So she put on her most baffled expression and said, "I'm sorry, I guess I'm out of my depth. I thought I spoke Tassalik well enough, but I see that I don't."

"What is he saying?" asked Lyra. She sounded concerned.

As well she might be, since Prekeptor, far from coming to marry her, had come to kill her father and, no doubt, her as well.

"I'm sorry," said Patience. "I understood almost nothing."

"I thought you were fluent."

"So did I."

"Mother of Kristos," whispered Prekeptor. "Mother of God, why don't you see the hand of God in my coming? I am the angel that stands at the door and knocks. I announce to you: God will fill your womb."

His words were frightening enough, but the fervency with which he said them was terrifying. What role did he have in mind for her in his religion? Mother of God- that was the ancient virgin from Earth, and yet he called her that as if it were her name.

Still, she showed nothing of the surprise she felt. She kept the vaguely puzzled look on her face.

"Holy Mother, don't you see how Kristos has prepared the path for his coming?" He took a step toward her. Immediately she hardened her expression, and he stopped retreated two steps. "No matter what you think, God is irresistible," he said. "He has devoted seven times seven times seven generations to create you to be the fit mother of the incarnation of Kristos on the planet Imakulata. This is greater than the number of generations down to the time of the Virgin of Earth."

She let the helpless, puzzled look return to her face, even as she tried to plan a course of action. In a way, this was just like one of Angel's favorite games. He would give her a complex mathematical problem-orally, so she had no written guide to help her concentrate-and then immediately launch into a complex story. Five minutes or ten minutes or half an hour later, the story would end. At once he would demand the answer to the mathematical problem. When she had answered it, he would ask her to tell him the entire story. In detail. Over the years she had become adept at concentrating on two things at once. Of course, her life had never before depended on the outcome of the game.

"They have not taught you, I see. They have kept you ignorant of your true identity. Don't pretend not to understand my language, for I know you do, I will tell you.

God created Imakulata as his most godly planet. Here in this world, the powers of creation run fast and deep. On Earth it took thousands of generations for evolutionary change to take place. Here, in only three or four generations we can breed major changes into any species. Those trifles I brought as gifts-they are new species, and it took only four generations to perfect them. It is as if the genetic molecule understood what we wanted it to become, and changed itself. This is as true of species that came from Earth as it is for the native species. It is only here on Imakulata, God's World of Creation, that every creature's genetic molecule, which is the mirror of the will, obeys the slightest command to change. Does giving off more light increase the plant's chance of reproducing?

Then immediately every plant gives off far more light-even plants that did not take part in the experiment, plants as much as a half-mile away. Do you see what this means? God had given us here on Imakulata a taste of his power."

Patience toyed with and then rejected the idea of killing the Prince. If he had been an ordinary subject of the Heptarch, it would have been her duty to kill him for what he had said already, if only because he represented a clear danger to Lyra. But it was not the prerogative of an interpreter to kill the heir to the throne of Tassali.

King Oruc might regard it as an unfortunate intrusion into his foreign policy.

"But to himself God has reserved the breeding of humanity. Alone of the life forms of Imakulata, human beings remain unchanged. For God is performing the creation of man. And the crowning achievement is you- for God will cause you to give birth to Kristos, the only perfect man, who is the mirror of God, just as the genetic molecule is the mirror of the will, the cerebRuin is the mirror of the identity, and the limbic node is the mirror of the passion. The Wise thought they could meddle with the genetic molecule directly, that they could alter the plans of God by making your father incapable of bearing daughters so the prophecy could not be fulfilled. But God destroyed the Wise, and your father did bear a daughter, and you shall bear the Son of God no matter what you or anyone may do to try to prevent it."

Patience could not leave, either. She needed to show a decisive rejection of what he had said, not just a desire to run from it. Besides, she wasn't sure Prekeptor would let her leave. The madness of his faith was on him; he trembled, and there was such fire in him that it was beginning to kindle a response in her. She dared not listen to more, for fear she might begin to doubt her own skepticism; she dared not leave; she dared not kill him to silence him. Therefore she had only one choice.

She reached into her hair and carefully drew out the loop.

"What are you doing?" asked Lyra, who had been taught, as a child of me heptarch, to recognize all the known weapons of assassination.

Patience did not answer Lyra. She spoke instead to Prekeptor. "Prince Prekeptor, I believe I understand enough to realize that you believe my very existence is somehow a reason to bring down my noble Heptarch, King Oruc.

Now that I see what a danger my very life causes to my King, I have no alternative, as a true servant of the King's House, but to end my life."

In a quick motion she passed the loop around her own throat, drew it tight, and gave a tiny jerk that caused the loop to cut into the skin to a depth of about two millimeters all the way around her neck. The pain was surprisingly slight at first. The cut was not uniform-in some places it cut quite deep. But it had the effect she intended.

Immediately blood streamed thick as a bright red collar around her neck.

The look of horror on Prekeptor's face was almost fun to watch. "My God!" he cried, "My God, what have I done!"

Nothing, you fool, thought Patience. I've done it. And silenced you, too. Then the real pain came, and dizziness from the sudden loss of blood. I hope I didn't cut too deeply, thought Patience. I don't want to leave a scar.

Lyra screamed. Patience felt her legs giving way under her. Ah, yes. I must collapse as if I were dying, she thought. So she let herself slump down to the ground.

She clutched at her own throat-carefully removing the loop in the process-and was surprised at the great amount of blood that was still flowing. Won't I feel foolish if I cut myself too deeply and bleed to death right here in the garden.

Prekeptor was weeping. "Holy Mother, I meant no harm to you. God help her, O Lord of Heaven, who sent away the Wise in their blasphemy, forgive now this Fool who gave himself to your service, and heal the Mother of Thy Son-"

The sides of the world closed up; she could only see in a tunnel straight ahead of her. She saw hands come and take Prekeptor and carry him away from her. She heard Lyra's screaming and weeping. She felt gentle hands take her and lift her up, and someone whispering, "No one has ever been so loyal to a heptarch as to take her own life rather than hear treason."

Is that what I've done? thought Patience. Taken my own life?

And then, as they carried her out of the garden, she thought: I wonder if Angel will approve of my solution to the problem. As for the story, I remember every word of it. Every word.