Dave Duncan - Children of Chaos

There she stretched out on the platform and said a final prayer. The Ancient One was the Lady of Dreams. Send me a dream , Frena prayed. Not that one about the flood and the door. I got that. Something new! Show me something helpful !

♦

The Woman was taking her turn in the front rank around the fire, eight anonymous people huddled up tight for warmth, cowering down in vain effort to stay inside the windbreak of the next row out. The wind was sharp bronze, cutting through all her wrappings of wool and fur, and the cold of the ground seeped upward into her flesh. Her neighbor coughed; other coughs replied. There was not enough air, and what there was burned throats and lungs, cracked lips and nostrils. The men's beards were caked with ice.

Camp had been pitched in a hollow that offered no shelter from the killer wind, and even the hulking Werists lacked energy to pitch tents. That sputtering fire would die out long before dawn. The caravan had not passed even a twiggy shrub in days, but tonight they had found a mummy, some ancient traveler who had died there and just dried up, lying by the wayside. The Heroes had broken the husk in pieces and tipped the last of the oil on it. Thanks to the wind, it burned.

Against the black velvet of the heavens, the stars were beyond belief, webs and gauze of diamond dust. Very far to the west, a conical peak showed over the horizon, gleaming like a ghost. That was Varakats, the ice devils said, the sign that they had crossed over the Edge. But the long descent still lay ahead; everyone understood now that some of them were not going to make it. Perhaps none would, and future travelers would use them as tinder.

The wind was a razor up close; farther away it was a carnivore whining amid the rocks. The worst burden of all was lack of sleep. To lie down was to suffocate in the thin air. From now on, without fuel to melt snow, there would be no drinking water, making thirst a greater torment than hunger or fatigue.

Massive hands grabbed her and dragged her bodily over the people behind her, who ducked and raised arms to defend themselves. She was dumped outside the outer circle, sprawling backward, trying to defend the precious burden inside her parka. The Werist who had done this stepped over the sitters to take her place next the fire.

" You are supposed to protect us, pig !" she cried hoarsely.

He ignored her, either not understanding her tongue or just knowing she lacked strength to cause trouble. The ice devils made no aggressive display of brawny bare limbs up hen as they did on the plains; they wore cocoons of wool and fur like everyone else and then wrapped their palls around on the outside, but they still saw violence as the solution to all problems.

The tiny bundle inside her furs was torpid and cold. She had known since the hostleader called for camp to be pitched that the time had come, but lethargy had stayed her hand. If she did not do the thing now, it would be too late. She crept away from the camp unseen, or if she was seen, no one now cared enough to call her back. No one cared if she lived or died, or if her charge lived or died. Soon they would stop caring if they died themselves, and that would be the end. Then they would all die together from lack of will.

Beyond the first high boulders she located a patch of rock blown clear of dust. What she was to do must be done very quickly. There was no light other than starlight, but darkness was her friend. She could see quite well enough for her purposes, the Mother's purposes.

She threw down her mitts. Her fingers were icy inside them already and would swiftly freeze without them. The cold earth here had been frozen solid for untold ages. She laid a hand on a polished rocky surface and opened her mind to the deep tide of the world, the comforting presence of the Mother. It came instantly, an exigent upwelling of power that startled her, dazzled her, and almost made her pull away. She realized that she had never communicated through raw bedrock before. Always she had known the power as a nourishing force filtered through gentle, living loam. Here the underlying elemental strength was undiluted, undisguised, and all its darker facets shone with terrifying brilliance, as if in this immemorial frozen waste the life force had been frustrated and sought release through her flesh.

Was what she planned even possible? What would such intensity do to the babe? The child might easily be consumed and die, but it could certainly not last another pot-boiling without a blessing, so the risk must be taken.

She selected an angular flake of rock, dragged up a sleeve, and made a cut on the back of her wrist. She let blood dribble on the rock, laid her hand on the stain. Then came recognition, acknowledgment of sacrifice. And love, of course. But ruthless love, love in its most adamantine aspect, the sort of love that will count no costs. Again she hesitated, fearing... But it must be done, for better or worse.

" Mother ," she whispered , " hear me, help me. Grant me strength, Mother, to succor this little one I bring You. Grant her the strength to live, so that she does not die in this horrid place ."

Now she must move fast. She tugged with laces and buttons, clumsy in her haste. There could be little in her teats to suck, and the babe at her breast had not cried for ages. She pulled it out, foul in its soiled wrapping because there had been no usable moss around for days. It whimpered faintly as the cold bit. She wondered if she had waited too long. The suppliant should be stripped for first contact, but there was no time; a body so minute would not survive more than a few heartbeats in this temperature.

She turned the babe over, and made a cut on the underside of the tiny thigh. For a moment she thought there was not enough blood in it to bleed, but then a drop or two fell on the rock.

" Mother, I pray You choose this child to be one of Your own. Take her living body, or take her spirit, as You please. But I beseech You to give her life that she may serve You in future days. "

She pressed the tiny hand to the tinier bloodstains, already frozen. The child uttered a sudden lusty cry, as of outrage at such treatment. Then another, even stronger.

With a shout of joy the woman snatched it up and plunged it back into the warmth of her bosom. It was like embracing a fish, but the tiny lips found her nipple at once and began to suck. She sighed with rapture as she felt the milk surge. A tide of warmth flowed out from her teat, through the babe and through her also. Even the love of a man, even the ecstasies Stavan had been able to inspire in her, could hardly compare with the sucking of a babe.

She closed her garments over her charge, warm already.

" There, there !" she muttered. " Now you are Hers, as I am. But you will live. It is better so ."

♦

When her heart stopped hammering so crazily, Frena rose and found her bronze hand mirror. She examined the back of her thigh by the jerky light of a lamp almost out of oil. She found no scar there, but that was hardly surprising after so long and so much growth. She sprawled back down on the platform, knowing she would sleep no more that night. How could she possibly find five measures of gold, trust Master Pukar if she did, get away with him unobserved to wherever the sacred place was, or even trust him not to deal foul with her then? She had only one more night left.

No headache now—she had made her decision. She knew what she wanted to do. For Paola's sake. But she would need help from the Old One.

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