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“Is he dead?” Spaeth whispered.
    “Scratch again.”
    “Answer me first.”
    “Did you keep a stone for him?”
    “No.”
    “Then answer the question yourself.”
    It was true. If Goth had gone forever, he would have left a stone for her to keep his soul.
    “Why should you care about him?” Ridwit asked a little peevishly. “You have me.” She rubbed her sinuous body against Spaeth’s, then jumped down and rolled playfully onto her back in the grass.
    “Because,” Spaeth said softly, “he is my lover and my creator. He is my bandhota.”
    Ridwit twisted around into a crouch, glowering at her. “Oh, you Grey People and your dhota. It makes me sick.” She rose, bits of grass clinging to her fur, and stalked between the stones, into the centre of the ring.
    Spaeth had always known what the Grey Man did. She had often come with him, carrying the tools of dhota, the bowl and the knife. She had sat silent in the shadows, watching as he used them. He had told her about dhota, how it came about and what it meant.
    Oh yes, she had known. She had seen his face chalky and drained after losing too much blood, and held him as he tossed in his bed in the grip of someone else’s pain. She had fed him when his hands were too palsied to lift a spoon. She had seen the feverish longing in his eyes when his bandhotai were too long gone, and the foolish, unjudging love that made him a victim of their ills again and again. He had taken on all the hurts of Yora, little and great, for forty years. It was not healthy or right, but he was as addicted to giving dhota as the Adaina were to receiving it.
    The panther was sitting in the stone circle with the tip of her tail twitching. Spaeth climbed down from the rock to sit beside her.
    “You Grey People have gotten degenerate,” the god said. “Once, you had the power to protect the isles. But you will never use your power again. You don’t care about the world any more. All you think about is giving dhota.”
    “Don’t talk as if I am one of them,” Spaeth said.
    “Goth is Lashnura. He made you from his own flesh. So you are Lashnura. But you’ve never given dhota, so you don’t know. Once you do it, you’ll turn like all the others, soft and sentimental. There won’t be any outside world for you; all you’ll care about is your bandhotai. You’ll just be a slave.” She looked at Spaeth mournfully. “I like you now. I wish you didn’t have to change.”
    “I
won’t
change!” Spaeth said fiercely. “I’ll never give dhota.” The idea made her horribly uneasy. Goth, wonderful man that he was, was helplessly bound to the tiny community of Yora. Spaeth felt panic at the thought of becoming like him, enslaved by a thousand invisible bonds. She didn’t want to be just an ignorant village dhotamar. She wanted freedom.
    “You all say that,” Ridwit growled. “You all think you’ll stay free. But it only takes one claim, and you change your minds.”
    “If anyone asks, I’ll refuse to do it,” Spaeth said. “I’ll deny their claims.”
    “You won’t be able to,” Ridwit said. “Your ancestors saw to that.”
    Spaeth put her hands over her ears. “I’m not listening to you. I’m not one of them.”
    The cat suddenly stiffened as if a shot had gone through her. In a single contortion of muscle and fur she was crouching between two of the stones with her tail lashing to and fro, her amber gaze directed down the hill. “One of
them
is coming,” she snarled.
    Startled, Spaeth followed her gaze. A tall, lean figure dressed in a frock coat and broad-brimmed hat was making his way toward the hilltop with a stiff, purposeful stride. Spaeth gazed, transfixed. She had never seen anything like this novelty before. It could only be one thing. “They say the Tornas brought an Inning with them.”
    “Is that what you call them?” Ridwit’s eyes narrowed. “He’s wearing a very ugly body.”
    “I think all Innings look like that.”
    “Didn’t he get enough