— Release her, Faraataa. And then come to me, you and she together, and let us establish what must be established.

— Never. I will give her to the god with my own hands. And with her sacrifice atone for the crime of the Defilement, when we slew our gods and were laden with you as our penance.

— You are wrong even about that, Faraataa.

—What?

— The gods gave themselves willingly, that day in Velalisier. It was their sacrifice, which you misunderstand. You have invented a myth of a Defilement, but it is the wrong myth. Faraataa, it is a mistake, it is a total error. The water-king Niznorn and the water-king Domsitor gave themselves as sacrifices that day long ago, just as the water-kings give themselves yet to our hunters as they round the curve of Zimroel. And you do not understand. You understand nothing at all.

— Foolishness. Madness.

—Set her free, Faraataa. Sacrifice your hatred as the water-kings sacrificed themselves.

— I will slay her now with my own hands.

— You may not do it, Faraataa. Release her.

—NO.

The terrible force of that no was unexpected: it rose like the ocean in its greatest wrath and swept upward toward Valentine and struck him with stunning impact, buffeting him, swaying him, sweeping him for a moment into chaos. As he struggled to right himself Faraataa hurled a second such bolt, and a third, and a fourth, and they hit him with the same hammerblow power. But then Valentine felt the power of the water-king underlying his own, and he caught his breath, he regained his balance, he found his strength once more.

He reached out toward the rebel chieftain.

He remembered how it had been that other time years ago, in the final hour of the war of restoration, when he had gone alone into the judgment hall of the Castle and found the usurper Dominin Barjazid there, seething with fury. And Valentine had sent love to him, friendship, sadness for all that had come between them. He had sent the hope of an amicable settlement of differences, of pardon for sins committed, of safe conduct out of the Castle. To which the Barjazid had replied with defiance, hatred, anger, contempt, belligerence, a declaration of perpetual war. Valentine had not forgotten any of that. And it was the same all over again now, the desperate hatred-filled enemy, the fiery resistance, the bitter refusal to swerve from the path of death and destruction, loathing and abomination, scorn and contempt.

He expected no more of Faraataa than he had of Dominin Barjazid. But he was Valentine still, and still he believed in the possibility of the triumph of love.

— Faraataa?

— You are a child, Valentine.

— Give yourself over to me in peace. Put aside your hatred, if you would be who you claim to be.

— Leave me, Valentine.

— I reach to you.

— No. No. No. No.

This time Valentine was prepared for the blasts of negation that came rolling like boulders toward him.