Perkar laughed. "That is very odd." He looked speculatively at the half Alwa. "And what of you, Ngangata? Do you share this inability to lie?"

Atti—possibly bored by their philosophical discussion—had been silent. Now he chuckled. "He lies half of the time, of course."

"Just so," Ngangata agreed.

"You, Atti, do you know much of the gods?"

"More than I want to, I suppose," the red-haired man drawled in his peculiar mountain accent.

"Has either of you ever been to the 'Great River'? The one the Mang call Toh?"

The mountain man and the half Alwa exchanged a peculiar glance.

"His headwaters are very near where we go," Atti told him at last.

"What do the Alwat know of him?"

"They know him," Ngangata said. "They know better than to approach him. They name him Klanahawakadn: 'The Swallower.' Also, they call him Ov'fanakaklahuzn: 'He Who Changed.' "

"Why? What does that mean? I understand the swallowing part—any big river would do that." He eats me up, she had told him. That meant more than he thought, he now realized.

"That River was once Anishu, like most rivers. He has become Aniru, the god of a place. A very, very long and large place. And he is very… simple."

"Simple." Perkar frowned. Simple. He eats me up.

Perkar rode along for a while in silence.

"I wonder how a god like that could be killed?" he whispered, just loud enough for Ngangata and Atti to hear.

Atti laughed, a loud, raucous belly laugh that must have hurt him, given his injuries. Indeed, he held his chest, tried to throttle his chortling. Ngangata reacted very differently; he scowled and shook his head. Perkar suspected the difference was that Ngangata realized he was serious, while Atti was picturing a flea arming itself to kill a horse.

Perkar was still pondering gods a while later, when the rains came. He was imagining a god who killed or caused to be killed every other god—the spirit of every tree, stone, little place in the world. It seemed to him—if there were only one huge god, like the pasture god but unimaginably bigger—it would be as if there were no gods at all.

The first few drops Perkar paid no mind, though behind him Apad and Eruka sent up a chorus of complaints and curses to the cloud gods, to the waters who fed them. But then the forest ceiling bent with the force of the rain, and sheets of water soaked them, as if the Stream Gods themselves had taken to the sky. Perkar was doubly glad now that he was not wearing armor, which would chafe painfully once the quilted clothing beneath it became wet. Apad and Eruka would soon have even more to complain about.

The rain carried that scent with it, that scent like flowers, and Perkar was suddenly, vividly reminded of her, of his sacrifice of roses. Of pale skin, so warm and Human, of the dark, musky smell of her as they lay together, her breasts pressed against him, her legs wrapped around him. The feelings were so bright-edged that he seemed to feel her fingers stroking his manhood, drawing the warmth in his belly into his groin and knotting it there. He groaned, listed in his saddle. The rain pounded on mercilessly, a shout from each raindrop coalescing into the roar of legions.

They caught up with the Alwat. The pale creatures stood waist-deep in a swollen stream, splashing one another. All but one, that is; the female that Perkar had begun to call "Digger" in his mind. She stood in the water, as well, but did not play. When they came close she gestured. Ngangata dismounted, bent close to her mouth as she spoke.

He turned after a moment and shouted back at them, "They say the cave is just up here. We can dry off."

That drew, if not elation, at least approval from the party.

Ngangata then sloshed over to Mang's flank, spoke to Perkar and only Perkar.

"This stream has a message for you," he said. "Sent by the rain from a goddess far away."

Perkar's heart filled his chest like an anvil and a blacksmith's hammer. He moved his lips, but no words emerged.

"She says you shouldn't have sent him your blood. She says he has a taste for you now. She says to stay away from him."

Ngangata's dark gaze held him for a moment, watched Perkar blink raindrops from his eyes. Then the halfblood waded out into the stream, tugging his horse behind him.

The rain still smelled of roses, but the scent was fading.

"What a stench," Apad complained, wrinkling his nose in disgust. At first, Perkar thought Apad meant the soaked gambeson he had just shucked off—which did stink, noticeably, of sweat. But when Eruka added, "Worse than animals," he realized that they meant the Alwat.

Perkar wrinkled his own nose, but all that he could smell (save for Apad and Eruka) was the welcome scent of burning juniper and pine.

"At least they found us this cave," he noted.

"Oh, and a fine cave it is, too," Apad remarked. "Tight, narrow, smoky—and now it smells like animals, too."

"Better than being wet, I would say," Perkar said.

"He has you there," Eruka observed, gingerly touching the angry red skin where his armor had chafed through his quilted undergarment.

"Well, Perkar seems to be getting quite friendly with these Alwat," Apad noted, his eyes narrowed. "What did you find to talk about so long with our friend Ngangata, Perkar?"

Perkar shrugged, but he could also feel himself blush. "Things. This forest and its gods. We were nearly killed by one of them, so I thought I would learn what Atti and Ngangata could tell me."

"I don't trust those two," Eruka said, glancing sidewise at Apad—as if for approval.

Apad nodded. "Listen, Perkar. If they know so god-cursed much about this forest, why didn't they know about the Wild God?"

"It's a big forest," Perkar said, frowning. "Bigger than all of the Cattle-Lands put together. Who could know every inch of it?"

Apad smirked. "They don't have to know every inch of it. They have the Alwat to tell them what they need to know. Do you think these are the first Alwat our friends have spoken to since we entered the forest? Don't you ever hear Ngangata out in the woods, jabbering?"

He was offering to his bow, Perkar nearly protested—but he only had Ngangata's word on that. True, he had seen the halfling with the stave, but that could have been a ruse. Still, Apad's proclamation rankled Perkar enough to pursue the conversation for another step. "You aren't suggesting that Ngangata and Atti knew about the Wild God, led us there on purpose? Look at Atti; he's the only one who got injured."

"It went straight for the Kapaka," Eruka said. "Did you notice that? It went right over Atti. If Apad hadn't been between it and the king…"

Perkar remembered Apad shrieking and jabbing at the monster. It had not seemed to Perkar that Apad actually interposed himself between the king and the god, only that it had been his poor fortune to be there.

"True enough," Perkar said anyway. He did like Eruka and Apad; they were understandably upset. And he couldn't totally dismiss the possibility that they were right. After all, they knew Ngangata and Atti better than he. Ngangata had never entered the fray at all, had never really been in danger from the Wild God. Appearances could be deceiving, and Perkar thought it best to keep his mind open to possibilities. "True enough," he repeated. "They will bear watching."

Apad nodded. "I trust you told them nothing of our plans?"

"Shh," Eruka hissed. "Sound carries strangely in caves. Let us not speak of it here."

"I said nothing, of course," Perkar said, a bit annoyed.

"I knew you would not," Apad said. "You are a good fellow, Perkar. Like the oak they named you after."

Perkar nodded his thanks. "That reminds me," he said. "I think I'll make an offering to Ko, who made my sword." He clapped Apad on the shoulder as he stood, careful to avoid the tender strips of skin where the weight of the chain mail had pulled heaviest. He wondered if his friends would wear armor again the next day.