That made perfect sense. Ghan had led them into the trap of sailing upstream, knowing the dragons would not survive it. Ghan had made contact with the Mang before, even sent things to Hezhi through them. And when his plan to wreck the barge succeeded, was it not a suspicious coincidence for the Mang to be there, at that very spot, awaiting them? As if they had been informed of the scholar's plan? And to what purpose? Not to lead him to Hezhi, but to lead him as far from Hezhi as possible. While he journeyed to She'leng, she was racing away, farther away each moment.

He had reached the tree line now. He shuddered with self-fury at his stupidity. It was difficult to think sometimes, this far from the River. But that could be no excuse; he was Hezhi's only hope, the River's only hope. He could not betray them through weakness of mind, not when he was this strong otherwise.

Moss had been sent to confuse him and had done a good job. He could not outthink Moss in this state, and if he confronted him, challenged him to tell the truth, the Mang would merely spin some plausible web of lies—and he, dulled by distance from his lord, might succumb to deceptive, honeyed words. Better not to give him the chance; better to confront him only with death and be done with him. Then he could torture the truth from the shaman's soul, once he had captured it.

That decided, he stepped from his robe and gathered darkness to him instead, sheathed himself in armor made of night; it was a simple trick, one he knew from devouring an odd little god in the form of an owl. He gathered a second armor of wind about himself and lifted into the air, and in that instant, Death and her embrace seemed a distant, impossible thing. He pulled the strands of wind like reins, commanding them to take him to Moss' tent.

“EAT more,” Moss told Ghan. ”You'll need your strength in the high country.”

“No I won't,” Ghan stated flatly. “I shall never reach the high country. Your new ally, Ghe, will devour me before ever we get there.”

Moss considered the chunk of venison between his fingers, licked a bit of grease from it. “I think not. His tastes are for gods now, not for men.”

Ghan gazed up at him dully. “Then why do soldiers still disappear each day?”

“Some are deserting,” Moss pointed out.

“Yes. Because they know that their fate is to be evening repast for a monster.” Ghan shot the younger man a pointed look.

Moss sighed. “I have protected you thus far, Grandfather.”

“I'm no one's grandfather,” Ghan snapped.

Moss crinkled his brow in frustration. “It is considered mannerly to address an elder so.”

“Is it also considered mannerly to march me across these foreign lands against my will? To force me to aid you in a cause I want nothing to do with? Why put fair paint over rotten wood by addressing me courteously?”

Moss finished his meat and followed it with a sip of wine. “As you wish, old man. In any case, what I was saying is that I have protected you thus far and I will continue to.”

Ghan snorted. “You are a fool, then. Don't you know what he is! You cannot protect me from him.”

“But I shall, you have my word.”

“How relieved I am,” Ghan sneered.

Moss grinned. “You really should eat something. I don't want Hezhi to think I starved you when we find her.” He paused and then lifted his wine cup again. “She loves you, you know. I think if I could have really convinced her that I would reunite the two of you, she would have joined me.”

“What do you care about this?” Ghan exploded suddenly. “I have held my peace, hearing you talk about her, but what is it that you want? Ghe is a mindless sort of thing, and I know what the River wants of her, but you …”

“I want only peace,” Moss replied mildly. “I want my relatives to stop dying. And I want my people to have the blessing of the River as yours do.”

“It is no blessing,” Ghan snarled. “It is a curse. It is a curse for those who bear his blood and it is a curse for those his children rule. This is a misguided desire you have.”

“So it may seem to you,” Moss answered shortly. “But I know better.”

“Of course—” Ghan began, but Moss' eyes suddenly blazed, and he jabbed his finger at Ghan.

“I know better,” he repeated.

Ghan slowly closed his mouth on his unfinished retort. There would plainly be no fruit from a conversation that branched from that tree. He slowly gazed around the meager furnishings of the tent, gathering energy for another try.

“Will you kill her?” he asked dully. “Will she die?”

“Old man, she will die only if the Blackgod has his way. If I win this race and this battle, she will live to be the queen she was destined to be. She will unite all of the people of the River in a single kingdom. That I have seen.”

“With you at her side?” Ghan asked, carefully this time.

Moss shrugged. “It matters not where I am then. My work will be done. When she is queen, the sort of power I command will mean nothing. The little gods will be swept away and the world will be clean of them. The mountains and plains will be home to men and only men. And there will be peace, without the likes of the Blackgod meddling in our affairs.”

There, Ghan thought. There is a tender spot. What experiences had shaped this boy? He was beginning to see the glimmer, the veiled shape of his motives. If he could understand those, perhaps he could talk real sense to him. For the moment, however, he lowered his voice to nearly a whisper.

“But I ask again, why do you ally yourself with the Life-Eater, this ghoul?”

“Because only he has the power to see us to the mountain. The gods will resist us each inch of the way. We have already been attacked thrice, did you know that? Each time Ghe disposed of the sendings. I might have done so, but only after terrible struggle. And when we meet the Blackgod himself—”

Ghan held up his hand. “You keep saying 'Blackgod,' ” Ghan muttered. “But this word? In my language, 'god' is used only for the River. What do you call him in your tongue?”

“Many things. Mostly we call him 'Blackgod.' ”

“No,” Ghan snapped. “Say it in your language.”

“ Yaizhbeen, ” he complied, clearly puzzled.

Ghan chewed his lip. “Wait, wait,” he muttered. “Zhbeen means 'black.' ”

“So it does,” Moss replied, bemused.

“In the old language of Nhol, zhweng was the word for black.”

“I have noticed our tongues are similar,” Moss said. “Your name, for instance, and my profession, 'Ghan' and 'gaan.' ”

“It is not my name,” Ghan said. “It means 'teacher.' But there is another word in the old tongue: ghun. That means 'priest.' “ He mused, clenching his fist before his face, all other thought forgotten, save the puzzle. “Ghun Zhweng.” He whirled on Moss. “What if I were to say gaanzhbeen in your language? What would that mean?”

“It would mean 'black invoker, black shaman.' It is merely another name for the Blackgod, for he is a wizard, as well.”

“How stupid.” Ghan scowled. “How very stupid of me. When Ghe told me about the temple, I should have seen it. But what exactly does it mean?”

“What are you talking about?”

Ghan snorted. “Our priesthood was founded by a person known as Ghun Zhweng, the Ebon Priest. Do you see?”

Moss stared at him, openmouthed. “Your priesthood was founded by the Blackgod?”

“So it would seem.”

“Tell me this tale. How can this be?”

“Ghe visited the Water Temple. Beneath it he found—”

Moss wasn't listening to him anymore. His eyes had glazed. “This will have to wait,” he whispered. “It may be that you should leave.”

“Why?”

“Something comes for me.”

“Something?”

Moss looked back at him, eyes hardening. “Yes, perhaps you were right. I don't understand why, but Ghe is coming for me. He just slew my outer ring of guardians.”