Children of Chaos

thirteen

FRENA WIGSON

gazed out her window at the lifeless docks. Not even slaves could work on a day like this, when the sun was a blur of brightness in a pallid sky and Ocean a lead sheet behind masts and rigging. She wore an appropriately virginal robe of white linen with a sprinkling of pearls. Her tar-black hair was demurely coiled but adorned with a ruby comb, which was somewhat daring for the Pantheon, a subtle display of insurrection.

Accepting noon for her appointment with High Priestess Bjaria had been a misjudgment. By the time she crossed to the bedroom door, she was damp with perspiration. Her chariot was waiting for her at the front door, with Dark and Night in the traces, but she was surprised to find Verk driving. Servants set down mounting steps for her, and he offered a strong hand to help her aboard.

"Uls is well?"

"The lady is kind to ask. He is fully recovered."

She took the reins and he raised the brake. Why Verk to escort her, instead of her usual driver or one of the other house guards? Had Father arranged this, or was Verk contriving to speak with her in private? She did not inquire, because she had developed a stabbing headache, and it was growing steadily worse. As the chariot rocked and bounced across the bridge to Temple, thunder and lightning inside her skull felt fit to burst it.

Having no female relatives, she had informed Father that he would be Mother to drive her there. Although he had not driven a chariot in years, he had laughed and said he would be honored. She would drive home, though. She was determined to follow tradition and lead the chariot parade back from her dedication. So this trip was rehearsal as well as the obligatory preliminary call upon the garrulous high priestess.

"Are you all right, mistress?"

She wondered how green her face must be for him to have noticed. "I am fine. I just wish I had thought to bring wool to plug my ears." High Priestess Bjaria was the worst blabbermouth on Dodec.

Temple was one of the larger islands, the most rugged and irregular of all, and clearly had been formed when a section of the canyon wall collapsed and the river cut new channels through the resulting dam. Houses had spread over most of it so that it looked like a lumpy reptile scaled with roofs, but in places its bones were exposed as piles of gigantic rocks. The Pantheon stood on a green-furred hump, one of the few wooded areas in the city, and was reached only by climbing a long flight of stairs. Score twelve extra points for the weather, twelve more for the headache.

From the bridge to a busy street, then another, which headed straight to a cliff, snaked through a notch in it, and emerged in a steep-sided bowl whose floor was an uneven graveled yard. Scores of other chariots were waiting there, some being tended by their owners' servants, others by green-clad Nastrarians employed by the Pantheon. The onagers' braying echoed back and forth, and the stupid brutes kept answering themselves. Worshipers bustled in and out through several entrances, but they must all ascend the rocky hillside by the same wooden staircase. Verk drove as close to the base as he could. There she must leave him, because weapons were not allowed and to take attendants when calling on gods was regarded as poor taste.

She handed the reins to Verk and prepared to climb down.

"The master sent for me," he said, not looking at her.

She paused. "But did not impale you."

"No, mistress. He was very concerned to know why you insisted on approaching the mob."

So was she. What had led her to be stupid? That was not like her. "I hope you explained that I was merely being nosy?"

"Not in those words, mistress." His tone was oddly flat.

She could have rescued that man!

Verk handed her down. Slinging her leather satchel on her shoulder, she braced herself for the climb. The headache pounded harder than ever, not helped by the wailing of beggars trying to extract alms from stolid citizens going by. The stolid citizens ignored them, as did the clergy in their many-colored Pantheon robes. When the cadgers noticed Frena's purse, they redoubled their howls, scrambling after her on their knees with hands outstretched, but she hurried past them and began the ascent, following a couple of priests. The stair zigzagged, changing slope and direction frequently. It was wide enough for two people going up to pass two coming down, but the treads were in alarmingly poor condition, the handrails splintered and not entirely secure. Renovations were clearly overdue.

"Fabia Celebre?"

Something touched her arm. She ignored it, plodding painfully upward.

"Frena Wigson, then."

Frena was startled to discover that she was being addressed by a seer—a woman, judging by her voice, tall, slender, and completely swathed in white cloth. Her lower body was covered in a white skirt or robe, a cape fell below her waist, hiding even her hands, and another cloth draped her head. She must be melting inside all that.

"I am Frena Wigson." She had never spoken with a Witness before.

The speaker moved alongside. "Keep climbing and do not act surprised. I have an important warning for you."

"How do I know you are what you pretend to be?" And why were they speaking Florengian?

"You have an unhealed cut on your right shoulder and your shift is embroidered with blue daisies." She sounded young. "Am I a seer?"

"Er, yes. What warning, Witness?"

"You do believe that I speak only truth?"

"You addressed me by another name."

"I wanted to see if you knew it. You were not always Frena Wigson."

"I wasn't?" Frena croaked. Her heart was pounding much harder than it should be. Her mouth was dry, her headache excruciating, and the two old priests ahead were climbing faster than she was. She did not need crazy seers babbling riddles at her.

"No. You have been lied to all your life, but only to keep you out of danger. Now your ignorance may put you in worse danger."

If anyone other than a seer mouthed such nonsense ...

"Then who am I?"

"Your real name is Fabia. You are the fourth child of Piero, doge of the Florengian city of Celebre, and his wife, the lady Oliva. You were taken hostage when Celebre fell to Bloodlord Stralg, fifteen years ago. Your heartbeat is alarmingly fast, my dear. Take a moment's rest."

Frena leaned against a mossy rock and the seer stood beside her, one step up. A family group climbed past.. A group of women descended. The headache was flashing streaks of green light brighter than sunshine.

"Fabia?"

"Fabia Celebre."

"What's a doge?"

"A sort of elected king."

"What is the danger?" Besides dying of headache.

"Premature death. Very briefly: You and your three brothers, all older than you, were brought to Vigaelia as hostages. For the last fifteen years, your father has ruled his city as the bloodlord's puppet, thereby keeping war and grief away from it. Our sight cannot extend to another Face and my most recent information is about a season old. He was said to be very ill then. Celebre is becoming strategically important again, as it has not been for many years. One of his children will be returned to Florengia to take over after his death. The others will not be left alive as potential challengers. Now do you appreciate your danger?"

"Brothers? Where? Who?"

"We have no time for irrelevant detail. The Queen of Shadows is Stralg's regent on this Face. She will decide which one of you will live. At the moment she leans toward marrying you off to a man she can trust and sending you back with him to legitimize his rule, but she may change her mind."

"She organized this dedication?"

"Certainly. She terrified your father by threatening to denounce you as a Chosen of Xaran."

Frena hung to the rotted handrail and tried fiercely to focus on the seer through the flickering green lights. Pain was wringing out her brain like a wet cloth. "Why are you telling me this? I thought Maynists were Stralg supporters and counselors. Why are you pretending to thwart his sister?"

"Never pretending!" The seer's voice displayed some welcome human emotion at last—anger. "Fabia, Fabia! We serve the monster unwillingly, believe me, and only to fulfill an ancient compact, which most of us believe must now be discarded. Although only a minority in our cult think as our leader does, only her views count, and by accosting you I am sorely bending my vows of obedience. Do you feel well enough to proceed? Some officious priest will certainly start prying if you remain here very long."

Frena forced herself to resume the climb, although her feet felt like boat anchors. People coming down were glancing curiously at the seer, not at her.

"I don't think I can believe all this."

"Try, because your life is at stake. I am a Witness of Mayn! We speak only truth."

"Yes, Witness. I am sorry. Does my father know of this?"

"Of course."

"And as soon as I have made my vows, he will receive an offer for my hand?"

"An offer he will not dare refuse."

"Who is the lucky bridegroom?"

"Saltaja's present choice is a son of her brother Horold, satrap of Kosord. The youth's name is Cutrath and he has just been, or is about to be, initiated as a Hero."

A Werist? Ugh! Frena could not imagine a worse choice of husband. "My father ... Horth ... has always promised that I will not be forced to marry against my will."

"You will be now. No one who opposes Saltaja Hragsdor ever prospers."

"Why are you bothering to tell me if I have no choice?"

"Suicide is always an option," the seer said cheerfully. "But rarely an attractive one. Partly because I serve the goddess of truth and you should know the truth. Partly to try and frustrate the Queen of Shadows, for she is evil. Partly—and I am not supposed to tell you this—because you are what we term a seasoner. It is a subtle concept, almost impossible to explain to an extrinsic. Seasoning is a potential for greatness, and very rare. High Priestess Bjaria is an important woman in this city but has no 'flavor' at all. Your foster father is completely insipid, despite his unbounded wealth. Stralg is a seasoner, and so is Saltaja."

"Then why should I want it? What's it good for?"

"It is found in those who make history. It does not guarantee that they will do so, for many seasoners are buried by the wayside, their destiny unfulfilled. But when the gods wish to change the flavor of the world, they use a seasoner to do so. We rarely encounter seasoning before it is manifest, which is one reason we are interested in you, Fabia Celebre. Your time has not yet come."

"You are being metaphorical, I trust? You view the world as the cook pot of the gods?"

"Why not? If your flavor is the taste the gods want, then yours will be the seasoning they apply. Or you may stay forever on the kitchen shelf. This is the closest a seer will ever go to foretelling the future."

This was madness!

The seer sighed. "You cannot believe. No matter. But consider the only family you know. Horth Wigson is basically a good man, for a Ucrist, and you will put him in extreme peril if you resist the inevitable."

Right foot, left foot, right... Cold rivulets raced down Frena's ribs and the air was too thick to breathe.

"I understood—" Frena corrected herself. "What he always told me was that he went over the Edge as a young man and met my ... met Paola in Florengia, married—"

"I have no evidence that he has left Skjar since the day he arrived. How well does he speak Florengian?"

"Just a few words. Paola taught me and..." Frena stopped as the import of her words registered. Why didn't Horth speak more Florengian than that?

"It is known that Paola Apicella was hired, or coerced, as a wet nurse at a place near Celebre, to bring the hostage baby, namely you, to this Face, where you were assigned to the custody of Satrap Karvak, another Hragson. He died when rebels sacked Jat-Nogul. Apicella escaped and brought you to Skjar, where she married a promising Ucrist. The Witnesses tracked you down, of course. Saltaja was content to leave you where you were, anonymous, until she had need of you."

"As you also—" A blaze of pain made Frena drop her voice. "As you also have need of me? Suddenly everyone is trying to use me. Stralg wants me; you want to balk Stralg. What are you offering? Will you rescue me from this situation?"

The slender woman shrugged. "Witnesses observe, record, and never meddle. Besides, to expose our petty resistance efforts to Saltaja at this time would be most unwise."

Frena thought, Ha! "Well, you say I am not Horth Wigson's natural daughter, but I have not lived with him all my life without learning to shun an exchange that only works one way. If you want my cooperation, you must offer something in return. No matter how strategic this city you mention, being queen of it would hardly compensate me for being married to an animal. These Florengian aristocrats you cite apparently gave me away as a baby, whereas Horth and Paola were everything a child could ask for in loving, caring parents. I do know that the lady Saltaja has a dubious reputation, but I always find her to be a cultivated, knowledgeable lady." So there!

"You fear her without knowing why. Can I bribe you with hopes of revenge? Saltaja had Paola Apicella murdered."

"What!" Frena stumbled to a halt, grabbed the rail with both hands, and peered blearily at the Witness. "Did you say—"

"I did. I would testify in court before a Speaker that Saltaja Hragsdor sent a flank of Werists after your foster mother with orders to beat her to death and leave the body on Wigson's doorstep. She is not a very subtle person."

"No!" Deliberate murder seemed even worse than the random violence of a gang of drunks. "Why would she do such a thing?"

"Regarding motives, I can only speculate. She certainly suspected your foster mother of causing the death of her brother, Karvak. She may have worried that Paola would initiate you into the ranks of the Chosen. Saltaja was convinced that Paola was a chthonian."

They were standing very close to the top of the stair now, but whatever lay ahead was hidden behind a fence; the path made a right-angle turn through a gate. A jabber of young boys came yelling and screaming out and plunged down the steps in a human avalanche. The yard was far below, all the waiting chariots small as children's toys.

Shivering despite the heat, Frena asked the obvious question. "And was she?"

The seer seemed to word her answer carefully. "Fabia, our goddess does not let us pry into other divinities' mysteries. Satrap Eide is obviously a Werist, because he wears the collar and also has vestigial horns, but Weru has other cults you've never heard of. If a woman wears a live fireasp as a necklace, she is undoubtedly a Nastrarian. Did you know that Ucr, your father's god, also supports a cult of thieves?"

"No! Truly?"

"Membership in the Chosen cannot be detected, no matter what the witch-hunters say."

"Mother never came here, to the Pantheon," Frena admitted.

"Apicella may have just disliked hypocrisy. She could have come, I am sure. Gods tend to be jealous of their votaries, but if the Dark One kept Her Chosen from visiting other temples, they would soon all be unmasked and destroyed. There is no perfect test!" The Witness turned, as if looking at something, although the heavy cloth over her head and face must be completely opaque, as it showed nothing of her features, only sweat stains.

"She was not an evil person!"

"I never said she was. I know no unassailable definition of evil. The Old One is greatly feared as keeper of the dead, but we all go to Her in the end. That some of Her minions may be evil I do not deny; that some may not be is a tenable hypothesis. And Saltaja did have evidence—the strange circumstances of her brother's death, Paola's success at escaping and remaining undetected for years, her coup in marrying a man of wealth who could protect her. Even, although this came after the fact, the remarkable toll she took of her assassins and the long time she took to die. One aging, unarmed woman beset by a gang of young louts and she kills even two of them? Is this probable?"

"You are manipulating again!" Although she wanted to shout, Frena managed only a croak. "You tell me that the Chosen are not evil and they have powers to overcome even Werists? Are you suggesting I swear allegiance to the Mother of Lies instead of the Bright Ones?" That was the real question, wasn't it?

"I am suggesting no such thing. The decision is entirely yours. I detect that you are suffering extreme physical distress, possibly a headache. This may be no more than a result of eating bad meat, although I regard that hypothesis as improbable. The most likely alternative, although there may be other explanations that I have not thought of, is that you are already promised to a specific god. This puts you in conflict with your purpose in coming to the house of the Twelve, and the conflict will have to be resolved. A dedication is a form of choosing."

"You're suggesting that I belong to the Dark One," Frena whispered, visualizing open graves.

"She is certainly the most likely candidate."

"But I never pledged allegiance to Her!" Frena wiped away the perspiration running into her eyes.

"Infants can be pledged by others, especially their parents or those in charge of them. For instance, foster mothers." The seer sounded very much as if she were fishing for information. She would be disappointed. "The allegiance must be ratified in adulthood. This is why the dedication ritual requires you to renounce all other gods in general and the Old One by name."

"Then I will be free of Her?"

"So the priests assure us. If you wish to try doing so here and now, just saying the words may reduce your stress to more tolerable levels. Alternatively, if you intend to pledge full loyalty to Her, then a declaration of that intent would probably be equally beneficial to your present comfort. I suspect that it is your undecided status that is causing theproblem. As I have said several times, there is no way of detecting the Chosen—a chthonian could speak the words of the renunciation without flickering an eyelash." The seer looked away as if hearing something Fabia couldn't. "We have been together too long. Twelve times twelve blessings on you—"

"Wait! Just suppose I did decide to ... to investigate the alternative. How would I proceed?"

The seer stood in silence for a long moment, a cloud of draperies. "I suggest you question your foster father's employee, Master Pukar. Based on his habits, if he is not a chthonian himself, he must know some who are... But exercise extreme caution!"

"Wait!" Frena caught the seer's cape. "You would aid a Chosen?"

She jerked loose. "I said I knew no definition of evil, Fabia Celebre, but 'the Children of Hrag' comes very close. I will aid anyone who opposes them, anyone at all, and I am not alone. But beware! There are nine Witnesses in Skjar just now, and not all agree with me. Trust no one who does not come in the name of Mist."

"Mist?"

"Our leader in this. Twelve blessings, Fabia Celebre." White robes swirling, she strode nimbly up the rest of the stairs and vanished through the gate.

♦

High Priestess Bjaria was of mature years, majestic in stature, stentorian of voice, and the biggest bore on all Dodec. She could sit through an entire banquet without ever seeming to draw breath, while eating more than anyone else and chattering on whatever subject currently held her personal fancy. Frena was careful never to invite her unless Saltaja was certain to be present, because the satrap's wife was the only person who ever dared interrupt her. Yet she was inept, not ill-intentioned. She received Frena in a large and crowded robing room—dim, breathless, smelling of rot—and enveloped her in an odor of godswood and a giant sweaty hug. After a mere three or four sentences she pushed her visitor back to arm's length to peer at her with well-bagged eyes.

"Are you feeling well, child? You look poorly. Nerves, I assume; perfectly normal for any girl just before her—"

"Headache... weather—"

"Ah, the humidity, I know exactly how you feel, we have a priestess of holy Nastrar who is absolutely devastated in the wet season, throwing up all day long... Why don't we go straight over to the shrine of holy Sinura and you can say a quick prayer, perhaps leave a small offering, and I am sure the goddess will send you some relief."

"No, I'm quite all right," Frena said hastily, any other form of speech being impossible near the Reverend Bjaria. "When we get there—"

"As you will. Then let me begin by introducing ..."

The high priestess presented a dozen minions and two dozen deputy minions, some male, some female, all unnecessary, but all expecting a gratuity from Frena's purse. None of them managed to slip in more than two words of greeting before Bjaria swept the entire procession off on a tour of the Pantheon.

Very soon Frena discovered that her headache had dropped to a bearable level. She had made a decision of sorts, she realized, by refusing to appeal to holy Sinura—she had decided to put off a decision until she had a chance to reflect on the Witness's astonishing revelations. Daughter of a doge, whatever that was. Fabia was an intriguing name, exotic. Aristocratic. She must practice thinking of herself as the Lady Fabia. Three brothers? Ruler of a strategically important city?

Murder?

Like a mother goose, Bjaria led her entourage along a tended path through irregular parkland, up and down, winding between rocks and ancient trees from one shrine to another, all around the top of the hill. Other worshipers and clerics scuttled out of her way, wide-eyed. Today the monologue was on the history of Temple Island and Skjar itself, the need to preserve and restore. Although she did not mention Horth's gold, that was obviously what had provoked this interest.

She kept saying very old. "Holy ground from ancient times, even older than the Arcana in parts, evidence of very old primitive worship..." All the shrines were made of wood, some in styles of great antiquity, very old. The timbers themselves were quite recent, of course, but for centuries every building had been replaced at intervals of about twenty years, the copy reproducing the original as exactly as possible. This work was now overdue and being planned. Bjaria's only endearing quality was that conversation with her required no effort whatsoever, not even speech.

"This shrine of holy Weru is very old, perhaps the oldest of the preserved designs, because the gorge is called after Him and there is no doubt that in the so-called Expansionist Period the city regarded Weru as its patron god, but of course in those days Skjar was not much more than a pirates' stronghold, although we mustn't say such things, must we, even if we know they're true, and anyway it was their expertise at building more seaworthy ships than anyone else that let the expansionists extend their sway over half the shores of Ocean, and all the lake so that was why holy Hrada was regarded as His consort and They were worshiped as joint patrons—"

Frena managed to squeeze in a word. "I have always understood that holy Hrada is a virgin goddess?"

"Well nowadays of course," the high priestess said airily, "but this was a long time ago." She barged ahead in blithe unawareness of what she had just said. "A donation of an embroidered scarf is traditional but we can supply a jeweled container for a reasonable fee ..."

It was most curious that the seer had seemed so tolerant of the Dark One. It was also very comforting. Perhaps Frena's ... Perhaps Paola Apicella had been both a Chosen and also the loving person whose memory Frena... Fabia... cherished. To believe that would resolve a whole mountain of misery and incomprehension.

"Holy Demern's shrine obviously dates from very old dynastic times when He and holy Veslih were guardians of Skjar, as you can see from the roofline and upturned gables and there is an inscription which seems to note the number of rebuildings ..."

Did Frena really have any decision to make? The outcome was inevitable. Two days hence Horth would drive her here, to the Pantheon, with an escort of armed guards. Many sixty friends, employees, associates, and hangers-on would witness her dedication, including her renunciation of Xaran and all other gods outside the Twelve—of which she could remember none offhand. If she balked she would be dragged away and buried alive, which would absolutely ruin the afternoon—

"Did you say something?"

"Oh, no, Holiness." Just a nervous snigger. "My headache is much better. Do please continue."

"Then as I was saying, the so-called Democratic Interregnum does not seem to have left any lasting marks on the Pantheon, but of course it was very brief and there are conflicting reports on the religious developments of the period, and while the idea that holy Cienu was the divine sponsor of the revolution may explain why its effects were so transitory although naturally I do not mean to imply any disrespect toward..." And so on.

And so on.

Fabia had three brothers, three older brothers! Three! She had not had a chance to ask the Witness where they were, who they were, what they were. Would she like them or they like her? Would they have the same likes and dislikes she did? Had they been raised in palaces or kitchens? Had they been apprenticed to trades, trained to be doges, or perhaps even degraded to peasants? The moment she was officially informed of her true status, then she must inquire about her brothers. And warn them of their danger!

"... course the oligarchy brought Skjar its greatest prosperity, because it concentrated on trade and thus claimed holy Ucr as its patron with Anziel as His consort because what good is wealth if it does not enrich our lives artistically and all of these reconstructions you see here date from that period just before Bloodlord Stralg overthrew the council which was over twenty years ago now—I can remember it but I'm sure you..."

Did the woman never stop talking?