Below them the river churned spray into the air that the bright sun rendered into a million shattering diamonds and that imparted a wonderful cool dampness to the ordinarily dry atmosphere.

“It's true,” Perkar said, speaking up to his companions still perched on the rim. ”It is true. This is not the same Changeling I once knew.”

“Not at all,” Ngangata agreed.

Hezhi felt her own trepidation melt away. The scale on her arm reacted to the presence of the river not at all, nor did any part of her. This was just water, flowing through a narrow canyon of red and yellow stone. “It's hard to believe that this narrow stream is really the river,” she said.

“This is where I first saw him,” Perkar answered. “This is where my journey to you began—our journey,” he corrected as Ngangata came level to him on the trail. He patted the half Alwa on the shoulder.

“Well,” he called back up to Hezhi. “Come on down.”

“Wouldn't you rather I stayed up here?” she asked.

“No. I would rather have you with me,” he answered, offering his hand to steady her for the next step.

With only a little slipping and sliding, they all reached the bottom of the gorge easily—even Tsem, though Hezhi noticed the half Giant kept casting uneasy glances back up, probably dreading the return climb to the top.

“Before you could feel his coldness, his hunger,” Perkar explained. ”Now…”

“Now it feels like something living,” Ngangata finished for him.

Perkar nodded and shuffled his feet on the narrow stone beach, suddenly nervous. Nevertheless, he reached into a small sack at his waist and produced a handful of flower petals, which he sprinkled into the quieter eddies near shore. He cleared his throat and sang—tentatively, but gradually with more confidence and volume:

“Stream Goddess I

Long hair curling down from the hills

Long arms reaching down the valley

Reposing in my watery dwelling

On and on go I

In the same manner, from year to year…”

Perkar sang on, the song of the Stream Goddess as she had taught it to his father's father, many years past. When he had sung it before, it had been to a quiet stream in his clan's pasture, a little stream he could almost leap across. Here, the crash of the rapids almost seemed to add a rhythm to his words, and then new words entirely, so that seamlessly, he was singing verses to the Song of the Stream Goddess that had never been before. And then, almost without him noticing, he was not singing at all, but the song continued, and from the nearest eddy, a head rose, long black hair swirling in the agitated water, ancient, amber eyes in the face of a young woman gazing up at them with what appeared to be humor.

“… then came a mortal man,” she sang.

“His mother named him for the oak

For the spot where his caul was buried

In the very place I flowed

He grew like a weed

And he came to love me—”

Perkar stood, more and more embarrassed as the song continued, but by now it was a story they all knew. She sang of his foolishness, she sang of her anger, she sang of death. But in the end she finished:

'On and on go I

But not the same now, year to year.

The Old Man eats me not

No longer quickens he with my pain

By foolishness I was saved

By the love of mortal man I was redeemed

And on and on go I

Each year better than the last

No winter cold to eat me

Each season a different-colored spring.”

And as she sang her final verse, she rose up, more magnificent than he had ever seen her, and Perkar's knees quaked, and without even thinking he knelt.

She approached and ran her fingers playfully through his hair.

“Stand up, silly thing,” she admonished. “We have been more familiar than this.”

“Yes,” he began, “but …” He shrugged helplessly but then met her eyes. “I don't deserve this, to be part of your song.”

She laughed, the same silvery music he had heard for the first time what seemed like centuries ago. “Deserving has nothing to do with it,” she replied. “The Changeling is part of my song, and his name never deserved to be sung. But that is how the songs of gods and goddesses must be. You are a part of my story, Perkar, a part I cherish. After all, it was your love that ended my pain and gave me this.” She swept her arms wide, indicating the joyful crash of the water.

He kept his gaze frankly on hers. “Long ago, you told me not to be a boy, dreaming of the impossible. But I loved you so much, and I was so stupid. I would have done anything for you—save to heed your warnings. But this thing I have finally accomplished—in your song you say that my love saved you. But I must tell you truthfully, Goddess, I did not do all of this for love of you.”

She smiled even wider and swept her gaze across Ngangata, Tsem, Yuu'han, and Hezhi.

“He is such a silly thing sometimes, is he not?“ She sighed. She turned back to him, her look one of mock despair. Then she gestured to Hezhi.

Tentatively Hezhi stepped forward. The Stream Goddess was the most beautiful woman she had ever seen. Even though she had thought she understood Perkar, she suddenly realized that she had not. She knew, intellectually, that much of what he had done had been motivated by a love for this goddess, but to actually see her, hear her voice, made it all different. Hezhi's heart seemed to sag in her chest, as she remembered her own shadowed, ungainly outline on the floor in “Sheldu's” damakuta. Regardless, she approached the goddess and was faintly astonished when the strange woman reached and took her hand. The skin of the goddess was cool and damp, but otherwise felt Human enough.

She was even more astonished when the goddess squeezed her hand and then placed it in Perkar's.

“I never said it was love for me that ended the Changeling and set me free,” the goddess explained. ”Only the love of a mortal man. Your love for your people, Perkar, your love for these companions, and your love for this girl. Those are the loves ofaman, sweet thing, and those are what set me free.”

“I love you, too,” Perkar answered.

“Of course you do. How could you not? But you understand now what I told you so long ago.”

“I think so. I no longer dream of you somehow becoming my wife, if that is what you mean.”

She only smiled at him and then turned back to Hezhi. “Child, I have a gift for you.”

“Forme?”

A second column of water rose and became something dimmer, more ghostlike than the very real goddess; but it congealed into a recognizable form nevertheless.

“Ghan!” Hezhi cried.

“More or less,” the apparition said curtly—but more than a hint of a smile graced his usually severe features. “Changed but not changed. When you chew up a piece of meat and spit the gristle out—I think I must be mostly gristle.”

“Ghan!” She was weeping again, though she thought that by now she would have no salt or water left in her body.

“Hush, child. You know how I despise such displays.”

“Do you?” Hezhi answered, wiping the lachryma from her cheeks. “I read your letter, the one you sent by the Mang. The one in which you said you loved me, that I was like the daughter—”

“Yes, yes,” he replied testily. “Old men sometimes write maudlin things.” He softened. “And I probably meant them.”

“What will become of the library?” Hezhi asked. And then, in a blinding flash of insight, “OfNholl”

Ghan shrugged. “The library was my life, but I'm oddly glad now that I did not spend my last days in it. The books remain, and there is always someone. Someone like you and me, at least every generation or two. They will wait, just as they did for you. As for Nhol, who knows?”

“They will not worship me,” the goddess said. “I will not have it. It causes me more pain than pleasure. But I will not harm them, though it is a city that he built. Human Beings are able to change; that is the most—perhaps the only—wonderful thing about your kind. They will be as happy or happier without the River as they were with their god, given time.”

Ghan smiled. “It will be an interesting time, these next few years. I intend to observe them.”

“Observe?”

“The goddess has graciously consented to take this that remains of me downstream with her.”

The goddess nodded confirmation. “Unlike the Changeling, I have no desire to flow through a sterile land. I am more comfortable with neighbors, frog gods, heron lords, swampmasters. Perhaps your old teacher can take up residence in one of the many vacant places—a stream, a field, a mountain. I will invite others, too.”

“And who…” Perkar frowned and began again. “What of the stream that you inhabited of old?”

“Ah, that,” she said. “That is already taken care of; a new goddess lives there. Give her flowers as you did me.” She smiled oddly, a bit mysteriously, with some sadness, and came closer to him, speaking very softly. “Farewell, love. I have become large indeed, and it is a new thing. I have not yet flowed my length, and part of him still lives, though I slay more of him each instant. But it may be that when I have attained my length I will drowse for a time, and when I waken it may be to your great-grandchildren rather than you. I may never speak to you like this again. But of all mortals I have loved, you were both the sweetest and the most worrisome. You made me less a goddess and more Human than you will ever know. Farewell.” She stepped farther from him.

“Good-bye, Goddess,” he answered, trying unsuccessfully to keep his voice from shaking.

“Fare you well, Hezhi,” Ghan said, as the two of them began to collapse back into the water they were formed of. ”Perhaps you will burn incense for me someday.”

Then he and the goddess were gone. The five mortals silently watched the bright play of the river for a time, before Tsem cleared his throat.

“Ah…”he began.

“Yes, Tsem?” Hezhi asked.

“Do you think it would be, ah … disrespectful if we were to take a bath, you know—here?”

Perkar, oddly enough, was the first to start laughing. It was more joyful than their nervous tittering back in Erikwer, almost exuberant.

I could use a bath,” he replied, when he could. “I'm all for that, and I don't think she would mind at all.”

“Now,” Perkar said, “we go back to my people. We tell them about the new bargain with the Forest Lord, about the new valleys he has opened for colonization.”

“That will end the war?” Yuu'han asked a little harshly.

Perkar turned a concerned gaze on the Mang. “I know a lot of your people have died,” he said softly. ”Saying I'm sorry means nothing, I know.”

“They were warriors,” he responded. “They chose their deaths. But I have to know, after all of this, after aiding you even against my own, that it was worth it.”

“It was worth it,” Ngangata answered. “The war will end. Perkar's people talk a lot about fighting and glory, but they would actually much rather tend their cows in peace. In the lands they have taken from your people, they would never know peace.”

“That is true,” Yuu'han conceded. ”We would fight for the plains our horses graze upon until none of us were left alive.”

“And we know that,” Perkar assured him. “Only desperation drove my people to attack yours. Now they can settle peacefully in lands that are more suited to cattle, anyway. You can return to your folk and tell them the war will end, my friend.”

“That pleases me. It would please my uncle, as well.”

“Your uncle was a good man, a great man,” Perkar said. “I'm sorry for what happened to him.”

Yuu'han smiled faintly. “He knew he would die. He knew that he would die as soon as he left his island. He had a vision.”

“Then why …” Hezhi began.

“He was old, but he was still a man,” Yuu'han explained. “Still Mang. If he had lived much longer, he might have lost that, might have become another pack for his clan to carry about with them. We would have done that, for he was dear to us. But he would have hated it. He saw a path that would bring his death, but also much glory, many songs.”

“Piraku,” Perkar said.

“As you call it. He died quickly, with little pain, but valiantly. And he cared about you all, was willing to give his life.” He looked uncomfortable. “As was I. I only ask that you remember where he died, honor his spirit now and then.”

“I don't think we will soon forget Erikwer,” Ngangata replied. “And I'm certain your uncle will soon wear other clothes; perhaps those of a stallion or a hawk.”

“It may be. Or perhaps he roams with his old mount, Firehoof, in the plains of the Ghostland. Either way, I'm sure he is just the same as he was, a noisy, perverse old man.”

“Almost certainly.”

“In any event, we will remember him,” Perkar promised, “and I will send him plenty of woti and beer, wherever he dwells now. Starting when we get home, and I have something to send him. You will join me in some woti, I hope. In a toast to him.”

“I think I will return along the river,” Yuu'han said, shaking his head. “It will be quicker and easier than traveling through the mountains, and now the Changeling is … friendlier.”

“When will you leave?”

“In the morning, I think.”

“That will be a long journey alone,” Ngangata said.

Yuu'han shrugged. “I will not be alone. My cousin will be with me.” He jerked his head toward his mount, Huu'yen.

“Of course. But we will miss you,” Perkar said.

“And I all of you.”

They talked a bit longer, of inconsequential things, watching the red-eyed Fire Goddess in her hearth of stones, and one by one they fell asleep, and though Ngangata stood sentinel, even he was blissfully snoring when the new morning dawned.