River came within a half-dozen paces of Hunger, but then she began to walk at an angle away from him. Hunger followed, but she kept just out of his reach, like a reluctant horse that didn't want to be harnessed.

He held his hands wide, then knelt upon the field and prostrated himself in submission. How else would she know he meant her no harm?

When he looked up, she stood still, studying him. He made one of the signs of the Order with his right arm, and stood again.

She backed away.

He motioned for her to halt. Then he made another sign. This time she stood still when he took the next step, and the next. One more and he would be able to reach her.

Of course, she was frightened. Who wouldn't be? But he'd catch her, and when she'd calmed, he'd make her understand.

He lunged for her.

But River danced out of his reach.

He made another sign of the Order and took a step. It's me, River. Can't you see past this form? It's me, River. Can't you see past this form?

Another step. She danced farther away.

He would have to do this the hard way then. He picked up a stone, made sure she saw he had it, and hurled it at her head. Not too hard, but enough that she'd have to duck. Enough to distract her.

But instead of ducking, River rolled away and was instantly on her feet again.

Would that he had a voice. Hunger expelled the air in his gullet in frustration.

She took another step back.

Hunger lost patience and charged her. One, two, three steps, her hair flickering through his fingers, and then she was into the wood, running, lively and elusive as a deer.

He crashed along after her, over a fallen stump, around a thick bramble, down a ravine, expecting all the time to lose her, to see her marvelous burst of speed, but she did not widen her lead on him. Perhaps it was the dark or this new form he wore that gave him greater speed; whatever the cause, he could keep pace, and that gave him great satisfaction, for she would tire. He would not. It might take some time, but she would tire, and he would not.

She's leading you along, you fool.

The Mother. But she had been sleeping.

Turn around, and she'll come to us.

Hunger resisted her. I won't kill her. I won't kill her.

Turn around. Now! Run back in the direction you came.

Hunger could not resist. He turned and ran. Back she pushed him, around a bend, down the trail until the darkness of the ravine lay at his feet.

Here, said the Mother, this is where you'll take her. Quick now. Hide in the shadows. this is where you'll take her. Quick now. Hide in the shadows.

I won't, he said. But he did. He descended into the darkness and stood waiting, the exposed roots of a tree at his shoulder. He prayed River did not return, prayed the Mother was wrong.

I don't want her, said Hunger.

Oh, but you do.

He knew what she wanted River for. Your ugly children can rot. Your ugly children can rot.

You simple creature. Did you think I would waste her on something like you? No, she will become one of those that govern.

He could not imagine of what she spoke. But he did not have time to ponder it through, for River appeared at the top of the ravine in a shaft of moonlight. She paused, silent and lovely as a moth.

She took a step down into the ravine and paused again, listening, paused like a huntress stalking her prey. Another step, another pause, another step.

The Mother had been right. River was coming back to find him, to lure him, to make sure he didn't find the others.

Another step, pause, another, until she stood only feet away. Down in the depths of the darkness of the ravine, he could only just see her face and the pale whites of her eyes. He smelled her stink. But underneath that, Hunger caught mint and sweat and the smell of fresh-cut barley.

He pushed his fingers into the bank of dirt at his side. He would throw it at her in warning, and she would run away.

Now, said the Mother. Take her! Take her!

At that very moment, as if River had heard the voice in Hunger's mind, she turned and looked at him.

He could not fight the compulsion.

Forgive me, sister. Lords, forgive me.

He struck and, with his rough hand, snatched her by the face.

SPOOR.

H.

unger could not contain his rage. He hated the Mother. Hated her.

He quickly changed his grip on River and threw her over his shoulder. With his free hand, he grasped one of the roots exposed by the bank of the ravine. The root was as thick as a man's leg and rough with bark.

Hunger gave the root an angry shove. Other roots popped, the tree shook and listed to one side, then the root he held broke with a loud crack.

This infuriated him even more, and he jumped to the top of the ravine, River still upon his shoulder. He struck the tree squarely in the trunk with all his might. Once. Twice. Each time hating the Mother more. His blows shook the tree, rustling the branches and leaves above and knocking a dead branch loose from the canopy. The branch crashed through the lower branches and fell to the ground a dozen paces away with a heavy thud, only to be followed moments later by numerous other smaller branches.

He gave the trunk one more shove that sent the whole tree crashing down, breaking other trees as it fell, lifting the earth with its root pan under his feet.

He jumped to get out of the way of the lifting root pan and realized that he could have killed River. If that branch had come down upon him, it would have broken her like an anvil upon a gourd.

He sagged with dismay. The Mother made him destroy everything that was most precious to him. And it did not matter that she'd not made him shuck River's soul from her body. This only meant River would have the agony of living in the darkness with the other woman before her end came.

River lay on his shoulder struggling against his grasp like some animal caught in a snare. It could not be comfortable being held there for great distances. So he brought her around front and cradled her like a father might his babe. Her face, he knew, would be bruised from his initial grip.

He tried to stroke her hair to calm her, but River did not stop struggling. She pounded at him and then began to tear at his eyes.

She would hurt herself more than anything else, so he caught both her hands in his ragged mouth and held them there.

I cannot die. I cannot disobey.

He held River close.

I am so sorry, sister. So very, very sorry. He repeated it over and over in his mind, then began to make his way back toward the Mother's caves.

After only a dozen paces, he heard the distinct thock of someone stepping on and breaking a branch behind him.

He stopped and turned toward the sound. It was not an animal, for no beast that size would have remained close after he'd knocked over the tree. And it was not the sound of a branch falling.

Leaves rustled as if someone had tripped.

Someone following him in the dark. The burning son, perhaps. Or the older son. Or maybe even Zu Hogan himself.

She would take them as well, the Mother would. She would command him to kill them, and he would do it.

Horror rose in him at the thought, and he turned and ran away from the stalker. Through the trees, crashing through the brush, trying to cover River from the branches that whipped him. He ran up a slight hill and stopped to listen for his pursuer.

The sound of running footsteps rose from the forest below. A light sound, not a heavy animal. Not a large person.

He turned to run again. He would outdistance him in the dark, but what if he couldn't outrun this pursuer? The family was all part of the Sleth nest, the Order, he corrected himself. What if his pursuer followed him all the way back to the Mother's lair?

They'd find the Mother, that's what. And she'd take them there.

Or would she?

Zu Hogan had fought him in the tower. But what if there had been three or four with his strength? Perhaps it would have been Zu Hogan taking him, instead of the other way around. The Mother had said something once about humans long ago, rising up against their masters. Perhaps Zu Hogan knew such secrets. Perhaps Zu Hogan's failing to stop him in the sea tower had been more a function of surprise than strength.

His terror turned to hope. He could lead whoever was down there to the Mother. And that person in turn would lead Zu Hogan. And if not, Hunger could come back and lead Zu Hogan himself. Hunger looked down the dark, wooded hill.

Nothing moved. They were waiting for him to continue.

He grabbed a branch and broke it smartly to announce his position. Then he turned and walked away. A few paces later he broke another branch, and a few paces after that, yet another.

Hunger walked through the remaining hours of the morning, keeping only slightly ahead of the person following him. When dawn arrived he stood atop a ridge and looked down at the small valley below. Just beyond the edge of the wood, still in the shadow of the hill, a flock of sheep grazed the grass bordering both sides of the road running toward a village. The sun lit the fields and thatch roofs with a rosy light. Still farther along, a man drove a wain laden with a fifteen-foot pile of hay. Two boys sat atop the pile, stabilizing themselves with one hand on the side pole while sharing what looked to be a red cheese round. They passed by a woman throwing kitchen scraps to her white-and-black-speckled chickens.

This was the village closest to the Mother's lair. He'd smelled these villagers with longing on many an evening. These were the homes he'd stolen about in the darkness, listening to the humans, tempting his appetite, until the Mother had ordered him to stay away.

He had not heard the person shadowing him for some time. But that probably only meant it was light enough for them to see the way better and avoid things that cracked in the dark.

This also meant he could leave visible spoor. Nevertheless, it was quicker to follow sound. So he broke yet another branch and continued along the ridge past the village, past the stand of fat spruce from which the Mother had called him, and to the entrance that stood up on the hill above the swamp.

There were three entrances he knew about. The one in the cliffs by the sea. This one. And another found in the buried ruin of the stone-wights on the other side of the hill.

Hunger stood at the entrance, the small stream running out of the lopsided mouth and down the hill. He looked down at River and released her hands from his mouth. She clutched her shoulders in pain.

He was sorry. He should have thought about the pain and numbness that would result from holding her arms in one position for so long. He smoothed her hair back from her face with one finger. She did not pull away this time. She looked so fragile in his arms.

For a moment he lost his courage. The Mother was cunning and strong. How could beings with such frail bodies hope to contend with her?

But they had. She had said so herself. Hunger looked back. He hoped whoever followed him had such power. He felt the Mother's compulsion upon him. Hunger stepped into the thin, cold water with River in his arms and disappeared into the dark.

BODY AND SOUL.

H.

unger laid River down next to Purity in the ink-black chamber. Both River and Purity cried out at first, but then they recognized each other and began to sob. For joy or despair, Hunger did not know. He left to get some of the wood he'd stored in another chamber to make a fire.

He'd left Purity with fire in the beginning, but she'd tried to run away, and the Mother had made him steal hobbles from a smith and put them on her ankles. The hobbles had taken all thoughts of flight out of her. And, in truth, it would have made escape impossible, for there was a steep cliff she'd have to scale to escape, if she could even find it in the dark. He supposed he'd have to get hobbles for River as well.

River and Purity talked in low voices, but they stopped when they heard him enter his chamber. He placed his small nest of tinder and kindling a pace from them on the floor, struck the flint against his fire-steel until three sparks fell into the tinder. Then he blew. A small flame leapt up. He added small bits of kindling. The fire grew. And he finally added a small stick.

He felt the Mother behind him.

Had she discovered his plan? A small panic rose within and he turned.

But it was not the Mother that stood before him. Instead, a woman of strange and exquisite beauty, clothed in brightness, looked upon him. Dark hair tumbled down her naked shoulders. Pale shoulders. Pale skin. He'd seen this woman before: the memory of that face lay just under the surface of his mind. But she was not human. Was this another of the Mother's kind then, come to steal the souls of these women?

He rose in alarm and prepared to defend them.

"You've lost your focus," the beauty said.

Hunger could not tell if she spoke the words with her mouth or directly in his mind, but he knew it was indeed the Mother.

"You are beautiful," he said in both wonder and confusion. But this was some trick. He looked closer to see if he could detect the lie, then reached out and touched her arm, but she was as real as the rocks about him.

What kind of power must one have to change the very form of one's body? Surely, more than anyone in the Order, and that thought filled him with dismay.

He looked at her again and swore her visage shifted. "What are you?" he asked.

She ignored his question and held up the stomach that contained the souls of his family. "You still fight me. Have I ever given you a reason not to believe I will do what I say?"