They were at the edge of a field.
Before them, in the cold silver light, the rows of scarecrows were all in motion, limbs writhing like gauze-wrapped serpents or blind worms. Black blood was streaming down the flowers of the horrid plants had opened, exuding clouds of pollen that flashed like phosphorescence, riding the currents of night air.
And Nimander wanted to rush into that field, into the midst of the crucified victims. He wanted to taste that pollen on his tongue, on the back of his throat. He wanted to dance in the god’s pain.
Skint iek, weeping, was dragging him back-though it seemed he was fighting his own battle, so taut were his muscles, so contradictory their efforts that they fell against one another. On to the ground.
Clawing on their bellies now, back down the dirt track.
The pollen-the pollen is in the air. We have breathed it, and now-gods below-now we hunger for more.
Another terrible shriek, the voice a physical thing, trying to climb into the sky-but there was nothing to grasp, no handholds, no footholds, and so it shot out to the sides, closing icy cold grips upon throats. And a voice, screaming into their faces.
You dance! You drink deep my agony! What manner of vermin are you? Cease! Leave me! Release me!
A thousand footsteps charging through Nimander’s brain, dancers unending, unable to stop even had they wanted to, which they did not, no, let it go on, and on-gods, for ever!
There, in the trap of his mind, he saw the old man and his blood-and nectar-smeared face, saw the joy in the eyes, saw the suppleness of his limbs, his straightened back-every crippling knob and protuberance gone. Tumours vanished. He danced in the crowd, one with all the others, exalted and lost in that exaltation.
Nimander realized that he and Skintick had reached the main street. As the god’s second cry died away, some sanity crept back into his mind. He pushed himself on to his feet, dragging Skintick up with him. Together, they ran, staggering, headlong for the inn-did salvation beckon? Or had Nenanda and the others fallen as well? Were they now dancing in the fields, selves torn away, flung into that black, turgid river?
A third cry, yet more powerful, more demanding.
Nimander fell, pulled down by Skintick’s weight. Too late-they would turn about, rise, set out for the field-the pain held him in its deadly, delicious embrace-too late, now-
He heard the inn’s door slam open behind them.
Then Aranatha was there, blank-eyed, dark skin almost blue, reaching down to grasp them both by their cloaks. The strength she kept hidden was unveiled suddenly, and they were being dragged towards the door-where more hands took them, tugged them inside-
And all at once the compulsion vanished.
Gasping, Nimander found himself lying on his back, staring up at Kedeviss’s face, wondering at her calculating, thoughtful expression.