Rain fell through the hole where the shrine's bell had hung.
They had reached the shrine after dark and slept beside the carriage in the outer shelter. Before dawn, with rain coming under its roof, the escort brought it inside. Selka found old candle cups in the walls, an altar broken for firewood, and a child's shoe in the ashes. No one had worshiped here for years. Someone had slept here last night.
“Keep the horses outside,” Darr said. “Two men on each door.”
He gave Selka a piece of cheese wrapped in a leaf. They had divided the escort's breakfast more thinly after the village. She ate slowly, making it last.
Ruun stood before the ruined altar. Its head almost reached the remaining crossbeam. There were marks under the moss: fish tails, palms, a curve that might have been a wave. Selka recognized the beginning of a prayer her grandmother had taught her. She had never spoken it to Anet.
At the far end of the room, a soldier crouched beside a brazier. The warmth came from a narrow bronze band at his wrist, feeding a small heat tube he had attached to the bowl. His other hand trembled badly.
“Old wound?” Selka asked.
“Shoulder. It won't keep the blood moving without this.”
He held up the band, apologetic. She had not asked him to apologize.
Ruun watched the bowl glow.
Selka climbed onto the carriage to check the torn throat. The wet seam had narrowed during the night. It did not heal like flesh; water had drawn the edges back together. She tightened the cloth around it.
“Your grandmother came here,” Ruun said.
She froze. “You knew her?”
“No. Your hands say that you recognize the marks.”
For a heartbeat she had wanted it to know. She had wanted something her betrayal had not cut away.
“She sang the prayer while she cleaned fish,” Selka said.
“People did many things while they sang it.”
A shout came from the door. One of the guards fell backward into the room. The spear followed him, thrown low beneath the crossbeam.
Selka ducked. It struck Ruun under the left ribs.
The god folded around it. The carriage rolled back and hit the altar. Stone cracked. A soldier lunged past Selka with his sword drawn.
From the doorway men in dark wet clothes came through the rain. No banners. Torren knives, fishing spears, faces Selka might have seen in any downriver market. One cried, “Leave it!” in Torren speech.
They had come to kill, not steal.
Darr met the first man with the flat of his blade, then turned it. Selka saw blood on the floor. She pushed herself against Ruun, trying to find the wound beneath the iron.
The brazier went dark.
Across the room the soldier grabbed his supported shoulder. His fingers had turned gray. He looked at the band, at Ruun, and then at Selka. He understood before she did.
Water ran from beneath the spear. It struck the carriage boards and rose again, joining the god's body in thin streams. More water slid under the door.
“Pull it out,” Ruun said.
“The iron—”
“Pull.”
She gripped the shaft. A raider shoved past the fighting toward her. Darr caught him by the collar and dragged him away. Selka pulled with both hands.
The spear came free with a jolt that threw her onto the stone. Water struck her face, warm and salty. Ruun's wound closed badly, leaking between its fingers.
The soldier at the brazier was on his knees. His shoulder hung crooked, his breath coming in sharp pulls. She crawled to him and brought the heat tube against the wrist band, uselessly, as if fixing its position might fix what fed it.
Ruun made a low sound. The water around its ankles steadied. The band gave a little pulse; the soldier drew a longer breath.
“Stay with it,” Selka told him.
She did not know whether she meant the band, the breath or the god.
Darr kicked the door closed on an outstretched hand. The bolt snapped into place. His sword arm was red to the elbow.
“Back door,” he said. “Now.”
Selka stood. Water had reached her knees. It was warm at the bottom and cold at the surface. Beneath it she could see the ashes of the old altar floating upward, not toward the door but toward the ceiling.
The water was rising inside the shrine without spilling out through the broken windows.
Someone began hammering from outside. The door shook.
“Ruun,” she said, “we need it lower.”
The god pressed both hands to the wound.
“I need it nearer.”