"To the one who wants our son-yes."

In time the sky grew rosy, then bright blue. Arton grew no worse, though nobetter. Despite their anxiety, Illyra and Lillis both leaned against the smithand dozed. Those children who normally made a noisy shambles of the nurserybefore breakfast were bundled off to some distant part of the house, and thefamily waited in silent isolation.

A black bird, not so great as the one Illyra had made of her Sight butundeniably real, cawed noisily outside the window. Illyra awoke and hoped itmight be the Sight returning to her. Before she could know one way or the other,there was a furor in the hallways which ended with the appearance of theHierarch of Vashanka, Molin Torch-holder, at the nursery entrance.

"Illyra," the priest said, ignoring everyone else in the room. Not knowing anyother response, Illyra knelt before him: the priest's power was real even if hisgod was not. "How is the child?"

She shook her head and took Arton from Dubro's arms. "No better. He breathes,but no more than that. How do you know? Why are you here?"

Molin gave a sardonic laugh. "I had not expected to be the one answeringquestions. I know because I make it a point to know what is going on inSanctuary and to find the patterns by which it can be governed. You went to thegarrison. You said your son had been 'taken.' You spoke of spirits and of theStormgod, but you did not mention Vashanka. You wanted your brother to deal withthe altar, but you were going to deal with rest.

"They say you have the legendary S'danzo Sight. I'd like to know exactly whatyou've been Seeing." The priest did not seem surprised when Illyra's onlyresponse was to stare forlornly at the floor. "Well, then, let me convince you."

He took her gently by the arm and guided her toward a tiny atrium where the rookwas already perched in a tree. Dubro rose to follow them. Two temple mutes,armed with heavy spears, convinced him to remain with the children.

"No one has betrayed you, Illyra, nor will betray you. Walegrin does not see thelarger picture when he tells me the details, but you-you might see a pictureeven larger than my own. You have the Sight, Illyra, and you've looked at theStormgod, haven't you?"

"The S'danzo have no gods," she replied defensively.

"Yes, but as you yourself have admitted, something has touched your son, andthat something is involved with known gods."

"Not gods, godspirits-gyskourem."

"Gyskourem?" Molin rolled the word across his tongue, and the rook tried itsbeak on the sound as well. "Spirits? Demonfolk? No, I don't think so, Illyra."

She sighed and turned away, but spoke louder so he could still hear what nosuvesh had heard before. "We have Seen the past as well as the future. Men beginthe creation of gods. There is a hope, or a need; the gyskourem come, and thenthere is a god-until there is no hope or need anymore. When they begin, thegyskourem are like other men, or sometimes demonfolk are summoned as gyskourem,but when they are filled then they become gods truly and they are more powerfulthan any man or demon. The S'danzo do not hope or need, lest we call thegyskourem to us."

"So Vashanka is not the son of Savankala and Sabellia. He is the hope and needof the first battles fought by the first Rankan tribes?" The priest laughed fromsome secret bemusement.

"In a way. It could be so. That is the pattern, although it is very hard to seeso far back as for a god such Vashanka," Illyra temporized. The man was Vashankipriest, and she was not about to tell him of the birth or death of his god.

"But not so hard to see forward, I should think. My god has fallen on hardtimes, hasn't he, S'danzo?" Torchholder's tone was harsh and bitter, causingIllyra to turn to face him, though she feared for her life. "Don't pretend,S'danzo. You may have the Sight, but I was there. Vashanka was ripped from thepantheon. Ils was there, but I do not think that he or his kin can fillVashanka's void. And there is a void, isn't there? A hope? A need? The RankanStormgod: the Might of Armies, the Maker of Victory, isn't here anymore."

She nodded and picked nervously at the fringe of her shawl. "It has neverhappened before, I think. He was changing, growing, even when he was tricked andbanished. There is a great web over Sanctuary, High Priest; it was there beforeVashanka was banished, and it's still there now. There is much to be Seen andlittle to be understood." She spoke to him as she would any other querent andfor a moment he looked properly chastened.

"How much hope does it take, S'danzo? How much need? Can the god of one peopleusurp the devotion of another?" The priest seemed to ignore her then, diggingdeep into the hem of his sleeve, producing a sweetmeat for the rook, which flewtamely to his wrist for the treat. When Molin began again his voice was calm.

"I came here with the Prince, thinking to build a temple. The talk in Ranke wasof war with the Nisibisi, and it was not a good time for an architect-priest. Iwould rather lay the foundation for a temple than undermine the walls of a city.It should have been quiet. Vashanka's attention should have been drawn to thenorth with the war and the armies, but He was here, almost from the beginning,and I never understood that.

"Now, the war goes on without victory. The troops are disheartened, rebellious,mutinous. They have slain the Emperor along with all of his family, and mine,which they could find. Now, the war belongs to Theron, and it goes no better forhim, perhaps because it was not that the Emperor was a bad war-leader butbecause in a forgotten backwater of the Empire a Rankan god has been banished.

"I've been left with a cesspool of a city to govern because no one else isinterested or able. My temple was never built, and will not be built now. MyPrince, the only legitimate heir to the Imperial throne, lives in perpetualinnocence, and there are two thousand Beysin in Sanctuary, not counting snakes,birds, and fishermen, who are planning to wait here with their Empress, theirgold, and their revolting customs until their goddess bestirs herself to win awar they couldn't win with their own hands and weapons back home!"

His voice rose again, and it frightened the rook, which promptly bit the handthat fed it squarely between the thumb and forefinger.

"Lately I've begun to understand that I will not be going back home," he saidmore softly, binding the wound with fabric from his sleeve. "Or, rather, I'vebeen forced to accept that Sanctuary-of all the forsaken places in creation-isgoing to be my home until I die. I will not have my dream of dying in peace inthe temple where I was born. Do the S'danzo think much of their birth-homes? Iwas born in the Temple of Vashanka in Ranke. My substance is one with thattemple. Some part of me: my eyes, my heart, whatever, is as it was when I wasborn and belongs more to that temple than to me. But now, look, the bird bitesme; blood flows and new skin is formed. Sanctuary skin, Illyra. For me itwill always be a very small part, but for you- isn't Sanctuary within you evenas the S'danzo Sight is within you?"

He had drawn her in to look at his wound, and played her with his best argumentsas he would have done had she been the Emperor himself. His eyes stared intohers.

"Illyra, if you won't help me, then I can't help Sanctuary, and if I can't helpSanctuary, then it doesn't matter if you save your son. Use the Sight to lookaround you. There is hope, need; there is a great vacuum where Vashanka reigned"

Illyra jerked away from him. "The S'danzo have no gods. It does not matter to uswhich of the gyskourem becomes the Gyskouras, the new god other men bow downto."