A Gathering Of Stones

7

The barge slid smoothly, ponderously down the river, considerably faster than it came up, riding the current, not towed behind eight plodding oxen. The deck passengers were quiet as they left Havi Kudush, tired, drained, even a little depressed-because they hadn’t got what they wanted, or because they had. There were two Mutri-mabs aboard, but they huddled in blankets, as morose as the most exhausted pilgrim.

Brann and Jaril had a place near the middle of the deck where they were surrounded by pilgrims; it was a fragile shield, probably useless if Amortis came looking, but the best they could do. Brann held aloof from the rest, concern-ing herself with her invalid son. That concern wasn’t only acting; she was worried about Jaril. He’d lost all his tensions. She didn’t understand that. Some, yes. They had what they’d come to get. Keeping it was something else. Nothing was sure until the exchange was actually made. He was relaxed, drowsy, limp as a contented cat; it was as if the talisman were a drug pumping through his body, nulling out everything but itself. His dreamy lassitude became more pronounced as the days passed.

Late in the afternoon of the third day, a gasp blew across the deck.

Golden Amortis came striding across the Tark with a flutter of filmy draperies, her hair blowing in a wind imperceptible down among the mortal folk. A thousand feet of voluptuous womanflesh glowing in the golden afternoon.

Brann huddled in her robes and veil, grinding her teeth in frustration. It was obvious Amortis had missed her talisman and was coming for it; no doubt the copy it’d made of itself had melted into the light and air it had come from. Jaril slipped his hand into hers; he leaned into her side, whispered, “Don’t worry, mama.”

Don’t worry! Brann strangled on the burst of laughter she had to swallow. Not real laughter, more like hysteria. She closed her eyes and tried not to think. But she couldn’t stand not seeing what was happening, even if it was disaster coming straight for her, so she opened them again. Bending down to Jaril, she muttered, “Could you build that bridge without Yaro?” The first time they’d clashed with Amortis, Yaril and Jaril had merged into a sort of siphon linking Brann with the god; once the connection was established, Brann sucked away a good portion of the god’s substance and vented it into the clouds; they’d scared Amortis so badly she’d run like a rat with its tail on fire.

Jaril laughed, a soft contended sound like a cat purring. “Sure,” he said. “But I won’t need to.”

That tranquillity was beginning to get irritating. She straightened, tensed as Amortis changed direction and came striding toward them.

The god bent over the river, cupped her immense hands ahead of the barge. Up close her fingers were tapering columns of golden light, insubstantial as smoke but exquisitely detailed, pores and prints, a hint of nail before the tips dipped below the water-which continued undisturbed as if there were no substance to the fingers.

The barge plowed into the fingers, passed through them. Brann felt a brief frisson as she slid through one of them; it was so faint she might have imagined it.

She heard what she thought was a snort of disgust, unfroze enough to turn her head and look behind her. Amortis had straightened up. She was stalking off without even a look at the barge.

“Told you,” Jaril murmured. “It doesn’t want to be with her any more. It’s taking care of us.” He yawned, stretched out on his blanket and sank into his sleep coma.

Brann frowned down at him. If she wanted to play her role, she’d pull the other blanket over him; she chewed her lip a moment, glanced at the sun. Take a chance, she thought, let him draw in as much energy as he can, he’s going to need it, poor baby.

For three more days the barge swung through the extravagant bends of the broad Kaddaroud. Twice more Amortis came sweeping by, ignoring the river and those on it, her anger monumentally visible. The pilgrims huddled in their blankets, terrified. When she was angry, the god had a habit of striking out at anything that caught her attention. If the force of that anger rose too high in her, she struck out at random; anything could set her off, a change in the wind, a gnat on her toe, a fugitive thought too vague to describe. Anyone who got in the way of her fury was ashes on the wind. All they could do was pray she didn’t notice them.

She didn’t. After she stalked by the second time, she didn’t return.