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  He was facing his own work, the frieze of the Twelve Bright Ones. He found it unsatisfying. Nowadays he always used models. Back then he had been content to rely on invention, and now the results seemed bland and unconvincing. Holy Veslih stood out from all the rest because She bore a strong resemblance to Ingeld herself—gorgeous, slender, vibrant, like a living flame. He had improved on Odok by combining copper luster with gold to achieve a closer match to robes and hair, and so far the results seemed to be stable. Holy Weru had a look of Bloodlord Stralg as he had been on that frightful morning outside Celebre, fifteen years ago. A few other faces were vaguely recognizable.

  His gaze settled on holy Eriander. The temple displayed the god-goddess as an obscene combination of the sexes, a repulsive collage of organs. Benard had depicted a hermaphrodite youth, draped, taller than the women and shorter than the men. No one had objected to this innovation, even High Priest Nrakfin, and the statue in the Pantheon would be done the same way. The face ... Knowing no hermaphrodites, Benard must have invented those ambiguous features, and yet they were annoyingly familiar. He was still trying to remember who might have inspired them when his eyelids became too heavy to stay open any longer.

  nine

  INGELD NARSDOR

  preferred to practice pyromancy at night, with sparks and voices twining upward to the stars above the hypnotic thunder of drums. Then the Daughters became swirling pillars of flame in their dance around the hearth, while glowing coals flickered myriad images. The ritual lacked the same drama in daylight, yet today's images had been unusually clear. Any fool could see pictures in a fire; the god-given skill of the pyromancer was to know which pictures mattered, to tease out divine resolve from the infinity of the possible.

  The seers claimed that all prophecy was vain because the gods could not be bound. There was some truth in that, and at times Ingeld thought she could watch sixty-sixty futures dancing, as if the Bright Ones debated their plans in a vast divine committee. But the Maynists were not entirely correct, for Veslihans never claimed to see beyond their own realms. The peasant wife muttering prayers to her cooking fire differed only in degree from Ingeld, initiate of the highest level and first among the Daughters, seeking guidance on the future of Kosord in the sacred flames at the summit of the temple. One ruled a hovel and the other a palace, but both of those were households sacred to holy Veslih. If the goddess chose to make Her intentions known, the other gods would not interfere.

  Last night, as was her custom, Ingeld had led the acolytes in prayer in the adytum. Inexplicably, she had seen Benard Celebre in the dark between the embers, indicating danger. That he was in peril was no surprise and she was overdue to warn him of the latest troubles, but the omens seemed to imply that the danger was to the city, which made no sense. She had been sufficiently concerned to send a herald around to his shack. He had not been home and she needed no divine guidance to guess that he was sleeping elsewhere, for he still had an astonishing ability to inspire women to mother him. At dawn she had visited the adytum again; again she had seen him, and this time heading for the palace. Images in a brazier could not compare with those in the sacred hearth itself, so she had decided on a full pyromancy, sending Sansya to the assize in her stead and warning Molith to admit Benard when he arrived.

  That he was bound for Horold's audience had never occurred to her, but in the very first true images, she spied him already in the balcony of the court. The portents for Kosord were clearer than any she had seen in years—a baby shining, a letter shadowed, a boat that was sometimes good, sometimes bad. Those would be the sparks to ignite the blaze, but beyond them she spied only tumult and confusion and shadow. Time and again as images formed, the coals collapsed, obscuring them as if the gods had determined to set great events in motion without agreeing upon their outcome. But why everywhere Benard? Wherever she'd looked, there was Benard in the background. Baby, letter, boat, death, death, death... and always Benard. Why was he suddenly so important?

  ♦

  Pyromancy was an ordeal that left her simultaneously exalted and exhausted. When it was over, two acolytes supported her while she addressed the anxious crowd that had gathered.

  "I foresee no great evil," she told them. "Unsettled times approach, but the gods are merciful. Be mindful of them and the troubles will pass." They knelt to her as she descended the steps; she entered thankfully through the bronze doors, out of painful sunlight into the women's quarters, shadowed and cool.

  Fortunately, she had other—mortal—sources to inform her what had been happening in Horold's audience, and old Molith nodded when queried with an eyebrow. So Ingeld was forewarned not to go charging into her bedchamber with a retinue.

  Pleading a need to rest, she entered the room alone and even managed to close the door without slamming it in fury. Just as she had feared, Bena was stretched out on her sleeping platform, dead to the world. No doubt he had spent most of the night rollicking with some slut. Oh, that young idiot! Could even Benard Celebre be so blind to danger? Horold would see this as deliberate provocation, and his seers would tell him of it.

  She swept across the room like a pillar of fire, fully intending to haul him off the platform by his ear. But the closer she came, the more her resolution faltered, until she came to a stop, staring down at him in aching wonder. Oh, Bena, Bena! He was no beauty by day, being dark and hairy even by Florengian standards, with quarryman chest and shoulders that belied his noble birth. His face was as solid as battlements, all jaw and forehead and cheekbones. And yet, boy and man, he had always been beautiful in sleep, with those incredible lashes spread on his cheeks; awake, he could melt any woman with one glance of an artist's eyes—gentle, limpid, all-seeing.

  She turned to look at the twins' smiling faces in the tiles. Had they lived, they would be this age now—mature but still young, in the prime of their strength and yet untamed by the withering of dreams. And back to Benard... Strong but never aggressive, easygoing in most things and infinitely stubborn in the rest, combining wrestlers' brawn with the delicate touch of butterflies.

  Especially she remembered Benard in that terrible summer six years ago, when Finar and Fitel had set off to join their uncle in Florengia. Horold had been away suppressing some minor revolt or other, but word of the avalanche had gone first to him. Ingeld had learned of it from his letter ordering Cutrath into Werist training, breaking the promise he had given her when she agreed to bear him another son. One blow had deprived her of all her children and all pretense of a marriage.

  In her agony and rage, she had sought comfort from a boy half her age, a boy even younger than the twins she mourned. Benard had given it unstintingly, knowing his compassion might cost him his life. At first she had asked only the solace of holy Nula, but as he held her in his arms through a long night of tears, holy Eriander had come to offer support also. If either mortal had invoked that god, it had been she, not Benard, although even then he had been no innocent. He could easily have refused her, telling her to remember her age, and his, to reflect that she was the light of Veslih on Kosord, who performed countless marriages every year and lectured every bride on the importance of fidelity.

  For a season they had been lovers. With Benard she had found the happiness her marriages had lacked. Many in her household must have guessed, but there had been no open scandal and holy Veslih had not burned Kosord to the ground in retribution.

  Horold had found out, of course. All he needed to do was ask his resident seer what his wife had been up to—those busybodies. The brutish-looking man who had left in spring to go campaigning had returned in fall as a thing that walked on its hind legs. Their ensuing battle had been as memorable as any he could ever have fought, with him calling her a whore and her demanding to know what sort of shoats he expected her to farrow. In the end they had stopped fighting without ever making peace. He had known that any harm to her would cause the people to rise in a rebellion that he could suppress only by crippling the city for years to come.

  For
tunately Benard had been the one man in the satrapy beyond his reach, a state hostage whose death would rouse the fury of his brother Stralg or, worse, their sister. Horold was terrified of Saltaja. So the unspoken terms had been that there would be no open break, that Benard would not die, and that Ingeld would sleep alone in the future. Horold had not set paw in her bedroom since. Ironically, she knew that she was married to the best of the four sons of Hrag, that none of the others would have been so forgiving.

  It had been a very long time since a man lay where Bena lay now.

  "Benard Celebre!" she snapped. "You are a fool!" She whirled away, marching across the room in sudden rage. When she turned, he was upright already, feet on the floor, swaying as he peered at her with sleep-sodden eyes.

  "Uh? You told me to come here."

  "That was before I knew that Horold was going to send you!" She swirled over to the arches, around by the bathtub, back to the door again, robes dancing.

  He sat down heavily and mumbled at his toes, "You are not making a huge quantity of sense, my lady."

  "Fool! Can't you see the danger?" she shouted, still pacing wildly. "He insulted Cutrath and forbade him to hurt you. He heaped gold on you so the court cheered in wonder. He even sent you to me. Simpleton! Half-wit! Jar-head! You must go. Now!"

  Then she saw how he was looking at her and cursed again. He knew the signs—she was overwrought and flushed from the fire. Pyromancy always left her aroused and vulnerable; her mother had confessed the same. Horold had known, back when he was still human, that a visit right after an augury would not go unrewarded. A long time ago, that! But she was not too old to feel the need, and Benard could read her as easily as he could shape clay. He rose to his feet again and tried to intercept her. "Ingeld—"

  "Don't touch me! Can't you see it's a trap, fool? You're a dead man, Benard Celebre, a dead fool. Hurry. Leave before it's too late."

  "No, I don't see." His vision was always selective.

  "I mean he's shown you favor so he won't be the second most obvious suspect when bits of you turn up in the midden. But that's what he intends to do—disassemble you, claw you to bare bones. Benard, Benard! How could you possibly do anything so unspeakably stupid as to challenge Cutrath and then win? In front of his friends?"

  "It was win or have all my guts kicked out." He smirked, pleased with himself. Great, lumbering bear!

  "Silence! And why were you such a pea-brain as to come to court and brag about it? Why did you let that stupid Witness hag vomit it all out for everyone to hear? Why did she know what had happened? Answer me!"

  Eyes of oiled ebony gleamed. "Make up your mind. I thought I was supposed to remain silent. Stand still, woman, you're making me giddy. Oh, gods, I want to kiss you!"

  She flinched back. "No! He'll ask that Witness trollop what you did in here. They're bitches! Horold can ask anything about anyone and they'll tell him. She witnessed? There was no hedging or double-talk?"

  He frowned. "No. I mean yes. She witnessed."

  "How?" Ingeld howled. "Why are you so important that she sees what you do?" The Maynist's interest was inexplicable, but it confirmed the pyromancy. This seemingly insignificant artist was not insignificant at all.

  "I expect it was Cutrath she was—"

  "No! No! Last sixday he disappeared on a drunken binge. Horold asked where he was and the seers knew only that he was out of range, not in the palace. Last night they must have been seeing you!"

  "Perhaps she could hear my thoughts this morning."

  "Mayn's blessings do not include reading thoughts, only emotions. You must go now, Benard! Oh, look at you! Those fingernails! Are you eating properly? What's that all over your kilt?"

  "Charcoal... blood? Twelve curses!" He was more upset by that tiny bloodstain than he had been by her prophecies of sudden death. "It's not my kilt. I'll have to buy Thranth another."

  "I'll give you some copper..." She hurried over to her treasure chest.

  He laughed. "I don't need copper. Horold gave me gold."

  "Don't be absurd. You can't buy clothes with gold. Here, don't argue." She found a pelf string heavily laden with twists of copper, some large, some small, and looped it over his head. "Bury the gold somewhere safe and don't forget where. Now, please, will you go?"

  He reached for her and she evaded him.

  "Not yet." He was broad and stark, as stubborn as a team of onagers. "Ingeld, heart of my heart, Horold is not going to storm out of his assize to rush over here and decapitate me. You know him. If murder is his aim, then he'll take a long time to plan it and savor it beforehand. He loves a good hate."

  She drew breath to argue, but he was quite right. The dreamer could be perceptive when he bothered.

  "He knows what happened six years ago," Benard said. "His tame seers will tell him we've been nothing but friends since. If he does decide to kill me, he will; no doubt about that. If I worried about it, I'd have gone crazy years ago."

  "He would have done it years ago if you weren't the bloodlord's hostage. But he'll get his chance eventually. Listen. Werists come here with dispatches from Stralg. Usually I don't meet them, but Horold wasn't around and I had a chance to be hostess and hear their gossip. The war's going badly, Benard. One man let slip that Stralg lost more ground in the winter. He's being driven back toward Celebre."

  The sculptor shrugged his big shoulders.

  She resisted an urge to try shaking him, which would not have worked. "Listen to me! You know the slaves and hostages and gold stopped coming years ago. Now it's just more and more Werists going out, about twenty sixty a year. And still he's losing!" She feared that Cutrath would be next—Horold would not commit himself on what Stralg had written, but the bloodlord had drawn all the other young males of his family into the abattoir, so why should the last one be favored?

  "You know I care nothing for the war."

  "You'd better start caring. Your father's been true to his word all these years, ruling the city as Stralg's puppet, but if the Florengian partisans are at his gates, then everything may change."

  Benard's polite indifference did not change, so she switched to more drastic means. "Remember Tomoso?"

  "Of course. Great kid." His smile curdled into suspicion. "Why?"

  "His father was a Stralg puppet, like yours, ruler of Miona. Cavotti's rebels surrounded the town while Stralg was there and burned it down on his head. He lost..." she shrugged "... many, many men. Stralg's orders to Horold were to roast Tomoso over a very slow fire."

  Benard winced. "No! No! Even Horold... He didn't!"

  "No," Ingeld agreed. "He didn't. He cropped Tomo's ears and sold him to slavers."

  Benard swung around to stare out at the garden. He could hide his face, but the muscles in his back were taut as ships' cables. She longed to put her arms around him. Why must the gods be so cruel to someone so gentle?

  "Why?" he said hoarsely. "What harm had he done? What good did that do?"

  "Just spite. You'll never understand how a Werist thinks, Benard, so don't try. Saltaja's worse. Horold was being as merciful as he dared. It's the truth." Horold was the best of the whole horrible Hrag brood.

  Benard said, "He won't be merciful with me. If it happens, it happens. There's nothing I can do about it."

  "I hear he's sending you to Whiterim quarry."

  "Me and a Werist or two to make sure I don't run. Thanks for the news. I had better go now."

  "There's more."

  He glanced around, trying to look exasperated instead of showing whatever he was really feeling. Just old bitterness, probably. He never seemed to fear the future, but he detested any mention of his past. "More murdered hostages?"

  "I think so, but I'm not sure. None in Kosord. No, I mean that I asked the couriers about Celebre. They said your father was in poor health."

  "Ingeld!" He sounded exasperated. "I care nothing for the war and less for my parents. They gave me away, remember? The only person I care about in all Dodec is you. You I love more than life
itself. You were a mother for me; mother and lover and the only woman I want, but I can't have you. I should go." He headed for the garden.

  "The others?" she said.

  He stopped in the arch, without turning, a dark shape against the light. "What about them?"

  She could not recall him ever showing even this much interest before, so deep was his hurt. "I've heard nothing recently, I admit. The young one, who stayed in Tryfors with Therek?"

  "Orlando."

  "He was still alive a year or so ago, when Therek came by here. He said something like 'The duckling that follows the dog thinks it's a puppy.' "

  "Doesn't sound promising. Dantio's dead?"

  "So Saltaja told me. She wouldn't bother to lie. If she'd cut his throat herself, she'd admit it."

  "And Fabia? She's a smelly little bundle that cries all the time."

  "I expect she's past that by now. She went to Jat-Nogul, to Karvak. Saltaja told me that she disappeared in the sack, when the rebels killed Karvak. She was assumed to be dead. I think you're the last, Benard, you and possibly Orlando." She longed to hold him.

  "I wouldn't know him if I saw him and I'm sure he's forgotten me." He began to move, paused. "My mother?"

  "She is acting as regent for your father, they said. Oh, Benard, listen to me! They will send one of you back to succeed your father, and it looks like it must be you or Orlando. The moment Horold hears you aren't needed as a hostage anymore, you're dead. Somehow we must get you out of Kosord. I know it will be difficult—"

  He swung around and came to her in two long steps. Black eyes blazed down at her with a fury she had never seen in them before. She cringed back, amazed to realize that even Benard might be dangerous.

  "No it won't; it'll be impossible. Horold's warbeasts will run me down and kill me. But I'll risk it on one condition."

  She shook her head: No!

  "Yes!" he said. "You come with me. Just us two. You're married to nothing human, your son is grown up. We can slip away together. If I have to work as a peasant or chop wood all my days, I won't care."