The child’s sin needed no proving. All his life, the priests had made it clear that if the corruption of Gann was in either parent, the corruption was in the child. What was bred into the clay could not be smoothed out, even by the Father’s hands. This was truth.

And it was truth that the thing that looked like a baby had surely been sired by one of the raiders—men who freely indulged the urges of the clay until Sheul Himself closed His eyes to them. Men who poisoned their minds and bodies with strong drink and phesok. Men who carried bladed weapons and who used them to do wrongful murder upon other men. Men who made trade of female flesh for their sexual pleasure, and of male flesh also, if no females could be procured. The women who lay in union with such men had either been born to them, sired of their sin, or had been exiled from their cities for sins of their own. Either way, they were also lost to Sheul and therefore it followed that all children born to them—all, regardless of what innocent mask the offspring might don—belonged to Gann.

The sun was rising. Through the rain, he could see faint threads of grey in the east, a reminder of the pilgrimage he was supposed to be taking. How could he go there now, with Gann’s corrupted own in his keeping?

“Sheul, my Father, You have been with me and led me well to this moment,” Meoraq said, searching the skies through eye-stinging rain. “I pray You guide me now. What am I supposed to do? Where am I meant to be?”

“Meoraq?”

Amber’s voice, low and hesitant upon the wind. Truly, the sun was rising, because it only took a few moments of searching before he could make out the pale shape of her a short distance away. She could not see him as well, it seemed; she was not quite facing him and did not stop squinting into the black until he was nearly close enough to lay his hand on her.

She startled, but didn’t cry out. She knew the enemy might be close as well. Which meant she wouldn’t have risked calling out his name without a reason.

“What is it?” he asked.

“I…Can you come back to camp? Xzem’s baby is…I need you to talk to her.”

He could have nothing comforting to say to the mother of a clay-born child, but grief was raw in Amber’s voice and the other infant was there in her arms. With an uneasy glance heavenward, too aware of Sheul’s watching eye, Meoraq went back to camp with his woman silent at his side.

Gann’s child was dead. Its mother knelt, still holding it, still gazing into its empty face. Amber had called the slave a name, but in a human mouth, the sound could be anything. Meoraq paced unnecessarily around the other women, deeply uncomfortable with what he was about to do, but finally went to stand before and speak directly to a slave.

“How are you called?” he asked tersely.

Amber stared at him, her soft mouth opening a little.

“Xzem, sir.” The slave looked up at him, heaved a tearful sigh, and raised the dead clay in her hands for him to take.

Meoraq did not want to touch it, but Amber was watching, so he did.

It felt like a real baby, too.

“Can we…” Amber came a small step forward, interrupting his uneasy inspection of the thing. The infant-shaped creature she held yawned and scratched contentedly at its snout, too sleepy to open its eyes. The slave-woman at his feet shifted her eyes from her dead child to the living one and then looked down at her empty arms. “Is there any way at all to have a fire?”

“A fire?” Meoraq echoed, alarmed. “You mean…for a funeral?”

The slave looked up.

“Please,” said Amber softly.

He reached out and took her sleeve, meaning to pull her aside and explain that if Gann’s children received any funeral at all, it was to be returned to the clay that had spawned them, but as soon as he actually touched her and felt her warmth beneath his hand, all reason left him. His loin-plate restrained him, but if it weren’t for that, he would be extruded, he knew. He would be on her and she beneath him…and whether Gann’s or Sheul’s, he had a dead child in his arms.

In that moment of sickened confusion, a hand touched at his boot. Meoraq looked down, first at the body in his hands and then at the slave who had mothered it.

She did not ask. She shivered on her knees, her eyes like open wounds, and did not dare to ask.

The weight of the lifeless clay dragged at him, far heavier than it had been. ‘It only looks like a baby,’ he reminded himself and, as if in answer, suddenly found himself thinking that Amber looked nothing like a woman and yet he had believed that at once.

The children born of Gann’s corruption were soulless. They were abominations of living flesh. They were sins incarnate and Sheul did not see them. They were clay.

They were clay…and this one’s mother had carried it all through the night knowing it could only die in her arms.

“I…need to pray,” said Meoraq. He turned away and realized only after he had done so that he still held the child’s clay in his arms. He could not think of a good way to turn around and pass it back, so he carried it with him into the trees and set it before him where he ultimately knelt.

He was not quick to speak Sheul’s name or to invite His eye. Meoraq knew the word of Sheul and it was absolute. The child before him, however pitiable in its seeming, was a child born of Gann. To give it a funeral as if it were a true dumaq—

He would have given Amber one once, he recalled, again without conscious deliberation. When she lay in her stupor and her treacherous people could not be troubled to care for her, he had been ready to give her a gentle end and see her to Sheul’s halls. She had not been his woman then. She hadn’t even been dead. And if he would be honest, he would have to admit that when he thought of her fellow humans at all, he thought of them as animals. They might walk as dumaqs. They might have speech and wit and reason. They might have in every way the look of people, but they were no more than animals, and a venomous, brutal breed at that.

Yet Amber had a soul and her soul was hammered at Sheul’s forge just the same as Meoraq’s own. Her clay was Meoraq’s clay, shaped upon Sheul’s wheel. Her light was the light of any dumaq, shining from Sheul’s lamp. And where it was true of her, surely it must be—

Meoraq put a hand to his brows and rubbed the rest of that thought away before it could come to some sacrilegious ending. Sheul’s word was absolute. The children born of Gann’s corruption had no soul to find welcome in Sheul’s halls. A funeral would be blasphemous.

It looked like a baby.

Its looks were a lie.

The blood that stained its thin scales looked like the blood of any dumaq.

Its blood was the blood of Gann.

Its mother grieved for it.

The grief was a lie. Its mother was as soulless as her spawn and had no true heart.

Then why did she carry it so far?

Meoraq hissed as the futile circle closed itself around the same arguments. He didn’t know why he was tormenting himself like this in the first place. A funeral fire was out of the question. The raiders were surely in pursuit. He could give an honest answer to his wife that they could not risk such a thing being seen. He would offer to bury it, since he knew that what distressed Amber the most was the thought of abandoning it to be scavenged by beasts, and even that was surely more than its mother expected.

It occurred to him—not all at once, but slowly, like the light of dawn even now revealing the empty world to him—that there was nothing in the Word that expressly forbade funeral fires for Gann’s children. Priests had, yes, but not the Prophet.

It was an uneasy thought, but now his eye was moving over the newly-illuminated plains, seeing the thick copse close on his sunward side where a fire could be better hidden as well as fueled. The wind would thin the smoke and perhaps even carry it away from the raiders so that it could not be seen at all. It would mean holding to this camp all day, but he’d been considering that already, hadn’t he?