Bridge of the Separator

VI

Rhavas and Ingegerd rode up to the town of Tzamandos on two of the plainsmen's ponies. They led the other two. Neither of them was much of an equestrian, but they both saw they could travel faster mounted than afoot. They carried the barbarians' bows and arrows, and they wore wolfskin caps that kept their heads warmer than anything they'd had before.

"Phos spoke through you, very holy sir," Ingegerd said as they neared Tzamandos. "What else could it have been?"

The prelate didn't answer. His own thoughts were all awhirl. He had not believed his curse had anything to do with Toxaras' death. He'd figured that for nothing but an unfortunate coincidence. He had not thought the earthquake that leveled Skopentzana sprang from his curse of the Khamorth, either. How could any man imagine he might command an earthquake?

But what had just happened, out there in the snow-covered field . . . How could he ignore that? How could he claim it had nothing to do with him? He couldn't, and knew it all too well.

How could he believe Phos had had anything to do with it? He couldn't, and he also knew that all too well. The knowledge terrified him as nothing ever had before.

Phos had been the furthest thing from his mind when he called down the curse on the Khamorth. It hadn't been a prayer. Prayer hadn't had the first thing to do with it. That curse had been a cry of outrage, a cry of hate, wrung from the very depths of his being.

He'd done a lot of praying. What had it got him? An Empire riven by civil war, a city fallen to the savages, disaster almost beyond reckoning. If the lord with the great and good mind heard his prayers at all, he had an odd way of showing it.

His curses, on the other hand, struck home. He didn't care to think about what that might mean.

And, to his vast relief, he didn't have to. "Who comes?" shouted a man on the wall. "If you're as barbarous as you look, you'd better steer clear. We're still ready to put up a fight, by the good god."

Taking off the wolfskin cap, Rhavas called out his own name and station. He continued, "With me is Ingegerd, wife to Himerios, garrison commander of Skopentzana. If you have refugees from our city within the walls, they will vouch for us."

"No need," the man said. "You speak Videssian like a native, and I see your head was shaved. Come in and be welcome, holy sir—uh, very holy sir—and the woman with you as well."

Was shaved? Rhavas set a hand on top of the organ in question. Sure enough, he felt stubble there. He shook his head in bemusement. He'd kept his scalp smooth since taking the vows of priesthood. But he'd had no chance to shave it the past few days. One more thing to tend to, he thought.

With much creaking of hinges that needed oiling, Tzamandos' gates swung open. Rhavas and Ingegerd rode into the town. The militiamen closed the gates behind them. The amateur soldiers were full of questions: "How bad is it in Skopentzana?" "Did the barbarians really break in?" "How could they take such a strong city?" "What did the earthquake do up there?" "Do you people aim to stay here?" "Where will you go if you don't?"

Rhavas answered as best he could. Ingegerd seemed content to let him do the talking, maybe because he had more rank than she did, maybe because Videssian was his birthspeech and not hers, or maybe just because—like a lot of Halogai—she thought Videssians liked to talk for the fun of it.

The locals exclaimed in horror when they heard how Skopentzana had fallen. "Some folk who got here ahead of you said the same," one of the militiamen said gloomily, "but we didn't want to believe 'em. Now I guess we have to."

"We've got farmers and their kin in here, too," another added. "Don't like to think we've got to keep a special eye on 'em."

You probably don't, Rhavas thought. Up in Skopentzana, the refugees and the militia had become foes from the start. If that hadn't happened in Tzamandos, the militiamen didn't need to fear that the farmers would prefer the barbarians to them.

He spoke as little as he could of the earthquake. Especially now, he didn't know what to say. To fend off the locals' questions, he asked questions of his own. "It shook us hard," a militiaman answered. "Shook some buildings down, killed some people. But we didn't have bad fires the way we could have, and the walls stayed up, Phos be praised." He drew the sun-circle above his breast.

So did Rhavas, though his head still whirled. How much had Phos had to do with the earthquake? Any more than with any other part of Rhavas' curses? If Phos hadn't given those curses the power to bite, who had? The prelate shied from that like a horse shying from a snake.

No sooner had he thought of horses than one of the locals asked, "How did you come by the Khamorth ponies, very holy sir?"

It was only natural that he should ask. Perhaps the biggest surprise was that the militiamen had had so many other questions ahead of that one. Rhavas coughed. He had no good answer. Then Ingegerd spoke up: "The prelate killed the barbarians to whom they belonged. They are ours now, as spoil of war."

Her slow, sonorous speech only made the words seem more impressive. The militiamen eyed Rhavas in a new way. A priest—a not particularly impressive-looking priest—who'd slain four Khamorth? Rhavas thanked the good god she hadn't said how he killed them. That would have taken more in the way of explanation than he had in him.

"Where is an inn that will tend to the garrison commander's wife?" he asked. "I can beg shelter at a temple, of course, but she may not."

"We're pretty full up, but we'll see what we can do," a militiaman said. "Since she came with you, though, I expect we'll manage."

"I thank you for your kindness," Ingegerd said. Her voice, or perhaps her way of speaking, had something in it that commanded attention. The militiamen almost came to blows deciding which inn would be best for her. At last they decided only the one run by Evtherios would do. One of them appointed himself guide, and self-importantly led the way.

Rhavas came along. He asked her, "Now that you have come here, will you stay? It might be safer if you did."

She shook her head. "No. I will seek my husband. And as for safety, I see none anywhere. With Skopentzana fallen, who can doubt that the like mischance might befall Tzamandos, or indeed any town?"

"As I promised Himerios, I will help you if you can." Rhavas hesitated, then added, "Unless you would sooner have seen the last of me. I can understand how that might be so, and you need not say otherwise for politeness' sake."

Ingegerd shook her head again, this time with a smile on her face. "I would not keep silent for politeness' sake; anyone who knows me will know this is so." Rhavas believed her; whatever she was, she was no hypocrite. Hypocrisy was a Videssian vice, not one from which a Haloga was likely to suffer. She went on, "Nothing untoward happened, nor do I look for anything untoward to happen if we travel together."

"Then we will go on when we can," Rhavas said. Right then, he had no idea whether he looked for the same thing. He also suspected that what he thought of as untoward right now might differ from Ingegerd's notions of the same thing. He did not ask. He did not want to know.

"Here we are," the local militiaman said proudly. "Evtherios' inn—the finest in Tzamandos."

No doubt it was. It actually boasted two stories, the lower one of stone, the upper of timber. In Skopentzana, it would have been ordinary. In Videssos the city, it would have been a shocking hovel—Rhavas didn't think any buildings there still had thatched roofs. For a third-rate northern town, though, it wasn't bad.

"Uh . . ." The militiaman hesitated. "You do have money?"

"I do," Ingegerd answered calmly. The man looked relieved. So, no doubt, did Rhavas. He had little of his own. He was not a priest who cared nothing for gold; he scarcely could have been, coming from the family that had given him birth. But when he got the shock of learning the Khamorth were in Skopentzana, he'd thought of escape first and everything else afterward. That might well have saved his life, but was liable to cause some embarrassment now.

"Very holy sir, if you'll come with me, there's a temple around the corner," the militiaman said. "If you and the lady are traveling together, you'll want to stay close by each other."

Rhavas gave him a sharp look. Was he implying . . . ? But no, he wasn't. He plainly accepted the situation for what it was—for what part of Rhavas (and a very specific part, too) wished it weren't. The prelate fought to hide that wish even from himself. He nodded to the local. "My thanks."

The priest who presided over the temple surely wouldn't have said it was the finest even in Tzamandos. The fellow's name was Tribonianos, and he didn't seem to have much to say about anything. He blinked a good deal, and smelled of stale wine. Had Rhavas come to inspect his temple and not to take shelter in it, he would have had some harsh words for the priest. He did have them, but made himself hold them in. It wasn't easy—unlike a lot of Videssians, he usually said what he thought.

"You're a lucky man, very holy sir, to come out of the downfall of Skopentzana alive," Tribonianos said.

"Maybe," Rhavas answered. Standing in front of the fire in the priest's hearth felt wonderful. He almost bathed in the wonderful warmth. But he found he couldn't leave it at the one word. "Had we been truly fortunate, Skopentzana never would have fallen. The foolish feud between militiamen and peasant refugees spelled her doom."

"We?" Tribonianos echoed. "You got out with others, then?"

"With another," Rhavas replied reluctantly. "With the wife of the city's garrison commander, he having been summoned some time since to join in the civil war now wounding the Empire."

He'd hoped that long phrase would distract the other priest from the meat of the sentence. No such luck, though. "You came away from Skopentzana . . . with a woman?" Tribonianos said, raising bushy eyebrows. However unwillingly, Rhavas had to nod. The local priest leered at him. "Then you are a lucky man, very holy sir."

"By the good god, nothing untoward passed between us." Rhavas let some anger come into his voice.

Part of it was anger at himself, for wishing something untoward had passed with Ingegerd. But Tribonianos did not need to know that, and what Rhavas said was true, even if incomplete. He went on, "I would take oath of this at the altar in the High Temple in Videssos the city."

Tribonianos had never been to the capital. He probably couldn't even imagine what it was like. But the High Temple's fame reached all through the Empire of Videssos and beyond. The priest muttered, "Of course, very holy sir," and Rhavas couldn't have proved he meant it sarcastically.

Hot porridge with bits of smoked pork in it was also wonderful, partly because it was hot and partly just because it was food. Rhavas felt emptier than he ever had in his life before. He'd done more, and done it on less, than he'd ever had to do. Even a second helping wasn't enough to make up for all he'd gone through on the way down to Tzamandos—but it helped. So did the wine he drank with the porridge.

Tribonianos offered the prelate his own bed, but Rhavas declined. The priest got him blankets, and he rolled himself up in them by the hearth. A soft mattress did not seem to matter so much as the warmth from the embers.

When he woke the next morning, the embers had gone cold. The floor was still hard. He got to his feet and stretched, feeling elderly. The way his joints and tendons crackled when he did made him feel no younger.

It was time for morning devotions, but Tribonianos was still snoring. Back in Skopentzana, Rhavas would have booted the other priest out of bed to join in them. Here, he hesitated. He still outranked the local, but this was Tribonianos' temple. Rhavas decided to let him sleep.

He went through the devotions himself. The prayers and hymns felt strange in his mouth—almost wrong. Even as he praised Phos, he wondered if the lord with the great and good mind had had anything to do with his curses. None of his prayers had been answered, but the curses . . . The curses had brought down Toxaras, had flattened Skopentzana, had slain the barbarians who were about to attack Ingegerd and him.

What did that mean? It surely meant something; things didn't happen for no reason. But what?

Tribonianos came up to the altar as Rhavas was finishing his prayers. "Do you aim to shame me?" he asked sourly.

"No," Rhavas answered, meaning yes.

The local priest did what ritual required of him. He did it by rote, with no spirit behind it. Had things been otherwise, Rhavas would have had a good deal to say to him about that. But things were as they were, and the prelate, his own thoughts confused, his heart heavy, let the priest get by with what was technically correct and otherwise meaningless. When Tribonianos finished, he eyed Rhavas with what couldn't have been far from hatred. "You're not going to stay here, are you?" he demanded.

"By the good god, no!" Rhavas knew leaving meant putting his life, and Ingegerd's, in danger. But he also realized that Tzamandos, even if the people inside kept breathing, was already dead—if the place had ever been alive.

His vehemence won the first approving glance he'd had from Tribonianos. The local didn't want him here any more than he wanted to be here. "I'll fix us breakfast," Tribonianos said. "Afterward, you can go up on the wall. If you don't see any of the barbarians up there, why then, you're off." Oh, yes. Tribonianos wanted him gone.

Well, I want myself gone, the prelate thought. Breakfast was more of the porridge with bits of salt pork in it. Again, Rhavas ate as if he expected food to be outlawed tomorrow. By Tribonianos' expression, that was just one of the reasons to be glad when he left. Rhavas drank a cup of wine with the meal. Tribonianos drank several. Did he do that all the time? Rhavas wouldn't have been surprised.

After breakfast, Rhavas did go up on Tzamandos' wall and look out. The wall itself was laughable next to that of Videssos the city or even Skopentzana. Besiegers who knew what they were doing would have breached it in short order. But it sufficed to keep the plainsmen out.

Rhavas saw snow and trees and occasional bits of bare ground where the snow had blown away. He saw no Khamorth, and hoped he never did again. When he went back to the temple, he found Ingegerd waiting for him there and Tribonianos staring at her in what looked like a torment of hopeless lust. Rhavas felt an odd mix of sympathy and disgust. It's not as if I don't know how he feels, the prelate thought unhappily.

Ingegerd ignored the hunger on Tribonianos' face. Why not? She ignores mine, too, Rhavas told himself. The Haloga woman said, "A dozen or so now at the inn purpose leaving for points south, and would have us join them. Most are men. Some have weapons, and mayhap a notion of what to do with them. What think you, very holy sir? Are we safer in company or by ourselves?"

"My guess would be in company," Rhavas replied, even if he would rather have been alone with her. "If you think I am wrong, I will listen."

"No." She shook her head. "I think you are right. They plan on leaving later this morning. In the meanwhile, I will buy us what food I can."

"Everything will be repaid you when we come to a richer temple than . . . this," Rhavas promised, not quite able to hide his distaste.

"That is well said, and surely well meant, and all the more surely needless to fret over," Ingegerd said. "We are comrades, you and I, and do what we do as comrades do for each other. I will see you at the inn before long." She dropped a curtsy and left.

"Comrades." Tribonianos spat it.

"That is the truth. Any other words, and any of your wicked thoughts, would be a lie." Rhavas waited to see if Tribonianos would challenge him. The priest didn't, which left Rhavas some little while to contemplate his own wicked thoughts.

Out through Tzamandos' southern gate went the men and women seeking better refuge from the barbarians. Some were Skopentzanans, others Tzamandans who feared their town would not hold. "A good thing we have you with us, very holy sir," said a Skopentzanan who recognized Rhavas. "With the good god listening to your prayers, we'll have nothing to fear from the barbarians."

Rhavas and Ingegerd looked at each other. The prelate knew they were thinking different things. She believed his holiness and his piety were what had let him curse the Khamorth. He wished he could believe that, too. To the expectantly waiting Skopentzanan, he said only, "May it be so."

"Good luck," a militiaman called as they left Tzamandos. "And here's hoping you won't need it."

May that be so, Rhavas thought. The gates of Tzamandos closed behind them with an echoing thud. All at once, out there in the open, Rhavas felt like an ant scurrying across a platter. He had some other ants for company, but how much could they help if danger came? They were only ants, after all.

His hindquarters and inner thighs ached, proof of how unaccustomed to riding he was. He didn't complain; some of the other travelers were slogging along on foot, as he and Ingegerd had been doing till those plainsmen . . . perished. The steppe pony he rode kept looking back at him. It had had a Khamorth in the saddle, a man born to horsemanship; it probably wondered how it had got stuck with such a blunderer.

Horses' hooves and men's boots crunched on snow. Somewhere not far enough in the distance, a carrion crow called harshly. That was the last thing Rhavas wanted to hear. Carrion, these days, too likely came from the Khamorth.

On they went. One of the men from Skopentzana said, "Better this way than with no company. I got out of Skopentzana by myself, and I never thought I'd make it to Tzamandos. Now I figure I've got a real chance, anyway."

That made no logical sense. Rhavas almost pointed it out to him. Plenty of bands of plainsmen were big enough to overwhelm this party of fugitives. And it would draw more eyes than a man traveling alone.

The prelate kept quiet. If the other man needed hope to cling to, he could cling to whatever he wanted. It wouldn't hurt. There was nothing doctrinally wrong with it. If he died having made that kind of mistake, it wouldn't hurt his chances of crossing the Bridge of the Separator.

What of your own curses? Rhavas' shiver had nothing to do with the winter weather. He didn't ignore that, but he didn't take so much notice of it. He had clothes that were warm enough, and he'd eaten well. The chill in his spirit was something else again. No steaming bowl of porridge, no blazing hearth, could drive it out.

All that day, the travelers saw no Khamorth. They stopped for the night in what had been a peasant village. Most of the houses in it had been burned. The ones that still stood were empty. The three women in the traveling party slept in one of them, the men in two more. They chose sentries to take turns watching through the night, a luxury Rhavas and Ingegerd had not enjoyed.

The man who shook the prelate awake sounded apologetic. "Awfully sorry to bother you, very holy sir, but it's your turn," he said.

"It's all right," Rhavas answered around a yawn. He did his best not to disturb the other snoring Videssians as he got up and went outside.

Somewhere, an owl hooted. Somewhere much farther off—fortunately—a wolf howled, and then another and another, till they might have been a distant chorus of demons. Rhavas shuddered; that fit in too well with his own worries. The moon peered through rents in the clouds every now and again, spilling pale light over the dead village and turning shadows to blots of living midnight.

He carried a spear. He wasn't sure how dangerous that made him. The answer, he feared, was not very. But if he could shout an alarm and try to fight back, that would do the others some good. Hurrah, he thought unhappily. Some Videssian clerics—the holy Kveldoulphios, for instance—courted martyrdom as secular men courted beautiful women. But that longing was not in him.

Thinking of Kveldoulphios made Rhavas think of the Halogai, who had slain the convert to Phos' faith although he was of their blood. And thinking of the blond barbarians to the north made Rhavas think of Ingegerd. He reckoned that a great and astonishing coincidence, though the truth was that almost anything would have made him think of Ingegerd just then.

His eye went to the peasant hut where she sheltered with the other two women. As if on cue, the moon came out again and bathed it in cold silver light. Rhavas sighed gustily. Two nights earlier, he'd held her in his arms—oh, not in the way songs sang of, but in his arms nonetheless. And now . . . Now she might as well have been on the far side of the moon.

Padding like a wolf himself to escape the thoughts he carried with him, he prowled through the deserted peasant village. Once something scurrying across the snow made him gasp. But it was only a mouse dashing from one burned-out hut to another. The priest breathed again.

Frightened of a mouse! How Toxaras and Voilas would have laughed! But Toxaras was dead—under my curse, he thought, and shuddered. And if Voilas hadn't died when the Khamorth entered Skopentzana, he likely had when the earth trembled and walls and houses fell. Try as Rhavas would, he couldn't make himself believe he missed either man who'd led Skopentzana's militia.

Something glided by all ghostly overhead. The prelate's heart leaped into his mouth, but it was only an owl, sailing along on silent wings. Too late. The mouse is already hiding again. But there would be others.

The moon disappeared. Darkness came down like a cloak. In Videssos the city and in Skopentzana, lamps and fires would have leaked lights through shutters. Some streets even had torches flaring after the sun went down to hold night at bay. None of that here, nor stars, either. This might have been Skotos' realm come to life on earth.

Rhavas' hand shaped a gesture said to hold the evil god at bay. He did not like the way Skotos kept cropping up in his thoughts. He looked around, not that he could see much. Moving carefully in the gloom, he made his way back toward the houses where his companions sheltered.

He was almost there when yet another aftershock rattled the peasant village. It was a strong one, strong enough to stagger him. Men and women cried out; horses squealed in terror. But unlike the quake that had leveled Skopentzana, this one did not go on and on and on. A few heartbeats and it was done. The animals fell silent. Inside one of the men's huts, somebody said, "That was nasty." A couple of others laughed in agreement.

Another man stuck his head out of the hut and called, "You all right?"

"Well enough," Rhavas answered. The man waved and disappeared again.

Little by little, Rhavas' heart stopped pounding. Aftershocks were wearing. They constantly threatened to turn into great earthquakes, and no one could know they wouldn't till they didn't. The fear was that they would never let up.

A motion from the women's hut. Rhavas' hands tightened on the spearshaft. That was absurd, as he realized a moment later. No danger would come from there—none that a spear could rout, anyhow.

Rhavas recognized Ingegerd even in the darkness. The other two women were short and on the dumpy side; next to them, she was a fir beside spreading oaks. "Are you all right?" the prelate called to her, as the man from the other hut had to him a moment earlier.

Her head swung toward him. He didn't think she'd known he was there. "Is that you, very holy sir?" she asked.

"No one else," he said.

"Then as friend to friend I may freely tell you I am not all right," Ingegerd said. "Whenever the earth shakes, my heart freezes within me. I want to scream. I want to run. And I know none of that would do me the least good in the world. Mine is a warrior folk. I feel shame in owning to such cowardice, but shame at lying would be worse."

"No one is a hero against an earthquake," Rhavas said. "How can any man oppose something so much stronger?"

"I know that." Ingegerd hesitated, then resumed: "How can any man summon something so much stronger?"

"I do not know that I did," Rhavas answered. "And if I did"—something he would not have admitted even to himself before watching four Khamorth slide from their horses and die—"I know not how I did."

The moon came out. It turned her golden hair to shining silver. Her eyes gave back the light almost as if they were a cat's. She took a few steps toward him. "If you were not a very holy man, surely you could not have done it."

His laugh rang harsh as a raven's croak. "If I were as holy as you would make me out to be, you would not have had to pull away from me after we slept under the same blanket."

To his amazement, Ingegerd laughed, too. "Does that still distress you? It bothers me not at all. Even the holiest man is yet a man, with the desires of a man. You did not violate your oath, and you did not seek to violate me. Let it go. It is forgotten."

Maybe by you, he thought. He would not forget the feel of her against him, or of his rising to the occasion, for the rest of his days, however long those might prove. He would not forget the red fury that had fired his curses, either. What did that have to do with holiness? Nothing he could see.

"I think you can safely go back inside again," he said. "If that aftershock did not shake down the hut, none is likely to."

"No doubt you are right. You are a sound and sensible man," Ingegerd said. Rhavas had tried for many years to be exactly that. Never had he so regretted succeeding. She went on, "I tell myself all will be well, but I cannot make myself believe it."

"With all the Empire turned upside down and with the very ground trembling beneath our feet like a beast in pain, hope comes hard," Rhavas replied. "Yet to deny hope is to deny the lord with the great and good mind and to give oneself into Skotos' hands."

"This I will not do, then," Ingegerd said with a sturdy determination alien to most Videssians. She nodded to Rhavas and went back into the hut as if about to slay a dragon inside it. Had a dragon dwelt there instead of a pair of dumpy Videssian women, she would have slain it, too. That Rhavas did not doubt.

And what of me? he wondered. Somehow, he feared dragons less than he feared either Ingegerd or himself.

The party plodded south. Even on a Khamorth pony, Rhavas felt as if he were struggling through mud. He and Ingegerd had to hold their pace to that of those on foot. He did not think any good would come of that. The only thing he could do about it, though, was abandon the dismounted travelers. He didn't want to do that, either.

Three Khamorth looked them over from a long way off, far out of bowshot. The barbarians did not try to attack. Instead, they wheeled their horses and rode off.

"They go to bring back their fellows, very holy sir," Ingegerd said urgently. "You should curse them, that they may not do this."

Rhavas raised his arm toward the retreating Khamorth. After a moment, though, he let it fall. "The power is not in me," he said.

She stared at him. "Why not?"

"I don't know, but I can feel the curse would fail," he answered. She bit her lip but did not push him. That made her a paragon among women, even if he did not realize it. He was lost in thoughts of himself. Why was he so certain any curse he launched now would surely fail to bite?

The only thing that came to him was, I am not angry enough. He had been in a great fury when he cursed Toxaras, when he called the earthquake down on Skopentzana, and when he felled the Khamorth who rode at Ingegerd and him.

Now . . . How could he be passionately furious at men who were riding away? If they came back and attacked, that would be different. He hoped it would, anyhow. For the moment, he had no fire in his belly.

Other Videssians had spied the plainsmen, too. They knew the Khamorth hadn't trotted off because they were going to let the refugees escape. One of the men said, "We'd better find a place we can fight from."

That was easier said than done. The snow-covered ground they were crossing held no farmhouses, no barns, no fences. It was simply . . . ground. A small clump of pines off in the distance offered the only break in the monotony.

Ingegerd pointed toward them. "There we must make our stand, and quickly. If our main hope fails, we can make the best fight we may." By our main hope she meant Rhavas, even if the others did not fully grasp that. Some of them muttered about a foreign woman telling them what to do, but what she said was such obvious truth that they could not mutter long.

"Our trail in the snow will lead the barbarians straight to us," one of the dumpy Videssian women said sorrowfully.

"What difference does it make?" a man replied. "If we don't go there, they'll find us like so many bugs on a plate." That also seemed much too true, and painfully reminded Rhavas of his own thoughts after they left Tzamandos.

They were within about a hundred yards of the trees when someone looked back over his shoulder and said, "We'd better hurry."

Rhavas looked back, too. Strung out across the horizon were Khamorth riders. They came forward at a businesslike trot. Experimentally, he raised his arm again. He still felt no sudden access of power. Rage fueled it, yes, rage and fear—not the emotions he would have thought Phos would put in a man's heart. He was afraid now, and he was angry, but neither emotion bubbled in him the way they both had before. Maybe he'd been through too much, and lost for the moment the ability to feel deeply. Whatever the reason, there would be no curses any time soon.

Ingegerd saw what he did, and what he did not do. "No, very holy sir?" she asked.

"It seems not," Rhavas said.

"Then we shall fight." She sounded unafraid. "If you can, remember the boon I asked of you before and grant it me at the last."

"If I can," Rhavas said. "If I must."

Then the Videssians got in and under the pines. The spicy, resinous smell of them filled Rhavas' nostrils. Some of the men strung bows and nocked arrows. The prelate had no idea how much good that would do, or whether it would do any good at all.

He looked out past the trees. The Khamorth still came on. He searched for rage and fear in himself—searched for what might let him curse them and kill them or drive them off in dismay. Searching, he found . . . not enough. He felt curiously detached, removed from the scene, as if it were happening to someone else. He knew it wasn't, but couldn't make himself believe it.

One of the Videssian men said, "The women ought to get as far away as they can. You, too, very holy sir. Meaning no offense, but you're not going to be much help in the fight."

"I'll stay," Rhavas said, very conscious of Ingegerd's eye on him.

"No, go on," the man said, while his comrades nodded. "I don't fault your spirit, but you've no skill with weapons. Save yourself if you can. Maybe we'll hold out long enough to let you get away. Go on, curse it. The longer you argue, the worse your chances get."

His curse had no power to bite, not the way Rhavas' did—or could. Ears burning in spite of the cold, the prelate turned away. The two Videssian women were already stumbling deeper into the stand of trees. Ingegerd waited. "I will stand beside you, if you like," she said.

"Go on," he told her. "You might be worth more in a fight than I am, if—" He gestured instead of saying if I cannot curse. She nodded. He went on, "Even so, though, they are liable to kill me quickly if they take me alive. They will have their sport with you before they let you die." Sport I wish I had. He fought that thought down.

Not knowing it was in his mind, she took his hands in hers. "Then you come, too. No shame to you that you are not a man of your hands, not when you chose the good god's path rather than the warrior's.

Come. We will save ourselves if we can."

No one else was likely to have persuaded him. Ingegerd he obeyed as if he were a little boy listening to his mother. Behind him, an arrow thudded into a tree trunk—the Khamorth were close enough to have started shooting. A moment later, someone let out a bubbling scream. That arrow had struck flesh, not wood.

It all seemed very far away, very unimportant, to Rhavas. If the barbarians cut him down—well, so what? What was he but a priest shaken in his faith? Wasn't Videssos better off without a man like him?

Shouts and curses in Videssian and in the harsh, guttural Khamorth language erupted behind him. He looked back over his shoulder—and tripped over a snow-buried stone, measuring himself full length on the ground. "Oof!" he said: a singularly undignified noise.

Almost man-strong, Ingegerd hauled him to his feet. "Come on, very holy sir," she panted. "If you are going to flee, you must flee."

"I am—doing my best," Rhavas said.

He kept trying to listen as he stumbled through the snow. He did not look back again, though. He'd learned one lesson. If you are going to flee, you must flee. She is right. The shouts and screams at the edge of the trees were fewer now. What calls there were came mostly in the Khamorth tongue. The Videssians might have sold their lives dear, but not, he feared, dear enough. The barbarians were coming after those who had got away.

Ingegerd could have outdistanced him. He waved for her to do just that. She either did not see him or pretended not to. Boots thumped behind the two of them. Rhavas tried to go faster. He had little luck. The skin on his back tightened, as if that could ward off an arrow or the bite of a sword's honed edge.

He dodged behind a tree—and just in time, for an arrow surely aimed at him slammed into the trunk. He did peer around then, in fearful fascination. Two Khamorth were shouting at a third—the one who had shot. Maybe they'd realized Ingegerd was a woman, and didn't want this fellow to take the chance of killing her right away.

Now they'd seen the prelate from the front, and knew he could be no woman. All three of them smiled very nasty smiles. They could have flanked him out and shot him. Instead, two of them drew their swords and advanced on him. They'd have fun getting rid of him while their friend circled around him and caught Ingegerd. Then they would all have more fun, and then they would kill her.

Rhavas' own fate mattered little to him. That he'd let down the Haloga woman mattered enormously. He pointed at the barbarian who was going after her and screamed, "Curse you! Curse you, curse you, curse you!"

The Khamorth threw up his hands, screamed, and crumpled to the snow, dead before he touched it. The other barbarians stared. So did Rhavas. That he could bring forth such power, wherever it came from, still astonished him.

Howling what had to be curses of their own, the other two Khamorth swung up their swords and rushed toward him. "Curse you!" he shouted at them. His blood was up now, not for his own sake but for Ingegerd's. Their faces twisted in pain. They staggered, groaned, and collapsed. They thrashed in the snow for a little while, then lay as motionless as the first plainsman.

"Very holy sir?" Ingegerd's voice behind Rhavas almost made him scream. He whirled in something not far from panic. "They are dead, very holy sir," Ingegerd said. "They are dead, but others will live yet. We have not escaped. Hurry away, before more Khamorth find the trail."

Her calm good sense restored order to a world that had seemed to be coming apart at the edges. "I come," Rhavas said, and he did.

A couple of minutes later, women's screams rang out from elsewhere among the trees. Some of the barbarians had caught the other two, then. "Can you curse them, as you did the three you slew?" Ingegerd asked.

Rhavas felt of himself, as he might have if he tried to decide whether he had the strength to lift some heavy load. He found that strength wanting, and shook his head.

She sent him a curious look. "How did you do it just now, then?"

"How? Because one of them threatened you," Rhavas said simply.

Ingegerd said nothing to that for some little while. Then, in a voice most carefully neutral, she asked, "And the other two?"

"Aftershocks." In the earthquake-scarred north country, the word came naturally to his lips.

She said something in her sonorous birthspeech. Rhavas made an inquiring sound. She started to answer, then checked herself. "It does not translate well into Videssian. And I think we are making a mistake in fleeing deeper among the trees now."

"What would you rather do?" Rhavas asked.

"Go back for our horses," she said, "and for those the Khamorth will have left behind. We can travel quicker with them, and keep the foe from coming after us."

"If they have not left a guard," Rhavas said.

"If they have, belike you can dispose of him. He will threaten both of us, after all." Ingegerd thought for another moment, then nodded to herself. "It is the best plan we have, anyhow." Rhavas did not contradict her. She went on, "If it works, we win much. Let us try it."

They hurried back toward the edge of the trees. The screams in the little wood went on and on. Rhavas wondered how Phos' might could be consistent with such evil, and with the good god's inevitable triumph. Maybe Skotos was stronger than Videssian theologians imagined. He shook his head. He could not, would not, believe that.

He and Ingegerd came around the bole of a tree as thick as he was tall. Behind it lay the body of one of the Videssians with whom they'd been traveling. Of itself, Rhavas' hand shaped the sun-sign. The man's blood stained the clean white snow. Half his face had been hacked away. He must have been one of the archers who'd shot at the plainsmen, for they'd pulled down his drawers and thrust an arrow up his . . . Rhavas dared hope he was already dead when they did that.

Ingegerd said, "May he safely cross the Bridge of the Separator. Those who did this to him will surely suffer forever in Skotos' ice."

"Yes," Rhavas said, wondering how she, who'd been born outside the Empire's beliefs, had more faith than he did. He made himself add, "We had better go on." She nodded, her mouth a thin, pale slash that both admitted and defied what she had seen.

They passed other bodies and more scarlet splashes and streams on the snow. The barbarians hadn't just slain; they seemed to have cut and slashed for the sport of it. One dead Videssian was gutted like a boar brought down in the hunt, his entrails not only spilled out onto the snow but then chopped to bits. Rhavas' stomach lurched. The man couldn't have lived long while that was going on . . . could he?

And this was surely not the only such slaughter the Khamorth had worked. Wherever they caught Videssians, they must have amused themselves this way. If nothing else, the practiced skill of the atrocity proved as much. They must also have been working such evils on one another out on the Pardrayan steppe for centuries uncounted.

How? Rhavas wondered. How could the lord with the great and good mind have tolerated wickedness, viciousness, on such a scale for so long? The prelate wondered whether any Videssian theologian had ever seriously addressed the question—and, if so, what answer he had found. With the sour taste of nausea in the back of his mouth, Rhavas saw one ominous and obvious possibility: that Skotos really was stronger than the theologians living comfortably in Videssos the city, the richest and grandest city in the world—or even in Skopentzana—had imagined or could imagine.

If priests who speculated learnedly on Phos' sacred scriptures saw how things could be in the real world—well, then what? Would the real world matter to men consumed with the spirit and the world to come?

It mattered desperately to Rhavas right now, if he wanted to go on living in it. "We're getting close," he said in a low voice.

"I know," Ingegerd answered, even more quietly. "Can you see? Have the savages left a sentry behind?"

"I don't know. . . . Wait." Had that been movement behind a tree? It had—no doubt about it. "Yes. There is one."

"Curse him, very holy sir. If you have Phos' holy power in you, curse him."

Rhavas had no true notion of what sort of power lay within him, or from whom it sprang. Before, when he'd tried to bring it out without great stress, he'd always failed. Could he turn it into a weapon as reliable as bow or spear? He pointed toward the plainsman. "Curse you," he said, wondering what would happen next.

The Khamorth fell in the snow, face first.

Ingegerd seized Rhavas' arm and squealed like an excited little girl. "You did it, very holy sir! By the good god, you did it!"

"So I did," Rhavas said, still more surprised than not. He was not sure—he was far from sure—he'd done it through Phos' power, but at the moment he wasn't inclined to be fussy, either. He'd cursed the plainsman, and the plainsman was dead. What else mattered? Nothing he could see. Roughly, he went on, "Let's get the horses, and let's get out of here."

"That is good advice," Ingegerd agreed, still looking at him as if she thought he was the most wonderful thing in the world. Seeing that awe on her face made Rhavas feel twice as tall, twice as wide, and eight times as strong as he really was.

They quickly hitched the horses together, then mounted the ones they had been riding. All the Khamorth ponies followed without any trouble; they were used to being led in long strings. Rhavas said, "I hope the rest of the nomads are properly surprised when they come back and find their mounts gone."

"I think they will be," Ingegerd said warmly, and then, "Maybe you ought to curse the whole wood."

He thought about it. He aimed his arm as he might have aimed an arrow. Then he shook his head. "Whatever may be in me, that is not."

"Too bad," Ingegerd said. "The Khamorth within deserve whatever may befall them."

"I can only do what I can do," Rhavas said. "I did not know I could fell that one man until I tried."

"I do not blame you," Ingegerd said quickly. "I would never blame you. That you can do what you can do is a wonder past compare. But, having seen so much, am I to be blamed for wishing I might see more?"

The prelate shook his head. "Not by me. I would never blame you."

Now she eyed him with something besides almost adoring admiration. "Back among the trees, you said you cursed the one barbarian because he was going after me," she said slowly.

"I did," Rhavas agreed.

Even more slowly, Ingegerd went on, "I thank you for it—do not mistake me, very holy sir. But mayhap it would be well to remind you once more that I am Himerios' wife, and still have every hope of finding my husband once more."

"I hope you do. I am with you to help you do it, as Himerios himself charged me to do," Rhavas said, and most of that was true. The first four words? Perhaps not. He thought of asking her what she would do if she could not find Himerios, or if she found he had fallen in the fighting. He thought of it, but kept silent. The question, he judged, would make her angry or make her wary. He wanted neither.

He looked back over his shoulder. The woods were well distant now. One Khamorth came out into the open and stared south, no doubt wondering how all the horses could have disappeared. That made Rhavas laugh, but only for a moment. If mounted plainsmen found the others, they might all pursue.

Ingegerd looked back, too. She saw what Rhavas had not. "The clouds are boiling out of the north," she said. "Another storm is coming. I was hoping we were through with them."

"We had better look for shelter, then," Rhavas said. "I would not want to be caught in the open." If his voice was troubled, who could blame him? He saw nothing that looked like a refuge, not even more trees ahead.

"With all these horses to keep us warm, we can shelter in the snow if we must." Ingegerd sounded more confident than Rhavas felt. But she went on, "Still, you are not mistaken, very holy sir. Shelter would be better."

Rhavas pointed ahead, to a low swell of ground. "Maybe we will be able to see something from there." He did not really believe it, but sometimes hope had to do. He and Ingegerd rode forward. Even as they did, the wind began to freshen. The air had a raw feel to it, a feel of storm, of snow, of sleet.

And when they reached the top of the hillock, the prelate and the Haloga woman both exclaimed in glad surprise. There not too far ahead stood a farmhouse and a barn. Whether anyone lived on the farm these days was liable to be a different question, but the buildings would help hold out a blizzard either way.

Snow started swirling around the travelers before they reached the farm. When they came up to the farmhouse, Rhavas saw it was fire-damaged. He hallooed, but only silence answered him. He and Ingegerd got the horses into the barn, which had also seen the touch of flames. That didn't worry him so much. Khamorth ponies endured all sorts of hardships out on the steppe. He doubted one more snowstorm would faze them.

By then, he also doubted whether one more snowstorm would faze him. Had he been back behind Skopentzana's walls, he would have grumbled about the dreadful weather. All the natives of the place would have laughed at him as an effete southerner. Everybody would have been happy.

These days, happiness involved smaller things—or rather, larger ones. Staying alive another day kept people happy. Escaping enemies made them happy. And seeing those enemies fall over dead . . . Yes, Rhavas knew he had rejoiced when the Khamorth sentry crumpled.

Not finding any frozen corpses inside the battered farmhouse also made him happy. The folk who'd lived here must have got out before the plainsmen set fire to the place. Rhavas prayed they'd reached the shelter of a walled town before barbarians came upon them.

Even as he asked that mercy of Phos, he wondered how much good the prayer would do. The good god seemed to have ignored every other prayer he'd sent up. He did not know why Phos had turned his back on Videssos and on him in particular, but only a blind man, he thought, could have doubted it was so.

Outside, the wind began to howl in earnest. Snow blew by almost horizontally. The stone walls and what was left of the farmhouse's roof did give some protection, though.

"I think we will have to break up some of the furniture to build a fire on the hearth," Ingegerd said.

"Lucky it didn't all burn already," Rhavas said, and she nodded. They tore a couple of stools to pieces. She used flint and steel to start a small blaze, then put more wood on it. And then she produced strips of smoked meat and a leather sack full of coarse flour. Rhavas gaped. "Where did you come by those?"

"I searched the saddlebags on some of the steeds we took," she answered. He bowed, honoring her good sense. He wouldn't have thought of that—he hadn't thought of it. She found an iron griddle the nomads hadn't bothered stealing. "Let me get some snow to melt into water and I can make wheatcakes," she said. "They will not be of the best, but they will fill our bellies."

She had that exactly right. The wheatcakes were anything but delicious, ending up both bland and burnt. The meat was tough enough to challenge Rhavas' chewing. But all of it was ever so much better than going hungry.

After that unlovely but still satisfying supper, Rhavas glanced toward the bed against the far wall. The night would be cold—it was already cold. Even so, he said, "I will sleep here on the floor by the hearth if you like."

That Ingegerd even paused to think about it wounded him. But she quickly shook her head. "No need for that, very holy sir, for we can both use the warmth we give each other." Her smile held just a hint of mischief. "Not that sort of warmth, as you will understand. We are both enjoined against that, even if each for different reasons."

"Yes," Rhavas said. "I do understand."

"I thought you did." Ingegerd's smile grew warmer; firelight danced in her eyes. "I told you before that you were not to blame for what happened a few days ago, and I meant it. Would I lie down beside you if I did not?"

"Not if you were wise, as you plainly are," Rhavas replied.

"No doubt you give me too much credit," she said in a low voice, looking away from him as she spoke.

"No doubt I give you not enough." Rhavas started to say more, but saw that even so much flustered her. Had her husband never praised her many virtues? If Rhavas told her she was as wise as she was beautiful, he got the feeling he would sleep on the floor.

Surely no harm can come from lying beside a woman. We are cold, and we are decently clothed, he told himself. His ecclesiastical colleagues might—would—have a different opinion about that. He knew as much, even if he did his best to pretend to himself he didn't.

But his ecclesiastical colleagues weren't here, and were in no danger of freezing to death. Rhavas and Ingegerd lay down on the narrow, lumpy bed. As usual, they started out back to back. "Good night, very holy sir. I hope you sleep sound," Ingegerd said with the odd formality they'd both used before.

"Good night. May you also sleep well." Rhavas used the same scrupulous politeness.

Ingegerd sighed. Lying there beside her, Rhavas felt her go limp. Her breathing grew slow and regular. She started to snore. Rhavas, closer to the wall, stayed wide awake. He was much more conscious of her as a woman than he had been when they first escaped from Skopentzana. And the more he tried not to be, the more he was.

Outside, the wind howled and moaned. The fire guttered down to a last few embers glowing red as blood. Rhavas lay alone with his thoughts: alone, but not alone. Suppose that in spite of everything—in spite of aftershocks, in spite of civil war, in spite of invading barbarians—he succeeded in bringing her safe to Videssos the city. Suppose he did not touch her that way in all the long journey. How many priests in the capital would believe he hadn't? Any at all?

The more he thought about it, the more he doubted it. They would be sure he'd fleshed his lance to the very hilt. And why would they be so sure? Because they would have done the same thing themselves. They took the vow of chastity, yes—took it and spent the rest of their lives regretting it.

Rhavas hadn't really regretted it, hadn't felt it chafe him, till he came to know Ingegerd. The lord with the great and good mind must have had a cruel streak in him, to leave the prelate alone with—in bed with!—a woman he wanted but could not have.

She didn't want him. She'd made that plain enough. Resentment bubbling up inside him burned hotter every moment. She'd been glad enough when he cursed the barbarians and saved her (and, not so incidentally, himself). Oh, yes. That had made her happy. But was she ready to give him the most sincere reward a woman could give a man? Not likely!

Your vows, he reminded himself. But, like everything else before Skopentzana fell—and before he found out he could get his own back by calling down curses on the heads of those who'd wronged him—his vows seemed something from another world, another time. They might have been calling him from a mile beyond the moon.

Doing his best not to disturb Ingegerd, he rolled over so that he faced her. She stirred and muttered something, but did not wake. If she had, he would have pretended to be asleep himself.

She trusts you. She wouldn't lie down with you, wouldn't go to sleep beside you, if she didn't. Rhavas waited for a blast of shame to scorch him. And the shame did come, but not nearly so much of it as he'd looked for. Maybe resentment curdled most of it. You fool! He wanted to wake her and shake her and shout at her. Chances are your precious Himerios is dead anyhow.

However true that was, it would not bring her into his arms. He still had enough sense left to understand that. If he told her she was likely a widow, she would only hate him for it. She wouldn't look to him for a widow's consolation. If, on the other hand, she learned from someone else . . .

Resentment flared again, sour as heartburn. And Rhavas' heart was burning. Wasn't he a better man than the garrison commander, anyhow? Wasn't he wiser and more clever than Himerios? And, with the power to call down curses on his enemies' heads, wasn't he a more deadly warrior than the Videssian officer, too? Of course I am. Answering his own questions was easy. To the ice with her if she can't see that for herself.

She started to roll away from him, as if the fierce violence of his thoughts repelled her. On that narrow bed, though, rolling away would have meant falling out. Still sleeping, she checked herself. Still sleeping, she laughed a little at what she'd almost done. And, still sleeping, she rolled back the other way—rolled straight up against him, her head nestled against his shoulder. One leg slid up and over his.

"Phos!" he whispered, calling on the god of light there in the darkness. But he felt no light in his own spirit—far from it. Lust rose up, a great choking, blinding cloud. When she and Himerios lay in the same bed, did they sleep like this? How could Himerios let her go on sleeping when she did something so provocative? If, she having roused him, he roused her in turn so he could do what he wanted, would she be angry? Would she let out another one of those sleepy laughs and let him have his way, hardly caring herself? Or would she kindle, too?

Rhavas knew what he hoped the answer was.

Carefully, not wanting to disturb her, he slid his arms around her. He didn't squeeze. He didn't need to squeeze; she was already pressed tight against him. And what could he do about that? Nothing. A maddening nothing. It seemed terribly unfair.

He feared he would spend all night awake. That would leave him a wreck when morning came. They couldn't stay here and let him rest during the day. They had to keep pushing south and west. Sooner or later, surely, they would come to country where the Khamorth had not yet penetrated.

The prelate flinched. Of all the words he could have found, that one had to come to mind now. Are you trying to drive yourself mad? he wondered. But he wasn't mad. He knew that perfectly well. He was only a man who wanted a woman.

But it is a sin for me to want a woman. He reminded himself—and needed to remind himself—of that. Pressed against him, Ingegerd's warmth did not feel sinful. It felt like something he should have been able to enjoy all the days of his life. What have we done to our priests by making them swear celibacy? The answer seemed painfully—in the most literal sense of the word—clear.

Slowly, the ache in his loins receded. He found himself yawning. No matter how aroused he was, he was also exhausted. Still holding Ingegerd, he yawned again . . . and did fall asleep.

When he woke, he didn't realize for a few heartbeats that he had been sleeping. He and Ingegerd still lay close together; her breath was warm on his cheek. But he could see her now, though dimly. The fire had gone out during the night, but morning twilight was leaking in through the windows and through rents in the roof.

He hoped sleep had cooled his ardor, but needed only a moment to discover how naïve that was. The fire might have gone out, but he still burned. He burned hotter than ever, in fact; for the moment, weariness didn't weigh down his spirit.

Ingegerd sighed in her sleep. Rhavas sighed, too. He didn't know why she exhaled louder than usual. His own sigh was all unrequited lust, though he thought of it as love.

Before long, she would wake. It wasn't that she wouldn't want anything to do with him then. That would have been easier, or at least more merciful. But she would treat him as one friend treated another, and as intimately as one friend treated another. Had they been two men on the road together, that would have been fine. As things were, he found it either too intimate or, more to the point, not intimate enough.

Just once, he thought, halfway between wistfulness and fury. Yes, just once would be enough. Just so I know what it's like.

He didn't know what anything was like. He'd lived his whole life cut off from what drove the people who listened to him when he prayed and preached. He'd lectured them about it. He'd threatened them with Skotos' eternal ice if they broke the rules the temples and the Empire had laid down. A soft, pained snort of laughter escaped him. He'd had his nerve, hadn't he? All the priests in the Empire of Videssos had their nerve, didn't they?

And even more amazing was that people listened to them. People obeyed them. Why didn't men and women laugh like loons and tell them exactly how much nerve they had? For the life of him, he couldn't imagine.

How much nerve do I have? There lay Ingegerd, her face not a palm's breadth from his. How much nerve do I have?

Rhavas' heart thuttered, not only from lust but also from fear. He did not want to break his vows. The ice threatened, the ice beckoned, if he did. But he did not want to go through all his days not knowing what it meant to be a man; he did not want to die alone, having lived alone his whole life long. If he held to the oath he'd sworn while a youth, wouldn't he do exactly that? So it seemed, with perfectly logical clarity.

Heart still pounding—pounding so loud, he marveled that she could not hear it—he leaned forward and brushed his lips lightly—so lightly!—across Ingegerd's. She smiled in her sleep . . . and then she opened her eyes.

Rhavas had pulled away by then, but it didn't matter. She knew what had happened. She wasn't so angry as she might have been, but she was far from pleased. "Very holy sir, this will not do," she said.

This when I have saved her half a dozen times lately. Rhavas was angry, whether Ingegerd was or not. This when she still lies in the circle of my arms.

Some of what he thought must have shown on his face, for Ingegerd said, "Our ways had better part after this. I will take my own chances from now on. With a horse under me and another to carry supplies, I will do well enough."

"No." Rhavas shook his head. "Your husband charged me to care for you, and care for you I shall."

Ingegerd shook her head, too. "That will not do. You want to . . . to care for me in ways only Himerios should."

"Is that the thanks I get?" Rhavas demanded.

"You have my thanks. You have all my thanks," Ingegerd said. "But I see you want more than that now, and more than that I cannot give."

She started to pull away from him. His arms tightened around her. It took him almost as much by surprise as it did her. "One kiss—one proper kiss," he heard himself say.

Ingegerd's eyes opened very wide. She started to move toward him—and then brought up a knee toward his crotch. No doubt she intended to leave him writhing in pain, and to take a horse and leave before he could do anything about it.

And that would have worked, except he was also bringing up a leg, and her knee banged into his instead of going home. He realized exactly what she'd intended, and his anger turned to rage. "Is that the thanks I get?" he growled.

"You get what you deserve," Ingegerd retorted. "Now let go of me!"

"What I deserve? By the good god, I'll take what I deserve!" Rhavas said, everything but his own fury and his own fever forgotten.

Ingegerd tried to knee him again, then hit him in the face. She was a large, strong woman. The blow hurt. It made him see stars. But it also made him angrier yet. He hit her, too, as hard as he could. Her head snapped back. She kept on fighting, but after that she was slightly woozy, slightly slow.

"I'll take what I deserve," Rhavas repeated, and flipped up her long wool skirt. The sight of her legs only inflamed him, though she went on trying to kick him and knee him. He might have been a man in the grip of fever or madness as he hiked up his own robes.

Ingegerd screamed, but there was no one to hear her cries. She and Rhavas tumbled out of the narrow bed. Straw-stuffed mattress or bare earth—it mattered not at all to him. However much she thrashed, he poised himself over her. "Ahhh!" he said as he began, an exhalation more of triumph than of pleasure.

She bit his hand. He screamed then, and hit her with the other one till she let go. His blood was on her face, and so was hers. He didn't know what she called him in the Haloga language. He doubted the words were endearments. He doubted it, but he didn't really care, not while he thrashed above her.

"Ahhh!" This time, the cry meant he had spent himself. It was less than he had thought it would be and more, both at the same time. What it was for Ingegerd . . . did not cross his mind until after delight blinded him.

Now the fever he might have had was gone. He pulled away from her and set his robes to rights. She lay huddled on the ground, her skirt still drawn up, her legs still bare. He looked down at his hand. It was still bleeding. He shook his head in wonder. Had she really done that to him? Had he really done that to her? The answer seemed only too obvious.

"Maybe you are right," Rhavas said. "We would do better traveling separately." It was as close to an apology as he could come. He knew he had sinned, but he did not feel as if he had sinned. Even with the pain from his hand to remind him of exactly what he'd done, he felt fine, or better than fine.

Ingegerd rolled away from him. In a voice like ashes, she said, "Who shall make you pay for your folly?"

"Folly?" Some of Rhavas' anger returned. Couldn't she see why he'd done what he'd done? "It was a . . . a compliment to your womanliness."

Her head came up. "Did I not ask you to slay me before you let the Khamorth pay me such compliments?"

"I am no Khamorth!" Rhavas said indignantly.

"No, indeed. You are worse than a Khamorth. They would only have done what they did. You not only did it, but tell lies about it, too. Truly Skotos has his claws deep in your soul."

"That is not so!" Rhavas' voice went as high as hers, and much shriller. She'd put a finger on his greatest secret fear. But it could not be true. It must not be true. If he'd cursed, it must have been through some other power, any other power, than the dark god's. "I will not hear your lies," he added, and strode away from her.

Her voice pursued him. "There will be vengeance, in this world or in the world to come."

"No! Liar!" His back still turned, he heard Ingegerd get to her feet. Then he heard something else: a small sound. She might have lifted something. He turned back. She had a knife in her hand, and advanced on him with terrible purpose.

"There will be vengeance," she repeated.

"No!" Rhavas flung out his bitten hand, perhaps only to ward her off, perhaps for some other reason he did not care to admit even to himself till the moment was there—or past. Fear and fury filling his voice, he cried, "No! Curse you, no!"

Ingegerd's eyes rolled up in her head. The knife fell from nerveless fingers. Her own rage faded from her face, replaced by a dreadful blankness. She swayed, tottered . . . crumpled. Rhavas knew death when he found himself in its presence. He knew death now.

"No!" he screamed, trying to cast out not just the moment but everything that had led up to it. But where to begin? When he'd raped Ingegerd?—for that was what it had been. When they'd escaped Skopentzana together? When he'd called down curses on his own head if the peasant refugees harmed the city? When the Khamorth swarmed into Videssos? When Himerios charged him with watching over Ingegerd? When Maleinos and Stylianos went to war?

The woman he'd cared for—the woman he'd imagined he'd loved—lay at his feet, not only dead but ravished. And how had she died? When he cursed her, of course. And how could he have cursed her—how could he have cursed anyone—save through the power of the dark god?

Skotos heard me, he thought. Yes, Skotos heard me, and showed he heard me. Maybe Phos has heard me, but he never gave any sign of it. Which, then, truly is the stronger god? Yes—which indeed?