed in a modest Rankan gown, and the man was Prince Kadakithis himself. Illyra clutched Arton tightly to her, almost glad that he was once again motionless and silent.
"Barbarians! Did we not open our court while the storm still raged to hear their complaints? Did we not personally assure them that the sun has vanished before and always returns? And that the storms, whatever exactly is causing them, have nothing to do with the sun? Haven't we let them move their filthy belongings into the very courtyard of this palace?
"And did I not drape myself in great wads of cloth and pile my hair on top of my head so that they might think of me as their proper Empress?"
Illyra gulped as Kittycat shook his head. "Shu-sea, I fear you misunderstood my lord Molin."
The Beysa Shupansea, Avatar of Mother Bey and Absolute, if currently exiled. Empress of the Ancient Beysib Empire, turned her imperial back on the Prince; and Illyra, despite her awe and fear, was inclined to agree with his judgment. True, her hair and dress were Rankan-aristocrat beyond reproach, but she had painted her face with Beysib cosmetics, and the translucent, shimmering green from hairline to neckline only emphasized her Beysibness.
"Your high priest makes entirely too many points," Shupansea complained, tossing her head. A curl sprang free from her elaborate coiffure, then another, then, with a flash of rich emerald, a snake eased down her neck and under the shoulder of her dress. Sighing, the Beysa tried to entice the serpent onto her forearm.
"His point, Shu-sea, was simply that as long as the towns-folk of Sanctuary think of the Beysin and, most especially, of you, as invaders, as people totally unlike themselves ... well, it makes a sort of unity among them that never really was there before. All their violence is being directed at your people rather than at each other," the Prince explained. He reached out to touch the Beysa, but the emerald snake hissed at him. He pulled back his hand and sucked briefly on his fingertips.
Shupanse
a let the snake slide into a flowering bush. "Molin this... Molin that. You and he talk as if you love these barbarians. Ki-thus, they don't love you and your relatives any more than they love me and mine. Your own Imperial Throne has been usurped, and the agents of the very man who sits on it in your place are sulking through the alleys of this horrible little city. No, Ki-thus, the time has come not to show them how benevolent we are-but how merciless. They have pushed us to the very edge. They won't push us any farther."
"But, Shu-sea," the Prince said, taking her hands in his own now that the snake was gone. "That is precisely what Molin has been trying to tell you. We have been pushed to the very edge; we weren't very far from it to begin with. Your Burek clan is here in exile-hoping Divine Mother Bey will finish off your usurping cousin. I don't even have that hope. All we have is Sanctuary-but we have to convince Sanctuary that there's some reason to have us. Talk to your storyteller if you won't listen to me or Molin. Every day that passes-every storm, every murder, every broken flowerpot-just makes it that much harder for us."
The Beysa leaned on the Prince's shoulder, and for a moment both were silent. Their lives, the minutiae of survival for a prince or empress, were beyond Illyra's comprehension, but not the weariness in the Beysa's shoulder; she had felt that herself. Or the anxiety in the Prince's face- the look of a man who knows he is not quite up to the tasks he knows he must perform; that look crossed the face of everyone sooner or later.
The sudden empathy freed her Sight from whatever had held it in bondage just as the Beysa wrested free of the Prince.
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