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filth!” She faced the crowd
again, her own face flushed with an outrage that Jerusha knew was genuine.
    But a woman’s voice called out from the crowd, “I know Moon
Dawntreader.”
    Capella Goodventure’s broad, lined face frowned, as she
peered into the crowd.
     
    The Queen stared with her as the speaker pushed through the
wall of faces. Jerusha saw a sturdy, dark-haired island woman in her
mid-thirties; saw sudden recognition fill Moon’s face at the sight of her. “Clavally
Bluestone Summer,” the woman identified herself, and Capella Goodventure’s
frown deepened. “I made her a sibyl. She has the right to the trefoil, and to
speak the Lady’s Will.”
    “Then let her prove it!” Capella Goodventure said, her face
mottling with anger. “If she has the right to speak as she does, then let her
prove it.”
    Moon nodded, looking surer now. “Ask, and I will answer,”
she said again.
    “No,” Capeila Goodventure said. “A sibyl Transfer can be
faked, just like a tattoo. Let her show us real proof. Let the Sea give us a
sign of Her Will!”
    The Queen stood where she was, listening to the crowd murmur
its doubts, her own face furrowing in a frown as she tried to imagine how to
lay their doubts to rest. Jerusha stood unmoving, her body drawn with tension
as she waited for a sign from the Queen to come forward and remove the
Goodventure woman. But she knew that Moon could not take that step now, without
losing all credibility.
    Moon glanced over her shoulder at the Pit waiting behind her
like a tangible symbol of her danger; looked back at Capella Goodventure again.
“The Sea Mother is with us here,” she said, clearly enough for all the crowd to
hear her. “Do you feel Her presence? The waters of the sea lie at the bottom of
the Pit behind me. Smell the air, listen for Her voice calling up to you.”
Capella Goodventure stood back, a faint smile of anticipation pulling at her
mouth. But then the Queen held something out in her hand. Jerusha caught her
breath as she saw what it was. “This is called a tone box. It controls the wind
in the Hall of Winds; it is the only way for a person to cross the Pit safely.”
She handed the control box to Capella Goodventure, and turned back toward the
bridge.
    Jerusha swore softly. “No—”
    “Moon!”
    Jerusha heard Sparks Dawntreader call out to his wife,
reaching after her as she left his side.
    The Queen glanced back over her shoulder; something in her
look stopped him where he was, with dread on his face. She turned away again,
raising her arms, bowing her head, and murmured something inaudible that might
have been a prayer. Jerusha saw her body quiver slightly, as if she were going
into Transfer. The moaning of the winds was loud in the sudden, utter silence
of the hall, as she stepped out onto the bridge.
    She swayed as the wind buffeted her; froze for an instant, regained
her balance and took another step. Jerusha’s hands tightened; she felt a surge
of sickness as she remembered her own terrifying, vertiginous passages over
that span. She fought the urge to close her eyes.
    The Queen took a third precarious step, braced against the
wind. And then something happened. Jerusha looked up as the Queen looked up:
she sucked in a deep breath of wonder. The clangorous sighing of the wind
curtains faded, as the wind spilled from the sails, and the air currents died
... as the open windows high above began to close. Blue and gold sunlight
shafted down through the inert cloud-forms of the curtains to light Moon’s hair
like an aura. “By the Bastard Boatman—” Jerusha whispered, feeling Miroe’s hand
tighten around her arm with painful awe.
     
    “By the Lady,” his voice answered, deep and resonant; although
she knew that he could not mean it.
    A slow murmur spread through the crowd, and one by one the
watchers dropped to their knees, sure that they were in the presence of a
miracle, a Goddess, Her Chosen ... until at last only Capella Good venture