SHE first became aware of voices, muttering in a tongue she did not understand. She could pick out four, possibly five distinct speakers: two women, two men, what might be a girl or young boy. Around her, the light was fading, becoming red spots on her eyes.

Finally, magnificence replaced the spots.

She stood in the grandest hall she had ever known; no court in Nhol could even begin to match it for size. Its splendor was stunning, as well, but it was of an alien sort to Hezhi, resembling more the natural beauty of the cliffs and mountains than it did the refined—though often decadent—architecture of the palace. Still, in its vastness there was a simplicity that matched certain Nholish ideals.

The walls—those that she could see—were curtains of basalt, flowing to the floor and rising beyond vision above, though the hall was well lit by the barbaric guttering of perhaps a hundred torches. The floor was polished red marble, and by that she knew that some hand had crafted this place; otherwise she might have thought it a purely natural cavity. The floor was mostly empty, like a vast dance theater, and by comparison the part of it she stood upon was cluttered, for nearby were a throne, carved from a column of basalt, the dais that it sat upon, a vast table, and its attendant benches. None of these was occupied.

The other occupants of the room stood on the open floor, some forty paces from her, and they held her attention much more than the room. Foremost was a creature completely beyond her identification, a vast monster that resembled a bear but also resembled Tsem. He?—it had a single eye, a black orb filmed with faint rainbow. Perched on his shoulder was a raven the size of a goat, and still the bird seemed insignificant, so large was the bear-thing. A pace from both of these was a woman, naked, her flesh cloaked only in soft black fur. That and her pointed teeth reminded Hezhi of some sort of cat, save that horns grew from her head and tangled hair fell in a mass almost to her waist. A second woman seemed most familiar of them all; matronly, strong-limbed with thick, long straight hair, she appeared to be a Mang—or even a Nholish—woman. In fact, Hezhi was reminded of Qey.

Kneeling before them was the wavering, ghostly apparition of a horse. Hezhi held her own hands out before her and saw only bones swathed in shifting patterns of light and smoke.

“Well, well,” the cat-woman said, her voice barely a sigh and yet perfectly audible in the great hall. “And who have we here?”

“You know her,” the Raven clattered harshly, his voice just slightly more intelligible than the cawing of one of his smaller brethren.

“I don't,” the Mang woman said, stepping up to stroke her hand upon the horse's fiery mane. “How has this child come with my child?”

“I would say she did something very foolish,” the cat-woman said, walking toward Hezhi with fluid, padding steps. “You may speak to us, girl.”

“I… Ï don't know what—” These were gods. They must be. What could she tell them?

“You haven't come here to be clothed in flesh, that much is certain, for you still have the stink of flesh about you. You are no goddess, though you think yourself one, and you are no beast.”

“She smells of my brother,” the giant rumbled, in tones so low that Hezhi first mistook them for mere growling.

“Why, we should eat her, then,” the cat-woman opined, flashing her smile full of needle-teeth. “Yes, we have not dined on mortal flesh in some time.”

“Hush,” the Raven croaked. “You know what becomes of you when you dine on Human flesh.”

“Do I? I can never remember.”

“Exactly. Exactly!” the Raven cackled.

“What about you, girl? Do you wish to be eaten?”

“No,” Hezhi said, anger beginning to slice through her awe. “No, not at all. I only want to understand what has happened.”

“Well, you flew through a lake, I suppose, and came to the mountain. That would mean either that you are dead—which you are not—or that you are a great shaman …”

“Which she is not,” the black bird finished.

“No,” Hezhi agreed. “I don't think I am either of those.”

“You followed my child,” the other woman—who could only be the Horse Mother—said. “What do you want of my child?”

“Nothing!” Hezhi cried. “I only want to go back. I made a mistake.”

“Imagine that,” the Raven said. “But I say when one visits the mountain, one never goes away the same. Look at her, my kindred. A girl who flies about like a shaman, and yet she has no servants in her mansion.” He tapped his breast with his beak.

“What concern is that to us?” the cat-woman asked. “What does it concern us that this Changeling brat has no helpmates?” She looked suspiciously at the bird. “Is this some trickery of yours, Karak? Some part of your silly machinations?”

“I know her only by reputation,” the Raven said. “She caused something of a stir down the Brother's course.”

“I cannot see there,” the monster with one eye rumbled. “He has closed that to me.”

“Then it might not hurt to have an ally there, even a mortal one. Give the child what she came for.” The bird winked at Hezhi.

“I didn't come for anything,” Hezhi insisted.

“Everyone who travels to the mountain comes for something,” the cat-woman snarled. “I'll give her none of mine; she hasn't earned them.”

“Be reasonable, Huntress. I could only give her a crow, not really the sort of helper that would do her much good.”

The “Huntress” snorted. “No, I should think not. Silly, willful creatures, always cawing in alarm at the slightest scent of danger.”

“I won't argue,” Karak said agreeably. “That is why I suggest you give her something. A tiger, perhaps, or even a ferret.”

“A tiger? No, I think not. I'll have none of this.”

The Horse Mother looked up from her child. “Did you come for a helper? You must know it was foolish to come to the mountain for such a thing. Without one, you can never return.”

“I didn't mean to come here,” Hezhi said, helplessness—and thus anger—swelling in her.

“Life often ends with a mistake,” the Huntress remarked.

“Huntress—” the Raven began.

“No! Enough of you, Karak. Balati, judge!”

The giant blinked his eye slowly. “Hold her until her body dies,” he said. “Then we will reclothe her in something. You decide, Huntress.”

“Lord—” the bird began, but then his beak seemed to seal shut; and though he struggled to speak further, only muffled grunts escaped him.

“Fine,” the Huntress said, smiling. She waved toward Hezhi, and she lost consciousness.

SHE awoke in a chamber of obsidian, if “awoke” was the right word to describe her passage back to consciousness. Her “body” no longer sparked and flashed; it had faded to a faint translucence through which she could see the shadows of her bones, her organs, the faintly pulsing lines of her heart. The scale on her arm showed as a searing white spot, however, and from it whirls of color traced up her nonexistent arm, making it seem much more real than the rest of her.

“Hello!” she shrieked, but she expected no reply and got none. She wondered, dully, if the altered appearance of her ghost meant that her body had died or if it reflected some other change in quality about which she knew absolutely nothing.

She had met gods now, not just the little gods in Brother Horse and the landscape, but the Emperor of Gods, Balati, the Huntress, Karak the Raven, and the Horse Mother. Perkar had described all of them save the Horse Mother. It still seemed worse than unreal to Hezhi; it seemed like the cusp of nightmare and waking, her mind insisting that it was all illusion and night terror, assuring her that she need only keep hold of her fear until morning. How could this be real?

But the Blessed beneath the palace were real; the River was real. In a world that held those things, why not gods with antlers? Because she thought they were silly, or barbaric, or unlikely? They would kill her, no matter what she thought.