Speak of the gods as they are.
Author: Walter Bagehot
High above the peak of Balor's needle, gathering again amongst the silver clouds, the Gods were talking.
Very, very loudly.
In fact, they were making so much noise that the only way peace was finally made was when Faithful and his friend Queenclaw walked over to Mithros' leg and-for want of a more elegant word-bit him.
Hard.
The resulting shout was so loud that people all across Tortall looked around for some lightening to go with it.
The Great Mother Goddess sighed, picked up the two cats, and sat down. A glaring Mithros took his set next to her. Passing Faithful to him and stroking Queenclaw with one white hand, the goddess glared around the room.
"Alright," She said, in a mezzo-soprano voice that embodied suspicious mothers and wives everywhere, "I want whoever is behind this to stand up right now."
There was a general shuffling of feet, and two figures rose out of the seething mass of deities. The Mother raised her eyebrows.
"Gainel? I am surprised at you." The God of Dreams met her eye firmly. To her surprise, the Goddess found herself looking away first. She busied herself with the other figure. It was that of a woman, tall and slim, and clad in a white dress with red embroidery.
Of course. They were everywhere these days. Every time one of the Gods took a fancy to a mortal, suddenly she was a Goddess. And everywhere needed a Goddess of Love. There had been at least thirty of the girls at the last count. Of course, it meant the God and the new Goddess had to stay put for a while, but what was a few years to an immortal?
This one, the Goddess believed, was called Haraille. The Lady of the Roses, worshipped by about twenty people.
Red and White roses.
Of course, The Mother had always had her marked out as a troublemaker. She had an unerring sense for these things.
"And what, precisely" She enquired frostily, "Did you think you were doing? You knew that, ah, Lady Sandrilene belonged back in Emelan, yet you deliberately made her fall in love with the Prince of Tortall, no less! I'm surprised you managed it at all!"
The 'Lady of the Roses' shrugged. "I did what I thought was best." She said coolly. "They needed each other."
Impertinence. Thought the Mother icily.
"And I suppose you, who have been a Goddess for all of three centuries, are an expert on what is 'right'?"
The temperature in the starry hall dropped abruptly Several of the lesser Gods drew back. For a moment there was silence.
Then to a chorus of amazement, a third figure stepped forward. It was Shakith, of course. They had all grown to know her figure well in the past weeks. Her voice, when it came, seemed drier then usual, as though she had been worn out-worn deeply to the bone.
"Do not blame the Rose-Lady, Great Mother. She acted on the impulse of Fate, who guides us all. It was destined that this should come to pass." She spread her frail arms wide. "For weeks I have striven to See the future. I have used every method my knowledge stretches to. I have watched the birds and perceived the very movement of leaves, and when I found the answer, I did not stop looking. For it seemed to me too strange-to me, I who have seen empires overthrown a thousand times and never blinked- that so much should rest upon the choice of one child."
The Great Mother frowned. "You speak complained childishly. "Will you not tell us what you speak of?"
Shakith sighed. "Only this, Great Mother; that if the Lady Sandrilene stays in Tortall, then all of her companions will also have cause to stay; for they too have grown to love these lands. And if they stay, then their actions over the years that are to come will change this world so greatly that it will seem strange even to we who have watched it over millennia. That much is clear, even to one who has no eyes."
There was a very, very long silence, while each of the Gods tried to work out what Shakith had just said. It took some of them quite a long time. Folding her arms, the Great Mother translated, "Our sister Shakith says that if Sandry stays, the world will be changed."
There was an outbreak of pandemonium. It took several more scratches from the cats before silence was finally restored.
"That's ridiculous!" There came a voice from the back of the hall. The Great Mother glared. "Clearly," She said tersely, "Whoever is controlling all this hasn't got much imagination. Nevertheless," She raised her chin even higher, "We cannot interfere any further, so if I find some much of a sniff of any of you playing around…"
There was a general chorus of quick agreement-most of them had seen what the Mother was capable of, and Tris Chandler just wasn't in it- and the two cats jumped of the chairs and strolled away, tails held high. The Gods considered this a signal for a tea-break, and the meeting dispersed.
