“The Good Goddess was here before the Ilsigi came.” He pulled off his mask and answered softly. “She rules the wastelands, and the lost spirits who dwell there. But mostly, men do not pray to Her…”
“Mostly?” asked Kadakithis. “When do they pray to Her, limner?”.
Lalo kept his gaze on the patterned tiles, his skin prickling as if even talking about it could bring the fever on. “I was a boy when the last great plague came here,” he said in a low voice. “We worshiped Her then. She brings the fever. She is the fever, and She is its cure….”
“Wrigglie superstition,” began the Prince, but his voice lacked conviction.
Molin Torchholder sighed. “I don’t like to give recognition to these native cults, but it may be necessary. I don’t suppose you remember any details of the ceremonies?” His grip tightened on Lalo’s shoulder again.
“Ask the priests of Us!” Lalo shrugged free. “1 was a child, and my mother kept me inside for fear of the crowds. They said there was a great sacrifice. They dragged the carcass outside the city to attract the demons away and burned the bodies of the dead and their possessions in a great pyre. What I remember was men and women lying with each other in the streets, with drops of blood from the sacrifice still red on their brows.”
Kadakithis shuddered, but Shupansea said that she had heard of similar customs in the villages of her own land.
“That may be so,” said the High Priest repressively, “but the theological implications are unfortunate, particularly now. My Prince, I am afraid that your formal betrothal will have to be delayed until this dies down.”