"What?" he shouted, but no answer came save the distant sound of the nightbird.

"Father, help me," he sighed. "Mother!" He reached up to finger the little charm his mother had given him, and he felt a familiar spark there, the same life that had entered him at birth. Touching it, he touched the place where his caul was buried, and for the beat of a bee's wing he saw that place: a mighty oak, limbs spread like a big man yawning and stretching, and near its roots a silver stream, laughing and lovely. In that instant, the distance between him and his father's damakuta dissolved; it stood just beyond the star-flecked horizon. There sat his father and mother, wondering what had become of him. A day's travel from there was Apad's family, and not much more distant, Eruka's. At his masterless damakuta in Morawta, the grandchildren of the Kapaka might be wondering where the old man was, why he hadn't returned.

What would his father tell him to do? What would he say?

Finish what you begin, he would say. Piraku is more than having, it is doing.

But do what? He had believed that there was nothing good he could do now but die. Anger surged again, and he spat out into the River, glared across his now-quiet waters.

"Yes!" he hissed. "Yes, take me where you wish. I will go with you. Do you hear me, Changeling? I resist you no more."

Damn Ngangata for reminding him, for making it all clear. He had begun a story and resisted ending it. There was still a chance to redeem his failures, make the saga come out right. It didn't matter that he wasn't worthy. It didn't matter that he hadn't un-

derstood where his actions would lead him. He had no choice, that much was clear. Piraku demanded that he go on, and if he had betrayed his people in everything else, he could at least not betray them in that.

"I warn you," he told the water, voice flat. "I warn you that if you let the bit slip from my teeth—if you give me the slightest opportunity—you will rue the day that you set me on this task. If it is this girl I am to seek—what do you want of her? But if you want her alive, I will kill her. If you want her dead, she shall live." He shook his fists, and droplets of blood made rain-circles in the stream. "Take more of my blood," he said, almost without volume. "Take all of me you want, but one day we will reckon things, you and I."

Harka tingled as he took the sword in his hand.

"I was beginning to wonder about you," he said. "Wonder if there was anything in you besides remorse and self-pity."

"Oh, yes," Perkar told his blade. "I just found it."

He gathered up the firewood and took it back to the clearing, where Brother Horse sat braiding his long gray and black hair. His eyes lingered an instant on Perkar's bloody knuckles, but he made no comment about them.

"I can see your sword," he remarked instead. "If it weren't for that, I might almost doubt your story."

"What does it look like?" Perkar asked curiously, his anger diffused, cooling.

"Well, I see the two of you together. You're tied up somehow. But together you look like a bird. An eagle, I think."

"The sword's name is Harka," Perkar confirmed. "That means Eagle."

"Of course," the old man answered. Nearby, Ngangata stirred in his sleep.

"Your friend is badly hurt," Brother Horse apprised him. "If he continues with you, he will die."

"Yes, I know that," Perkar responded. "That is why I want to leave him with you. Can you see what would happen if I leave him?"

Brother Horse nodded. "Yes. I see him getting stronger, I see you weakening. He is the last, the last of your companions, is he not? The last thing tying you to your homeland and the strength you draw from it."

"I tell you the truth, Grandfather," Perkar whispered. "At first I hated this man. I feared him, and I hate what I fear. I have come to hate myself, because I fear the things I have done. But Ngangata has given me one present after another, even when I couldn't recognize them. He does not deserve to die for me, and I don't deserve to die with him—in such good company." He let his gaze drift over to the fire, which seemed pale and sad without a goddess dancing in it. "Brother Horse, will you watch him? When he is stronger, I know he will repay the debt."

Brother Horse reached down and scratched his dog behind the ear and sighed. "If Heen doesn't mind, I won't object," he said.

"Thank you," Perkar replied.

"There's some dried meat in the house. Take some of that. And listen," he said, leaning a bit closer. "If you meet any of my people, tell them I said to let you be. Tell them the old man on the island, who was once Yushnene, who was once Gaan, told them to take care of you."

"That's very kind," Perkar replied, by way of thanks.

"Oh, well," Brother Horse said. "It won't cost me anything; I'll be here with this man fetching and serving." He paused, and his eyes twinkled. "Too bad you couldn't have had a sick woman with you. But nothing's perfect." He took a drink of tea and then cocked his head to the side. "Listen," he said. "I remembered something else about the River."

"Yes?" Perkar answered.

"You remember that we were talking about him being awake?"

"Yes."

"There is an old song, a legend. I remember that it says one day the River will come fully awake, find two feet to walk on."

"What does that mean?"

Brother Horse shrugged. "Bad things. Maybe the end of the world. It is an old song, and I don't remember much of it."

Later that night, after Brother Horse had finally faded into sleep, Perkar went back to the shore, dragged the boat into the water, and let the current take him on. For the first time in clear memory he felt alive, ready to face the future. Not happy, not content—but at least no longer numb. For thirty days or more, with every fingerspan of water they had crossed he had been resisting, as surely and as stupidly as a man paddling against a current far too strong to fight. Karak's boat had learned its lesson immediately. He had not, and the struggle had worn him out. Yet it was not too late for him to absorb this truth. If he had to meet fate, best not do it trying to retreat, back turned, weary to the bone. Better to meet it flying on the balls of his feet, sword drawn.

"I wonder who will bear you next, Harka?" he remarked, with more irony than resignation.

IV

Transformations

"Have you ever seen such a wonderful story?" Wezh exclaimed, his fingers fluttering enthusiastically. "The way he arrived just as the pirates were going to kill her! And such swordplay! That man should be the head of the imperial guard!"

"That would be fine," Hezhi replied, "if he actually existed."

Wezh blinked at her uncomprehendingly, then blew a little shower of spit from his mouth as he suddenly laughed. "You are so witty, Princess," he howled, dabbing at his eyes. "Of course I meant the actor who portrayed Ts'ih. The way he handled that sword. Did you enjoy it? Were you inspired?"

"I was." she agreed, though she reflected that what the drama had inspired in her was almost certainly not what it had evoked in Wezh.

"Well," Wezh said, still visibly recovering from mirth, "I wonder where we should walk tonight? The Forest Courtyard is said to be lovely this time of year."

"I was actually feeling a bit tired," she told him, again not lying.

"Nonsense. A breath of fresh air will restore your recalcitrance!"

Hezhi went back over Wezh's last sentence in her mind, trying—as she often found herself doing—to imagine what word the young noble meant to use. It didn't really matter though; it was clear that he was insisting on at least a short walk together. She was preparing to reinforce her stated lack of interest in such a stroll when she caught Qa Lung's expression. She hadn't realized that Wezh's bodyguard was near enough to hear her.