"Before Vashanka was vanquished I made a grand ritual for Him, to consecrate hisworship here, to establish Sanctuary in his eyes and, in truth, to control Him.A Feast of the Ten-Slaying and the Dance of Azuna. The girl was a slave trainedin the temple in Ranke, and Vashanka was the Imperial Prince Kadakithis himself.It was, perhaps, the greatest of my offerings to the god, and my worst. Thegirl, remarkably, conceived, and a boychild was born not two weeks before...before Vashanka was lost. That child is" about the same age, I would guess, asyour own son.

"He is a strange child, much given to anger and ill-humor. His mother and theothers who care for him assure me that he is no worse than any other child hisage, but I am not so sure. They say he is lonely, but he rejects all the palacechildren brought to him. I think, perhaps, he has needed to choose his owncompanions-and then, this morning, I heard of your son..." He paused, but Illyradid not complete his sentence. "Shall I give you an old Ilsigi coin like the boygave you yesterday? Do the S'danzo only speak to gold? Is your son to be thecompanion to Vashanka's last son? Is he the new god I must serve, or is he theGyskouras of some other hope which I must destroy?"

"Why do you ask these things?" Illyra repeated helplessly as the priest's wordsstirred the Sight within her.

"I was high priest and architect for Vashanka. I am still high priest andarchitect for the Stormgod-but I must know whom I serve, Illyra. And, if I must,I must try again to bring the Stormgod into an understanding with his people. Icould take your son out to that altar and make a sacrifice of him; I could bringhim to the palace and raise him as the god's son instead of the one I have therenow. Do you understand the choices I will have to make?"

Illyra Saw the high priest's choices, all of them, as well as the gods watchingnervously as gyskourem were drawn to Sanctuary's maelstrom of hope and need. Theweb of confusion she had Seen around the city was focused on the place whereVashanka had been and, for the moment, all other magic and intrigue werecontrolled by the hopes and needs which the emergent Stormgod must take intohimself.

She put her hands over her ears and was unaware of her own screaming. When shewas aware of anything again she was lying in the dirt of the atrium and Myrtis'scool hands were holding a damp cloth to her forehead. Dubro was glaring down atthe priest with mayhem in his eyes.

"She is a strong woman," Torchholder informed the smith. "Stormgods do notchoose weak messengers." He turned to Illyra. "I had not named Vashanka's lastson; I had no name that was right for him. Now I think I shall make a namingceremony for him and call him Gyskouras-at least until he chooses a differentname for himself. And, Illyra, I think your son should be at that ceremony,don't you?" He summoned his servants with a snap of his fingers and left theatrium without formal farewells, the great rook shedding feathers as itstruggled to clear the steep rooftops of the Aphrodisia.

"What did I tell him?" Illyra asked, taking hold of Dub-ro's hand. "He isn'ttaking Arton? I didn't say that, did I?"

She would never surrender her son to the priest or the gods, not even if therewas the silver of true Sight in Torch-holder's request. Dubro would neverunderstand and, above all, the S'danzo did not acknowledge the interference ofgods. They would leave the town, if they had to, sneaking out at night the wayShadowspawn and Moonflower's daughter had, since the Torch had already decreedthat no one would leave Sanctuary without his permission.

While she'd been with the priest, Myrtis had gotten the little boy to swallowsome honeyed gruel, but when she put the child back in Illyra's arms the madammade it plain that she did not expect him to survive and, with the high priestshowing such an interest, she certainly did not want him surviving or dying atthe Aphrodisia.

"We will take him with us," Dubro said simply, gathering up his daughter as welland leading the way out to the Street. They could not have remained much longerat the Aphrodisia in any event.

Through years of labor Dubro and Illyra had amassed a small hoard of gold whichthey kept hidden where the stones of Dubro's forge became the outer wall oftheir homestead. But with the Beysib, and all the gold they brought with them,not even gold was as valuable as it had been and they could ill afford anotherday of idleness. A squall rose out of the harbor while they were walking, asudden, damp inconvenience that should not have been remarkable in a seacoasttown except that the raindrops striking Arton's face did not wash away hisclouded tears but made them darker. Without saying why, Illyra clutched her sontighter and raced ahead through the storm-quieted Bazaar.

It took several days, even for the gossips and rumor-mongers of Sanctuary, todiscover the coincidences: The recurrent, violent squalls; Molin Torchholder'sunprecedented visit to the Aphrodisia House; and the S'danzo child who criedsilent, storm-colored tears. The story that someone had smuggled an unfriendlyserpent into the Snake-Bitch Empress's bedchamber had lent itself easily to lewdembellishment, while the tale that half-rotted corpses were walking the backalleys of Downwind was more frightening. But when the fifth storm in as manydays dumped hundreds of fish, some as large as a man's forearm, on the porch ofVashanka's still-unfinished temple, interest began, at last, to grow.

"They're sayin' it's our fault," the apprentice said when the fire had beenbanked for the night and the stew was bubbling on the fire-grate. "They say it'shim," the youth elaborated, glancing fearfully at Arton's borrowed cradle.

"It's the time for storms, nothing more. They forget every year," Dubro replied,digging his fingers into the boy's shoulders.

The apprentice ate his meal in silence, more frightened of the smith'sinfrequent anger than of the unnaturalness of the child, but he laid his palletas far from the cradle as possible and invoked the protection of every god hecould remember before turning his face to the wall for the night. Illyra took nonotice of him. Her attention fell only on Arton and the honey-gruel she hoped hewould swallow. Dubro sat frowning in his chair until the lad had begun to snoregently.

A single gust of wind churned through the Bazaar, then, with no greater warning,the rain thundered against the walls and shutters. Illyra blew out her candleand stared past the cradle.

"Tears again?" Dubro asked. She nodded as her own tears began to fall. '"Lyra,the lad's right: people gather by Blind Jakob's wagon and stare at the forgewith fear in their eyes. They do not understand-and I do not understand. I havenever questioned your comings and goings; the cards or your Sight, but 'Lyra,we must do something quickly or the town itself will rise against us. What hashappened to our son?"

The huge man had not moved, nor had his voice lost its measured softness, butIllyra looked at him in white-eyed fear. She searched her mind for the rightwords and, finding none, stumbled across the room to collapse into his lap. TheSight had revealed terrible things, but none hurt her as much as the wearinessin her husband's face. She told him everything that had happened, as the suveshtold their tales to her.

"I will go into the city tomorrow," Dubro decided when he had heard about Zip'saltar, Molin's god-child, and the Stormgod's demise. "There is an armorer whowill pay good gold for this forge. We will leave this place tomorrow- forever."

Another gust of wind whipped through the awning and, beyond that, the sound of awall, somewhere, crashing down. Dubro held her tightly until she cried herselfto sleep. The little oil lamp beside him guttered out before the squall hadabated and the household tried to sleep.