Rug? Not a woven rug but a thick alpaca fleece. She raised her head to look into a cheerful log fire, crackling and sputtering in a stone fireplace. She could have sworn that the priest had thrown her outside on the steps. His words had said so. To her left, a leather couch . . . another couch on her right. She was indoors in a large and comfortable chamber.
She moaned in fear and pushed herself up on her arms. She had sung in the king's house when she was a child and she gave private recitals now, so she knew how the rich lived. She had seen nothing to better this: floors of polished wood overlain with soft fleeces, walls bearing shelves of books, racks of bows and spears, mounted trophy heads. The furniture was solid, upholstered in browns and russets, subdued and harmonious. Scents of beeswax, leather, and wood smoke hung in the air. Bewildered, she rose to her knees. This was very much a man's room, a rich man's den, cozy and friendly and appealing.
She peered around for a door but saw only full-length drapes of umber velvet, which might equally well conceal windows. None was close enough to explain how she came to be where she was. This was certainly not that fusty little cubicle she had glimpsed in the chapel. On the shelf above the fireplace stood two gold candlesticks, a golden vase of autumn flowers—and a carved crystal figurine of a dancer poised to fly. She scrambled to her feet to stare at it. It stood a little higher than eye level, and with candlelight dancing over the shiny facets, she could easily imagine that it was already flying. There could never be two identical and yet she had smashed . . .
"Thank you. It's very beautiful." The voice came from somewhere behind her.
There had been no one there a moment ago. She knew who must have spoken, who must have re-created the dancer. Her prayer had been granted. She spun around and simultaneously sank to her knees, touching her face to the rug, not daring to look upon the god without permission. Her heart thundered in her throat.
The Man was an ambiguous deity. Creator and destroyer, he must be both feared and adored. As D'mit'ri he was the builder of cities; as Krak'th he shook them down. As Padlopan he was sickness; as Garward, Strength. He was husbandry and battle. As Zath he was Death, as Ken'th he quickened the womb to bear new life. As Karzon he was all of them.
Piol Poet had written the Man into his plays many times, but never as Ken'th, although there were many fine legends of the Lover. Most were variations of the tragic tale of Ismathon, the mortal who pined away and eventually slew herself rather than live without his love. The Trong Troupe would never have performed any play with Ken'th in it.
"It is an exceptionally fine piece," the god said, his voice coming closer. "It cost you dearly, so whatever it is that troubles you must be a serious matter." Then he chuckled. "Are you comfortable down there?"
She had not expected a god to chuckle. "Er . . . yes, Lord." She raised her head a fraction and saw two bare feet. A strong hand reached down and raised her. She kept her face lowered until a finger lifted her chin and she met his smile.
Back in her theater days, she had seen Karzon in his various aspects depicted by many actors—Dolm, Trong himself, Golfren, men with other troupes. He was always portrayed with a beard, often in armor, and whenever possible by a large man. Ken'th did not look as she expected at all. He was younger, for one thing, and not especially big, although his arms and shoulders were solid enough. He had curly hair and a Niolian-style mustache. He wore a sleeveless shirt and knee-length breeches—in green, of course. At least the color was right. But there was no sense of divine majesty about him. Nor did she sense any stunning, overwhelming sexuality. He was just a chunky, cheerful young man, handsome in a rugged sort of way, faintly scented with musk and lavender. He was smiling reassuringly. His eyes . . . perhaps the eyes . . .
"Why not begin by telling me your name?"
She struggled to find her wits. "Eleal Singer, Lord."
"Welcome to my house." He unfastened her cloak, glanced at it approvingly, and tossed it over a couch. He took a step back to look her over. "Mm! You are not only a startlingly beautiful woman, Eleal Singer, but you have exquisite taste in clothes!"
She gasped out her thanks. She had money to indulge her whims now, and this gown was her newest and best, just bought for winter. She had not worn it before—fine white wool, decorated only with big rhinestone buttons down the front and brocade on the collar. She always chose clothes with long skirts to hide her boot; she suspected that the long sleeves and high collar were a reaction to the skimpy things she wore to perform. It was snug around the bodice, though, with a high, tight waist supporting her breasts, and from there it fell full and loose. To have her clothes praised by a god was a heady sensation. She avoided his eye, feeling herself blush.
He led her to a russet leather couch, seating her next to the fire and settling down beside her. She clasped her hands on her knees and stared at them as if she were a fourteen-year-old with her first man.
"And you claim to be my daughter? Who was your mother?"
"Itheria Impresario." When there was no reaction, she continued. "She disappeared for a fortnight, here in Jurg. I know very little about her. She bore me and then she just died, and I was reared by my grandfather, Trong Impresario, and his wife—his second wife, Ambria. She said my mother hadn't been a bad woman, she had . . ." Been seduced by the god, but she couldn't say that. "Pined away for love?"
Ken'th sighed faintly. "That does happen, I'm afraid. I don't recall the name. It could have been me. I'm not usually quite that fickle—only a fortnight? But it is possible, I suppose." He slid an arm around her, making her heart flip.
"You are certainly beautiful enough to be the child of a god. You sing for a living?"
"Yes, Lord."
"Where?"
"Oh, all over the place. I have performed in many of the Vales and at many places here in Jurg." That was all true. The Trong Troupe had traveled. Tigurb'l often arranged for her to perform in private houses.
"Fascinating!" the god said softly. "And you mentioned the Liberator! Are you the Eleal named in the Filoby Testament?"
"Yes, Lord."
"Father?"
"Yes . . . Father." She glanced sideways.
He raised dark eyebrows and waited. He was smiling, but his amusement held none of the mockery the priest's had. He was taking her concern seriously.
Talk . . . "I did what was prophesied. When the Liberator came, I tended him, washed him. He fell very sick, and I nursed him. I did everything I was supposed to, Father!"
Ken'th frowned. "You know, I find I dislike that title? I have no experience at being a father, Eleal. That's not my job. For that you need Visek."
"Of course, Lord!"
"I am god of virility," he said apologetically. "I do have duties. If I tried to keep track of all the bastards I have fathered in the last few hundred years, I would have no time for anything else. You do understand?"
"Yes, of course, Lord!"
"Call me Ken'th."
She hesitated, appalled.
"Go on!" he said, teasing. "You wanted me in the flesh. You have me in the flesh, so call me Ken'th!"
"Yes, Ken'th."
"That's better."
For a moment he just smiled at her. She smiled back with mounting confidence. He was handsome, now she saw him close—handsome and attractive. His face did not at all resemble the face on the statue. Not arrogant, not callous, but kind and trustworthy and sympathetic.
"How old are you?"
"Seventeen . . . Ken'th."
"So when the Liberator came you were only a child. He was not a baby, of course, although the text implied he would be. How old was he?"
"Eighteen, he told me."
"Lovers?"
"Oh no! Of course not!"
The god's arm tightened around her. "And what did you want to tell me about him?"
This was where matters might become just a trifle delicate. Her heart began to speed up again. "He's reported to be up in Joalvale."
"That's the story that's going around, yes."
She drew a few long breaths, as she did just before starting to sing an especially difficult song. "I thought . . . perhaps . . . I wondered if you might want to get in touch with him. If you do, I could identify him for you . . . if you wish. . . ." Of course it was Zath who would be interested in catching the Liberator, but Zath was Karzon and Karzon was Ken'th, although she couldn't in any way relate this chunky, likable young man to the dread god of death.
"An interesting offer!" the god said thoughtfully. "What is wrong with your leg?"
Normally she was furious if anyone mentioned her impairment, but this was her father, so his interest was excusable. "One's shorter than the other." She raised her leg so he could see the thick sole on her boot. "I fell out a window when I was a baby."
"It does not hinder your ability to perform?"
"Not—Well, yes, of course it does! My ambition has always been to be an actor, but I can't clump around a stage like this! I would not be allowed to enter the Tion Festival!" There, she had told him!
And Ken'th murmured sympathetically. He understood! "Let's hear you sing. Sing for me—nothing elaborate, something simple. Something unusual." He took his arm away and reached over the back of the couch to produce a lute. He strummed expertly; it was in perfect tune. "What'll it be?"
She had not expected this! To sing for a god! She racked her brains. "'Woeful Maiden'?"
He smiled and played a verse, although it was an obscure song, one that not many people would know. He was much better than Potstit had ever been. "Higher? Lower?"
"No, no, that's just right!" Daringly, she added, "You play divinely!"
He laughed. "Well, of course!" He began the introduction.
She sang the first verse, but then he stopped and put the lute away.
"Just what I expected. Your voice is reedy, your timing eccentric. You put terrific feeling into the words and get by on drama, but you wouldn't be admitted to the Tion Festival in a thousand years."
"Lord! I mean Father . . ."
He swept her into his arms and squeezed her tightly. He kissed the tip of her nose playfully. "You must be very hot in that dress?"
"I'm your daughter!"
His eyes gleamed in a look she. knew well. "And I'm a god! Gods do not have to obey petty little rules!"
Then he kissed her lips.
It was not an especially long kiss. It did not have to be. When he had done she leaned back and gaped at him. She was limp. No man had ever kissed her like that.
He chuckled with satisfaction. "Now, Eleal Singer, let's have the truth. Not just what you want to believe is the truth, but the real truth. Where do you sing?"
She clenched her teeth. And her fists. But the god was waiting, regarding her with big brown eyes. "Well, several places. I mean . . . sometimes . . . well, Cherry Blossom House."
"So you are a whore!"
"Certainly not!"
He raised his eyebrows. "My, you are a determined little prickleback, aren't you? We'll try some more, then."
He was firm; he did not hurt her, but her struggles were useless against his strength. His lips pressed on hers, his hand stroked her breast—the dress was down around her waist, although she did not know how that had happened. Tingles rippled through her, from her scalp to her toes. She was melting and struck by lightning, both at the same time. Excitement surged through her in fiery waves. No man had ever taken over her body like this, nothing like this had ever happened to her before, she was floating away in clouds of pink fog—but then he stopped.
"Oh, Ken'th, Ken'th . . . Darling . . ." She reached down to remove the dress completely.
He took her hands between his and clasped them. "The real truth now!"
She heard her own voice from far away. "Yes, darling. Yes, I'm a whore. After I sing, Tigurb'l sends men back to my dressing room. I bring in three times what anyone else does, he says. Sometimes he sends me to perform in private houses . . . just for men, of course. I don't want to do these things, but there's no other work for a crippled singer. I was so hungry! Kiss me again, please."
He uttered that surprising chuckle again. "You don't shock me, Eleal. Did you think I would disapprove? You are doing what women should do—aiding men in the performance of my sacrament. And the Liberator?"
One of her hands broke free and began to unbutton his shirt. "I don't care much about him," her voice said. "He was supposed to go to Tion's temple. This was in Sussvale, where the Youth is patron. The priests commanded that D'ward—that's the Liberator's name, D'ward—that D'ward come to the temple, and Kirthien Archpriest said I had done well and Holy Tion would heal my leg, but the Liberator just ran away. He disappeared! So my leg didn't get cured . . ." The memory of that awful injustice flickered faintly through the pink fog. Coward! Ingrate! "He ran away! He betrayed me. I want. . . . You're my father. When I learned that, when we came back to Jurg, I came and prayed to you, here in the temple. Until a priest found me and said I was a dirty little girl and threw me out!"
"I didn't hear you," Ken'th said grumpily. "I may have been away. Or busy."
"Well, this morning I decided you might hear me if I mentioned the Liberator. And if I brought a big offering." She hoped she could stop talking now and he would kiss her again. She had his shirt open and could run her fingers through the manly thatch on his chest.
"You want revenge on the Liberator. . . . No, mostly you hope to bribe me to heal your leg."
"No, no, no! I just want to help you, because you're my—I want to help you!" She tugged one-handed at the big gold buckle of his belt.
Ken'th was frowning, though. "I could cure you, of course, but I'm god of lust, not god of healing. That's one of Tion's attributes. I suppose I could claim that repairing a harlot was within my field, because he certainly plays around in my garden when he's in the mood. Damn you, you little shrew-cat, you've put me in a confounded mess!"
Eleal choked. "M-mess?"
"Mess. If Zath ever finds out I had a lead like you and didn't follow it up . . . Never mind. You can't understand."
Why did he speak of Zath as if he were someone completely different, not just another aspect? She had thrown away her savings, angered a god, probably angered Tigurb'l Tavernkeeper, too, because she was going to be late—and she still had to get out of River Street without being raped. But at the moment none of those things mattered. "Kiss me again. Please!"
"No. I need you with some wits about you. Here's what you're going to do, Eleal Singer. You're going to go and find this D'ward Liberator, you hear? You're to go up to him and put a hand—"
Black panic cut through the pink fog like a sword blade.
"No, no!" She writhed and struggled. "You're not to turn me into a reaper!" A reaper like Dolm Actor, with all those horrible rituals he had known—to slay people with a touch, to walk through locked doors, even to summon Zath himself . . .
"By the Five, you do have resistance, don't you? Tough as marble!"
"Not a reaper! I won't, I won't!"
"I couldn't make you a reaper. That's Zath's speciality. But I have a trick or two of my own. Don't I?" Ken'th smiled and removed her hand from his belt. He spread her arms wide and leaned on her, bringing his lips to hers again.
The world danced for her. She soared into heavens of delight. She melted. But it was all too short, only seconds. When he pulled back from her, she could see his big brown eyes appraising her calmly. She was gasping for breath, soaked all over, quivering violently. More, more!
"Now, Eleal Singer. I shall give you money and have the priests escort you safely back to the whorehouse. Tomorrow you will go and find the Liberator. Get very close to him, touching him. In his bed would be best, but a hand on his arm will do. Then you will sing that song you sang for me. You must never sing it again until you are touching D'ward, you understand? And when you come back, I shall heal your leg for you. I'll find you a nice rich husband—rich, anyway, the two together are rare."
He released her hands, which immediately reached for her bundled dress, to push it off her completely.
He chuckled. "No! Put it on again. Do as I say, and I'll give you what you want when you come back. Truly, I look forward to it! But now you will leave here at once and you will not remember this conversation. When the priests deliver you to your door, you will forget ever coming here. But tomorrow you will do as I have told you."