“Why not?” I asked hoarsely. “Your people think me a god; cannot a god take whom he wills to wife?”
“Not when she is vowed to another god, he who will be Inca; not when on her, mayhap, hangs the fate of nations.”
“We might fly, Quilla.”
“Whither could the God-from-the-Sea fly and whither could fly the daughter of the Moon, who is vowed to the son of the Sun in marriage, save to death?”
“There are worse things than death, Quilla.”
“Aye, but my life is in pawn. I must live that my people may not die. Myself I offered it to this cause and now, being royal, I cannot take it back again for my own joy. It is better to be shamed with honour than to be loved in the lap of shame.”
“What then?” I asked hopelessly.
“Only this, that above us are the gods, and—heard you not the oracle of Rimac that declared to me that I should slip from the hated arms, that the Sun should be my shelter, and in the beloved arms I should sleep at last, though from the vengeance of the god betrayed I must fly fast and far? I think that this means death, but also it means life in death and—O arms beloved, you shall fold me yet. I know not how, but have faith—for you shall fold me yet. Meanwhile, tempt me not from the path of honour, since this I know, that it alone can lead me to my home. Yet who is the god betrayed from whom I must fly? Who, who?”
Thus she spoke and was silent, and I, too, was silent. Yes, there we sat, both silent in the darkness, searching the heavens for a guiding star. And as we sat, presently I heard the voice of Kari saying:
“Have I found you, Lord, and you also, Lady Quilla? Return, I pray you, for all search and are frightened.”