Puzzled, Frevven ran up the narrow spiral staircase. When he reached the top and stepped into the little room with its unobstructed view in all directions, he was uncomfortably aware of a dark swirl of dread pervading the ambient. Anieva and the Sime on watch stared out over the nighttime ocean. By a combination of zlinning and straining his eyes, he could just about make out the details of the panorama below.

Across the moon-sparkled surface of Innsfrey Harbor, an astonishing number of boats ghosted along, driven by the light wind. They were obviously converging on the Center's long pier, each boat crowded with people and brightly lit up by the torches and lanterns they carried.

"What the bloody shen is going on?" Frevven muttered.

The Sime on watch shrugged. "I haven't the faintest idea, Hajene. They came around Sandy Point half an hour ago. When I saw they were headed right for us, I sent word down to Anieva."

"I don't know what it is, but I don't like it," Frevven concluded. "Ring the alarm. I want everyone on the alert."

"Yes, Hajene."

Anieva bounded down the stairs, and the Center's alarm bell began its raucous clamor. Frevven took one last look at the fleet of boats converging on the Center, and a shiver of apprehension ran along his spine. Some of them were small private sloops and cutters, but there were a couple of fishing schooners as well.

Even as he watched, one of the larger vessels came up into the wind and dropped anchor. Frevven fancied he could hear the splash. With a flurry of organized activity, boats were put over the side and filled rapidly with people.

He frowned and hurried down the stairs. Chaynek waited for him at the bottom, curbing the curiosity he felt and focussing concerned support on the channel.

Anieva had just finished her description of what was happening outside to the assembled group of staff personnel. In place of the disciplined commotion that usually broke out when the alarm was sounded, there was only silence as Frevven reached the lower part of the stairway. The ambient crackled with tension.

Frevven looked out over the twenty-odd people comprising his staff. Suddenly they seemed a very small group, compared to the wide, wind-swept darkness around them.

"I don't know what this means any more than you do," he said quietly. "But let's go out and see. The whole thing may be nothing but some kind of diversion to draw our attention. I want someone stationed by every entrance to the building and in any first floor room that faces directly onto the street. And I want those people to be Simes," he added grimly, as several of the staff turned to go.

Frevven went through the door leading out to the pier and the Morning Star, with Chaynek close on his heels. His perception sharpened by need, the channel slid hyperconscious, but he was overwhelmed by Chaynek, still focussed on him. "Ease off," he ordered softly. "I want to find out what's going on out there."

Chaynek flickered brief distrust, then did as he was asked.

Frevven zlinned the darkness glowing with the interwoven, shifting brilliance of the combined nager of the crowd of Gens on the boats. Unable to pick out details with his eyes, he still could tell quite clearly what was happening. And he could tell the people on those boats were angry, murderously angry.

Some of the smaller boats had sailed right up onto the beach, which had been left wide and damp by the falling tide. Others hovered near the end of the pier, making short tacks back and forth. Skiffs from a half dozen anchored schooners rowed straight in toward the sand, loaded with passengers.

People were coming from the town now also, drawn by the strange events on the beach. They gathered in small, whispering knots in the shadows, keeping a wary distance from either side of the Center's long pier. Lights flared in houses all up and down the shoreline, as word spread through the town.

Frevven raised his hand, stopping his party while they were only partway out the pier, still over dry land. The menace in the ambient could not be mistaken, and he didn't want anyone too far from the relative safety of the Center's main building, in case there was trouble.

Anieva came up alongside Frevven, her face set in a grimace of distaste. "What do you make of this?" she said softly. "I've never zlinned such an awful ambient."

Frevven just shook his head and shrugged his shoulders. He sorted through the confusing fields for the one he was sure he'd find somewhere, the one he was certain was responsible for all this, whatever it meant. His blurred eyes couldn't pick out clearly the gray-robed figure seated triumphantly in a boat just touching the sand, but Frevven would recognize that distorted nager anywhere. Richt was strangely quiescent. He hadn't taken control of the ambient yet, but Frevven had no doubt he could do so, anytime he wished.

He nudged Chaynek with his elbow, pointing unerringly with finger and tentacle. "That's Clarendon Richt."

"The one in the stern, or the one in the bow?" Chaynek asked, squinting into the darkness. "I can't see him too well."

"The tall one in the stern. He's standing up now."

Richt waited until his boat had been pulled ashore, disdaining to get the bottom of his robe wet by climbing out too soon. He stepped proudly onto the beach and strode towards the pier, surrounded by his anonymous hooded disciples.

The inchoate ambient began to take form, shaped and focussed by Richt's field. Frevven edged closer to Chaynek, then clenched his hands around the waist-high railing at the side of the pier and waited.

People streamed onto the beach from all directions now, but the gray-robed Watchkeepers surged to the front of the crowd to form a wall around their leader. Richt got close enough so that even Frevven could see him clearly before he stopped. He crossed his arms, the medallion he wore on his chest glinting in the flickering torchlight. Not far from the pilings supporting the pier, he stopped and glared up at Frevven and the small group of Simes and Gens standing behind and around him.

Frevven stared directly down at him, putting all the scorn and disdain he could muster into his voice. "What's the meaning of this, Reverend Richt? What are you doing here at this hour of the night?"

Richt raised his arm in the dramatic gesture Frevven had seen him use in his church, pointing up to the heavens and then sweeping down sideways, taking in all of the Simes on the raised walkway.

"Accursed ones!" he shouted. "Murderers and drinkers of souls! There are those who think to convince us that you are not devils!" His voice resounded with condemnation and self-righteous anger. The crowd's murmurs died away to an uneasy silence.

Richt's accusing finger stabbed directly at Frevven. "You," he said, "have demanded the return of the murderer of Deacon Allenby. Very well. The devil may claim his own."

At a gesture from Richt, Janni Cabrell was thrust roughly into the circle of torchlight in front of the pier and shoved down onto her knees. Her long black hair hung in tangles around her dirt-streaked face, and her hands appeared to be tied behind her back. It took knowledge to tie a Sime's hands that way. The ropes had to be arranged in just the right position, so the slightest attempt to augment and break them would put an intolerable pressure on the sensitive laterals.

Frevven ached to go to the girl. He could zlin her need, although she was hardly a week past her Kill. She must have been badgered and tormented into augmenting, to drive her once again this close to attrition.

He longed to jump the railing and serve that awful need. But she was outside the Center, officially out-Territory. He didn't have his retainers with him and dared not go down there without them.

And Richt knew it.

"Here is your precious darling, Hajene Aylmeer. Do you still want her back?" he jibed.

Kurt leaned over the railing. "It wasn't her fault," he shouted. "We could have prevented it, if we'd been able to get there. Janni had no choice."

Anieva grabbed Kurt's shoulder, as if afraid he might leap over the railing and down into that menacing crowd. Voices were raised in anger, protest, argument, confusion.

Janni staggered to her feet, her face contorted into an inhuman grimace. The mob pulled back, even Richt's Watchkeepers taking a step away, looking at their leader uncertainly. She turned to Richt, the sheer hatred in her voice cutting through the noise of the crowd.

"I'm glad I killed Allenby. I chose my victim deliberately. But I only wish it could have been you!"

She lunged at the Master Watchkeeper. He side-stepped adroitly and grabbed her bound wrists, twisting them and forcing her down to her knees once again. Janni stifled a scream of pain.

"You have heard it from her own mouth. Are there any who still doubt my words? Let them come forward and speak for this devil, if so." No one moved. "Destroy the monsters, and all their works!" Richt nodded, and one of the robed figures raised his torch, waving it in what was obviously a pre-arranged signal. From the boats still hovering off the end of the pier, torches arced across the black water to land on the Morning Star.

The furled mainsail burst into flame, the canvas dry and brittle. The boat would burn quickly. And if it didn't, people stood poised with more torches ready to throw.

Frevven turned swiftly to catch Anieva's arm as she gasped and started to go to the defense of her beloved cutter. That might be exactly what the attackers wanted.

"No," he whispered grimly, "it's only wood and cloth and metal. It's not worth your life. Let it burn."

The other Sime's nager convulsed in torment as the masts caught fire. Then she bit her lip and nodded, and Frevven released her. He turned back to the railing and the scene on the beach below. Pushing his glasses up against his nose, he tried for an assurance he did not feel.

"All right, Reverend, you've made your point. Now give us the girl and tell everyone to go home. The fun's over."

Richt jerked Janni to her feet, pulling her in front of him.

"Oh, no, Hajene Aylmeer," he said, too politely. "The fun's not over yet. Not by a long shot. We'll deal with the girl. You can watch, if you like, you and your friends up there. But I'd advise you all to pack your bags and start running instead. Because after we're finished with her, we're going to burn more than just your boat. We're going to burn your precious Center, along with anyone who's still foolish enough to be in it." He turned to the crowd. "Aren't we?"

There were a number of shouted agreements, but not enough to satisfy Richt. "I said, `Aren't we?' Does someone wish to disagree?" The gray-robed Watchkeepers looked ostentatiously into the mob, ready to note faces and names. A woman stepped forward as if to challenge Richt, but her husband pulled her back quickly. No one else dared speak up.

At a gesture from their leader, the Watchkeepers closed ranks ever more tightly, torches thrust before them, shotguns and knives held ready in their hands.

From out of the press of bodies, Lem Cabrell was shoved into the clear space before Richt and Janni.

"Look, all of you who would still doubt me, and see God's judgment on this misguided and unrepentant heretic!" Richt announced. "His own daughter will destroy him!"

Lem stood straight and glared at Richt, taking in the situation in a glance. "I'm prepared to offer my life for Janni's," he said calmly, holding out his hands to the girl.

This wasn't to the preacher's liking. A quick jerk of his head brought two of the Watchkeepers to Lem's side. One grabbed his arms and the other splashed something from a small bottle onto a handkerchief and held it to Lem's nose.

Frevven felt the small glow of Lem's defiant bravery dissolve under the impact of the fear-inducing drug, even as Richt loosed the rope from Janni's arms and pushed her toward her father.

All rationality destroyed by the insidious drug, Lem screamed in pure terror as he saw the hungry look on his daughter's face. He backed away, but he was blocked by the Watchkeepers, their torches and weapons forming an impenetrable wall around him and Janni. He cowered at their feet, babbling and begging. Someone kicked him away, back into the circle.

Janni moved jerkily towards him, fighting her need at every step, clinging to the last shreds of sanity. But she was unable to resist the raw terror Lem projected. She lunged sideways in an attempt to break out of the circle, but the Watchkeepers stood firm. Lem's fear blazed like a beacon. Try as she might, she wouldn't be able to escape its potent influence.

The encircling Watchkeepers kept their fields steady, calm and dull and not particularly attractive. An air of righteous faith seemed to banish the fear that should have been natural to them under the circumstances.

At a signal from Richt, the circle tightened, pushing Janni yet nearer to Lem. He got to his feet, rushed across to the other side. And was repulsed, but the Watchkeepers sagged backward, coming closer to the pier. Lem fell at Richt's feet, pleading for mercy.

Frevven measured the distance separating him from that ghastly tableau. Calling on scarce reserves of selyn, he vaulted over the railing and down to the sand. His sudden appearance broke the edge of the circle. Frevven snatched a torch from one of the surprised Watchkeepers, tossing it out into the crowd to add to the confusion. Stunned, the Watchkeepers drew back from him.

The channel held his hands carefully at his sides, laterals retracted, but every line of his body spelled tension. He was too close to need, and he didn't require the ronaplin oozing down the sides of his hands to remind him of how much of a pretense his apparent calm truly was.

Then Chaynek landed behind him with a heavy thud. Frevven swore to himself but kept his expression from showing anything. Chaynek's powerful nager edged closer, cutting the raw edge of Frevven's need.

"What are you doing down here, you shendi-flamed fool?" Frevven hissed softly to the Gen in Simelan.

"Truly, I might ask you the same thing," was Chaynek's quiet reply.

Richt reacted to this change in the situation by ordering his Watchkeepers to close the side of the circle, forcing them all out and away from the pier before anyone else could jump down.

Frevven held out his hands to Janni, hoping he could attract her away from Lem. Without his retainers, he was now legally in trouble, but he tried not to think about that. Lure Janni away from her father, show this mob he could safely serve her need, and maybe everything would be all right. He raised his showfield, simulating a Gen, imagining Gen fear, Gen terror.

Janni turned to him, zlinning, not seeing. Confusion in her face, she turned from the channel to Chaynek, who stood a little behind him, his field at such close range an even brighter beacon than her father's or Frevven's. She lunged in a burst of augmentation.

Frevven moved instinctively to intercept her. She mustn't have his Donor. Chaynek was his.

He caught the girl, forcing her into the Sime/Sime transfer grip. Taking advantage of her aroused need, he poured selyn into her system, hoping she wouldn't abort on him.

When he released her, she collapsed onto the sand, hugging her knees to her chest and sobbing. Frevven would have liked to have knelt beside her and calmed her, but there were other problems to consider. Janni was safe enough, for the time being.

He turned to face Richt, uncomfortably aware of Lem still cowering in induced terror at the Master Watchkeeper's feet.

Hesitation and uncertainty surged through the ambient, but it was overlaid with fear. No one would dare raise a voice against the Watchkeepers. Their very anonymity added to the fear invoked by their presence.

Frevven realized he could destroy that shield of anonymity very easily. He didn't have to see their faces in order to know who they were. What if the unnamed disciples should be named? Would that defuse the situation?

"No one hides behind a mask if they truly do God's work," he challenged. "Show your faces, and take responsibility for your actions!" He turned to Chaynek, whispering, "Back off a little. I've got to concentrate." Obediently, the Gen damped his previous concentration on the channel.

Frevven raised one hand, carefully keeping his tentacles sheathed. He pointed at the hooded figure to Richt's right. "Farika Snow," he said. He turned to the next figure, putting the name to the nager he could zlin. "Farley Danielson." And the next. "Rita Andalfi­-no. Her daughter, Sancha."

Exclamations broke out in the crowd as Frevven continued around the circle.

"Witchcraft!"

"Take off the hoods! Let's see if he's right!" another voice demanded loudly.

Richt flared fury. He stooped down and dragged Lem to his feet, holding the still-terrified Gen in front of him.

"Aylmeer!" he yelled suddenly, shoving Lem roughly forward.

Frevven turned at the sound of his name, his focussed concentration on the identities of the Watchkeepers abruptly broken. The channel winced as he reacted to Lem's field. Chaynek moved closer, one hand already reaching for Frevven as his nager solidified in an effort to shield him.

Lem stumbled and fell into Frevven's arms.

Frevven tried to force himself to move away, but his handling tentacles closed reflexively around the Gen's arms, even as his laterals flicked out. Lem's nager spiked upward into pure panic.

Oh, it was nice. Frevven had never expected to feel that sheer delight of unadulterated terror ever again, that tantalizing promise of ecstasy to come. It had been so long, and it would be so easy. Oh, this was marvelous, this was­-

This was Lem Cabrell, who'd risked his life and well-being by siding with the Simes. This was no nameless, faceless Gen. This was his friend. What had he been thinking?

Deliberately, Frevven released his hold on Lem. The Gen crumpled down onto the sand, frantically crawling away.

But Frevven stood tottering on the edge of a fine madness, unable to suppress entirely his body's reaction to experiencing Lem's fear. He was too much in need, and for too long had denied that need.

The crowd faded out of existence, all danger forgotten now, and Frevven saw only Clarendon Richt, his irritating skewed nager all too apparent. It disrupted even the calming effect of Chaynek's controlled field, as the Donor fought to bring his concentration to bear on the channel.

Frevven turned to Richt, his mind full of the preacher's loathsome nager. He felt Richt's field shift as he became aware of the channel's intention. Yes. Give him a moment to learn terror.

Frevven savored it. He felt the edges of his mouth turn upwards into a deadly grin, as Richt began to back away.

"I can stop you," the preacher babbled frantically. "Don't try it, Sime."

It took Frevven a moment to realize Richt was speaking Simelan. Yes, there was a way a Gen could defend himself against an attacking Sime, but it took courage. Instead of pulling away, a Gen could accept the transfer grip, but slide his fingers up the Sime's arms to a certain point where the selyn transport nerves ran close to the surface, exposed. The slightest pressure at that point could maim a Sime horribly. Sufficient pressure could kill.

Could Richt do that? It took calm and courage. Neither of those qualities showed in his nager just now, only the bright edge of panic.

An out-Territory Gen shouldn't even know about that. But an out-Territory Gen shouldn't be speaking Simelan either.

"You haven't got the guts," Frevven rasped, still in Simelan.

Richt had backed into the press of the crowd by now. They began to scatter behind him.

Chaynek's nager twitched with startlement and he exclaimed softly, "Darnay Tandessen. It is you, isn't it?"

Frevven had to force his mind to understand Chaynek's words. Who was Darnay Tandessen? Oh, yes, the Donor Chaynek had mentioned knowing a long time ago. The one who had seen his fiancee killed by a disjunct channel and then been attacked himself.

"No. My name is Clarendon Richt. Darnay Tandessen is dead." But Richt was babbling, still backing away from the channel.

So intense was Richt's terror that Frevven could almost see himself through the preacher's eyes, frozen grin contorting his face, unseeing eyes narrowed dangerously. But there was another channel's face superimposed over his own, a young man with light hair and blue eyes.

The channel Darnay knew from long ago?

Frevven decided to play out the game. "Confess, Richt. You're a phoney. You were a Donor once," he said loudly in English, forcing the words to come out steady although he felt like shrieking in wild anger. "You aren't worthy of God's grace. You've given your soul to the demons. Confess," he persisted, taking a step closer. "Or die enmeshed in your sins."

Voices muttered in the crowd now, although Frevven hardly heard them. He concentrated on Richt, deliberately attempting to terrify the man into making the admission that would forever discredit him in the eyes of his flock.

Richt fell to his knees. "No. No. I believe with perfect faith. I am saved!"

"You are damned. As a liar and a fake. You are soiled, impure. And you have dared to lead God's people? Confess. Confess, Darnay Tandessen!"

Frevven stood over Richt now. He reached down to grab him, tentacles extended.

The man screamed and scuttled away, caught in his own trap. "I confess!" he shrieked. Then, more calmly, getting to his feet and straightening his robe. "It's true, I was once the one you call Darnay. But I have repented. I have seen the light. I am saved!"

Disgusted, Frevven willed himself to step back from Richt. If he could appeal to the crowd, say the right thing, he might cash in on the preacher's admission. But he found himself unable to move, the words frozen in his throat. Richt's nager held him, drew him, fascinated him. He could not disengage. He wanted the man, more even than he wanted Chaynek. Wanted the terror and pain he knew he could force from Richt.

He tried to tear himself loose from that awful fixation, and could not.

"Get away from me!" Richt demanded, regaining some of his composure as he became aware of the channel's hesitation. "Begone, you vile abomination!"

" You are the abomination, not me!" Frevven hissed, remembering the insight he had had during the service he had led. "You have made hateful the very idea of God! Better, far better, it would have been, if you had not invoked God's name at all, than to have made of the Holy One the justification for your hatred and fear!"

The rage Frevven had suppressed for years overtook him then. Everything except Richt seemed to fade away into a red haze of violent hatred. There was only one way to stop all this, and that was by stopping Richt. He would destroy the Master Watchkeeper, and it would feel good!

Give him a moment. Let him think he might be able to get away. Play with him, as the Raiders had often played with their victims, wringing every last bit of sadistic torment from them before a Kill.

This would be easy. And it would silence forever the echoes of the voices in Frevven's head, the voices that never ceased to condemn him for what he was, the echoes that reflected and reverberated down through the years from his childhood, the sanctimonious sermons and Jozanna's desperate, whispered prayers. He could erase all that, by erasing Richt.

And he would enjoy it.

Unaware of anything else except the red fog of hatred through which he moved, Frevven knew he was stalking Richt in killmode, but he didn't really care.

His hands caught the preacher's arms, slipping underneath the loose sleeves of his gray robe. Strong handling tentacles secured his prey. Fixed on Richt and gleefully revelling in his target's swelling terror, Frevven hardly noticed Chaynek move next to him until the Donor's field impinged on Richt's, getting in the way.

Frevven didn't want what Chaynek offered. He snarled a curse, warning the Gen away.

"Frevven, don't do this," Chaynek said softly. "I'm here. Come to me. You don't want Richt, and you know it. You want me."

You? Frevven thought fiercely. Why should I want you? As long as I've known you, you've been so bloody-shen sure that you had all the answers. I could never do anything right, never live up to your standards. Why on earth should I want you?

Frevven shook his head slowly, his eyes never leaving Richt. He understood what Chaynek was trying to do, but it wouldn't work. Not this time, Chaynek. Not this time.

Chaynek's field swirled and crystallized into a burning promise, focussed, controlled, and solid. It was pure invitation. If he allowed Chaynek to mesh with him, to take him into the pre-transfer commitment of trautholo, the Donor would have successfully lured him away from his fixation on Richt.

Once before Frevven had felt the full focus of Chaynek's nager directed at him. Once before, at his disjunction crisis. Chaynek, bright and shining, everything he could ever imagine wanting in a Gen.

And he had turned from Chaynek, throwing himself at Muryin Farris for transfer instead, because that's what he'd had to do in order to successfully disjunct. He had been able to refuse Chaynek then, despite the overwhelming attraction the Gen's nager held for him, for he had sworn to do anything to avoid the Kill, even if that meant never taking a Gen again in transfer for the rest of his life.

Enough! he commanded himself sternly. Enough of yesterday! This is now.

"It won't work, Chaynek," he muttered through his frozen smile, banishing his memories. "Back off."

"Frevven, please." Chaynek faltered, and his marvelous smooth nager unravelled slightly at the edges. "I'm not playing games with you. I'll serve you, right now if you wish. Let go of him."

Frevven snarled, ignoring Chaynek's plea. He pulled Richt into transfer position, laterals seeking the Gen's arms. All he lacked was the fifth contact point.

Chaynek held out his hands in the classic invitation to transfer. "Let him go and come to me. I won't shen you this time. I swear it, unto Zeor."

The torchlight gleamed on the gold of the ring on Chaynek's finger. Frevven couldn't see the Zeor crest on the ring, since Chaynek's hands were turned palm upwards, but he saw the symbol clearly in his mind.

Zeor. And his vow to the martyred shadows. I'll die myself, before I'll ever kill again.

The red haze burned away around him like paper in a flame, and he knew what was happening. He faced that same old choice once more.

Give in to the Kill. Or not. That was the only choice he had, the only choice he'd ever had. He couldn't stop wanting it; he could only stop doing it. Once he'd had to do it by turning away from Chaynek. Now he had to do it by turning to him. Same choice, different parameters.

Wearily, Frevven wondered if he'd face this same lesson over and over throughout his life, until he'd learned it thoroughly.

With a mighty effort, he forced himself to shove Richt away. The preacher crumpled to the sand, sobbing hysterically. Frevven was hardly aware of Richt's fractured nager now. Yes, it would have been nice to destroy him. But it would have solved nothing.

Chaynek still stood, arms outstretched, obviously expecting the channel to come to him for transfer. Frevven shivered.

No. Not here. Not now. Not in front of all these people. He wanted Chaynek, now more than ever. And he would have him. But not like this.

"Later." He managed to force the word through tight lips, holding himself rigid so he wouldn't run to Chaynek.

Chaynek's eyes opened slightly wider, and he gave a short nod. The keen invitation softened. His field meshed with Frevven's in trautholo, affirming his solid commitment to the offered transfer, whenever Frevven wanted it.

Feeling this firm assurance, some of the tension went out of the channel's body. It was all right. He could wait. He could wait forever, if necessary, as long as Chaynek kept this up.

Kurt pushed his way through the crowd, going to kneel alongside Lem. He held a small bottle under Lem's nose, forcing him to inhale the fumes. Immediately, the ambient steadied around the two Gens, Lem's irrational fear beginning to weaken and dissolve as he inhaled the antidote to the fear drug.

"You've seen with your own eyes that Simes do not have to be killers," Chaynek said loudly to the crowd, one arm confidently resting on Frevven's shoulder. Frevven fought to play his part, knees locked against the trembling that threatened to overtake him. They mustn't see how close to the edge he'd come, mustn't realize he'd almost killed Richt.

"Janni didn't kill her father, despite the extreme provocation," Chanynek continued as he gestured with one hand at the Sime girl, still hunched over on the sand, face hidden against her knees. "She lives, and has not harmed anyone in order to do so. You have seen a channel refuse to kill twice. What more do you want? What will convince you?"

The mob was wavering now. Frevven could zlin shame and uncertainty mixed with the hostility. He thought he recognized some of the members of Lem's congregation, who had come out of the Center and were now arguing earnestly with small knots of people. The monolith of fear and hatred was broken. It would take only a few small wedges to drive it apart entirely.

Richt lay cowering on the sand, sobbing and praying hysterically. Farika Snow, still swathed in her Watchkeeper's robe and hood, knelt next to him and tried to put her arms around him. He drew back with a shriek, then, recognizing her, clutched at her desperately.

Lem rose shakily to his feet, Kurt supporting him with one arm around his waist. He looked at the channel. Frevven could almost read the question in his quavering field: "What can I do?"

He took a tentative step in the direction of Frevven and Chaynek. On an impulse, Frevven shook his head a fraction, allowing his eyes to turn toward Janni's huddled figure.

Lem took the hint. He walked stiffly over to his daughter. Janni lifted a tear-stained face to her father, wonderment mixing with shame. Lem reached out one hand. Hesitantly, she took it in one of her own, twining her tentacles shyly around the Gen's fingers as a smile spread over her face. He pulled her to her feet.

In the flickering light cast by the torches, father and daughter embraced in love and relief. The mob stared, dumbfounded.

Frevven called together the last shreds of his tattered self-control. He took a step towards Richt and then stopped. With a gesture that included both the Watchkeepers and the crowd, he said in a voice that shook only a little, " You are the killers. You have murdered your own children, when it was not necessary! Does not your own Holy Book forbid you to practice child sacrifice?"

The monolith split and broke apart into fragments. Not all of them could accept that judgement without accepting guilt for the deaths of their children. Frevven almost pitied some of those parents, for guilt was something he understood only too well. But now was not the time for pity. Now he had to break up this crowd, defuse its menace before that guilt could be transformed into self-justifying hatred once again.

"Let us all pray for guidance and forgiveness," Frevven suggested loudly, looking to Lem, hoping the Gen would be able to take the cue.

Janni cowered against her father's chest, confused by the muddled mess of the ambient. Lem held her close. Clasping his hands behind her back, he raised his eyes to the dark sky and intoned confidently, "Oh God of compassion, look at us with compassion. For we have fallen short of Your compassion."

Frevven recognized with a shock the beginning of the litany of supplication.

"Forgive us, we pray. For we have sinned."

Only a few uncertain voices made the response, but Lem went on regardless.

"Oh God of love, look at us with love. For we have fallen short of Your love."

More voices joined in the reply this time. Mrs. Rodrick, leaning heavily on Flora's shoulder, tottered over to Lem. Standing next to him, she and the girl led the response with firm conviction.

Frevven stood frozen as the words of the crowd washed around him. He could not pray; he could not respond. Drained of all feeling, there was nothing in his heart but emptiness. They were strangers, praying to a God that was not his and never could be.

But at least Lem's God didn't demand the slaughter of helpless children. That was an improvement.

"Oh God of peace, look at us with peace. For we have fallen short of Your peace."

Chaynek had an arm around the channel's waist now, leading him through the crowd and towards the Center. Anieva stood at the heavy gate in the stone wall, holding it slightly open and watching them tensely. Kurt had gotten Janni away from Lem. They were threading their way towards the gate also.

The ambient showed signs of calming. Some people knelt, others stood weeping. Richt still lay in a crumpled heap on the sand, muttering incomprehensively to himself as he clung to Farika. Here and there, a robed Watchkeeper skulked away into the darkness.

It had been ordinary people like this who had perverted Frevven's childhood, setting up the situation where he would kill Jozanna. It was their fault, all their fault.

No, not entirely. He had never had to believe them, had never had to listen. But what choice had there been? Who could have told him there were other ways?

His foot hit the step cut in the rock of the wall, but Frevven hesitated at the edge of safety. He looked back to the stilled crowd, zlinning the sincere regret many of them felt as they recited the penitential responses.

Their ancestors had been slaughtered by Simes down through countless generations. How long would it take them to unlearn that ingrown distrust and fear?

"Oh God of forgiveness, look at us with forgiveness. For we have fallen short of Your forgiveness." Lem's voice floated distantly to Frevven's ears.

"Forgive us, we pray. For we have sinned."

They were the same words Frevven knew from his childhood and hated, but tonight the prayers carried a different meaning. Yes, it was possible that the words might remain the same, and yet the meanings change. And when the meanings changed, the actions driven by those meanings would change also.

Let it be, he prayed silently, Oh, let it be!

As he looked up at the stars, only dim blurs of light to his myopic eyes, Frevven wondered who he was praying to. And why people always seemed to look up to address their gods.

Then Chaynek urged him through the gate to safety, the Donor's relief blossoming brightly through his field.

Proceed to chapter thirteen