was more gray than black, suddenly. But Siveni didn’t seem to notice or care.
And there, there, confused-looking, grimy, shadowed, but tall and fair and
bearded, dear and familiar, him … They managed to slow down just enough to
avoid knocking him over, but as soon as his eyes cleared he knew them, and their
embrace was violent and prolonged.
“What-why-how are you-“
“Are you all right? Did it hurt much?”
“No, but- What’s she doing here?”
“She showed us the way. No, Tyr, he means Ischade, don’t look so hurt-“
“We buried you, why didn’t you-“
“I couldn’t leave him. He’s hurt. Look, there’s an arrow through his-“
“You ass, you’re deadf”
“… Leg-yes, I know! But he’s-“
Stillness fell all around them. The black chariot stood hard by, and as the
white-robed figure stepped down from it, Harran looked up. Most carefully he
sank to one knee in the dirty street, laid down the limp, bloodied young man he
was carrying, and kneeling, bowed himself slowly double. He was a priest, and a
healer, and had worked in Death’s shadow before: he knew her when he saw her.
Siveni looked at him, and at Mriga, and tossed her spear away. It lay scorching
the dirt, afire as if it lay yet in the furnace where the thunderbolts were
forged. Her robes shimmered gray, and the Queen’s blinding white, in its light.
Quickly, and none too gracefully-for she had had little practice at this sort of
thing-she went down on her knees in front of the Queen of hell, and bowed her
bright head right down to the dirt. Her helmet slipped off and rolled aside; she