“You, ” he gasped, frozen by terror or glamour, he knew not which. In his mind he suddenly beheld the little bone statuette that Li once kept, the forbidden image of a goddess the priests said did not exist. But the accursed of Southtown believed, down deep, in their ancient goddess—though he never had; for him the only god was the River, and the Lady just another tale to frighten children,

“Yes, of course you know me, ” the Lady said, and where she touched him, worms sprang from his flesh. “Come with me now, before you cause yourself more pain. He only tricks you, you know. You will never live beyond his wish. Much of you is already with me, if you would like to see it. ”

“What?” he asked.

“Everything you have lost—the most of you, sweet Ghe, lies corrupting in my house. It is all there, your childhood, memories of Li—whom you took from me, by the way. ”

“I did not—I never…”

She smiled, and her smile split back to her ears, as her black almond eyes were suddenly Hezhis. “All men are surprised by me, ” she assured him. “But few wish to resist. ”

“I will not go, ” Ghe snarled suddenly. “Not yet. ”

She looked down at him sadly, an old woman—Li, in fact. “ Why torment yourself? ”

Ghe reached out, then, intent on swallowing her—after all, a goddess was a goddess, and he had already swallowed one such. But what was in her eluded him; nothing was there to devour, only emptiness. She laughed.

“Even gods are living, ” she cackled. “But I am death. ”

“I will defeat you then, ” Ghe snarled. “I have taken many gods into myself these past days. I have dined on great powers, and they will sustain me until nothing lives or moves on the earth. ”

“For me, ” she replied sweetly, “even that space of time is nothing—save perhaps annoying. You don't want me to be annoyed when you come to suckle at my breast at last. ”

“Take me if you can, ” Ghe shot back. “And if you cannot, then leave me. ”

She nodded distantly. “Very well, ” she told him. “I gave you the chance, for Li, who loved me, who burned incense for me. I will not offer this again. ”

“ You offer me only death. ”

“Death is sweeter than anything you will know now, ” she answered, and was gone.

He awoke shuddering. Qwen Shen stroked him, consoled him with little words, with small kisses. She looked worried. He reached to touch her face, and for just an instant, a bare instant, he saw not her face but Hezhi's, and a sudden rage filled him, but try as he might, he could find no reason for the emotion. So, bit by bit, he allowed himself to be soothed, knowing that given time, he would discern his vision of the Lady to be only a lying dream, perhaps a false vision given him by one of his more willful vassals—for a few still fought for freedom. But now he was far too strong to be escaped or troubled by dreams; since meeting the Mang shaman, Moss, at White Rock, he had found the land rich in these so-called gods and now he was swollen with them, distended. Perhaps it was merely a sort of heartburn that plagued him.

“You are well now?” Qwen Shen asked, the first words she had spoken.

He nodded.

“Good, then. What was wrong?”

“Nothing,” he answered. “A sort of night terror.”

She clucked softly. “But you do not sleep, my love.”

“No, but it is always night to me, and even for me there is sometimes terror in the darkness.” He stopped, angry. Why would he show even Qwen Shen his weakness? No longer.

“I'm sorry for that,” she soothed. “But I must tell you something, something that terrifies me.'

“What is that?”

“I fear this shaman, this Moss. I worry that he plots against you.”

Ghe levered up on one elbow. Outside of the tent, cicadas sawed their shrill tunes, frogs croaked imprecations at the moon. It was the first night they had spent together since leaving the ruined barge—indeed, the first night not spent on horseback. Moss insisted that they must make great speed if Hezhi was to be found in time, before the demon Perkar and his conspirators harmed her. But the pace they kept had killed many horses, something the Mang loathed to do, so now they camped in a broad meadow while fresh horses could be found to replace bone-weary ones and new provisions could be hunted. A delay of a single day presented an opportunity Qwen Shen made certain he took—to “relax.”

“Why do you say this of Moss?”

“I mistrust him. I believe that he leads us to our doom. I have heard him speak of it to his men. He and the Mang are in league with this white demon of yours.”

“Moss is a servant of the River.”

Qwen Shen's eyes narrowed dramatically. I am a servant of the River, you are a servant of the River. Bone Eel carries his blood, though he is too insensible truly to serve. But these are barbarians, not people of Nhol. You cannot trust them.”

He sat up and rested his chin on his knees. “What have you heard? What have you heard the men saying?”

“They fear you. They will be glad to be quit of you. And they think that Moss is very clever in his plan to dispose of you.”

Ghe frowned. He knew the first two things, of course. His senses were keener than men thought; he could make out even distant conversations, if he cared to listen. They feared him because they suspected the men who disappeared were his prey—which, of course, they were. Since his killing of the grass-bear, his reputation had grown, but it was the reputation, he saw now, that one might credit to a feral beast, not to a man. He was respected because he was feared, and the Mang believed that their shaman could keep him in control.

They were wrong. Moss was indeed powerful; he kept many souls within him, as well, but his control over them was of a different nature, and he did not draw his sustenance from life the way Ghe did. His hunger was not a weapon. In a contest between Moss and Ghe, Moss would lose.

“I must think on this,” he muttered, arising and donning an elkskin robe. He pulled it so as to cover his naked body, drawing it up high around his neck and holding it bunched there with one hand. Without a backward glance at Qwen Shen he brushed through the tent flap and out onto the meadow. He stalked toward the tree line, a lean wraith in the night.

The “Lady” could have been sent to him by Moss. He knew Moss could send dreams, because he admitted sending them to him and to Hezhi, as well. But what purpose would such a dream serve the shaman, unless Qwen Shen were right, and Moss was trying to frighten or weaken him?

He thought back over the shaman's story; how he had been captured by Perkar and escaped by summoning one of his familiar demons, how he had held Hezhi in his very grasp and then lost her, fled here to meet him, and organized this forced march by contacting his captains in their dreams. His hope, he said, was to stop Hezhi before she reached the source of the River, where Perkar and some barbarian “god” were leading her. But now that he scrutinized that story, it made little sense. Perkar's aim had aways been to keep Hezhi away from the River, deny her heritage to her, probably to father some litter of white whelps on her in some squalid wilderness cottage. Why would he take her to the River's very source?

Maybe Moss was lying. Qwen Shen had a keen, incisive mind; the emperor had chosen her well for this expedition, and the River had chosen her well for his lover. She came thus highly recommended, and her advice until now had been good, very good. If he had listened more carefully to her all along, and less to Ghan, things would be very different now. And now that he thought of it, Moss treated Ghan well, brought him to ride beside him, lavished attention on the old man, as if they were old friends. He claimed that this was to honor Ghan because Hezhi loved him, but what if, somehow, the old man and the young Mang shaman were in league?