Andrei spoke into the darkness. "Give me light."

  "Ma." That meant 'no.'

  He stood in the doorway to the mountain's pitch-black infirmary, holding the papery hand of the old man who had led him here. Brother Bogdan, Andrei was to call him when not speaking Good.

  The old man tapped the floor with a foot, releasing echoes that bounced off the walls of what must be a rather large, rectangular space.

  The air in the medical chamber was warmer than out in the corridor, and damper. The infirmary smelled nothing like anywhere Andrei had worked. Cold wet stone, a bit of sweat and sulfur. He wondered how the cave-Thracians managed to get rid of the smells of blood and vomit.

  "Your patient is on the cot closest the door," he said in French. "You need only put out your hand and take a step forward.

  "I also need light so I can examine my patient," said Andrei.

  Brother Bogdan clicked his tongue in a way that suggested irritation and tugged Andrei back toward the door. "Novitiate, what you ask is not possible. The afflicted girl is a novitiate priestess, and so must be surrounded by purely chthonic influences. No light, no alcohol."

  "What about medical spirits?"

  Brother Bogdan didn't dignify that with a response. "We should not even speak in this outside language in her presence. Please speak only in Good."

  "Vas em nir. Ti ié nir."

  Brother Bogdan slapped him, but only gently.

  "Bréma?" called a voice from inside the infirmary.

  "Is that a child?" Andrei pulled himself out of the old man's grip and stepped away, arms outstretched.

  "Tsi ésta?" It was the voice of a little girl. Who is it?

  "Vas em…" But he still didn't know the word for doctor. "Vas em…um…"

  "Ti dóa ola múa."

  He didn't understand.

  "Ti dóa mi déla."

  Déla! He'd heard that word. You something protect me.

  "Néi," said Andrei, thinking. Into whatever houses I enter, I will enter to help the sick.

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  The corner of a cot made painful contact with his hip.

  "I'm here," the girl said in Bulgarian.

  "Neláha, madí ta fála ist," Brother Bogdan remonstrated.

  "Mi fálsa, Brát Zesstáne," said the girl apologetically. "Zésam vu maí bass."

  A reluctant pause from Bogdan, then, "She says she's feeling better."

  "That is good." Andrei said in Bulgarian, groping toward her voice. "Because I cannot very much help you this way." Stumbled over a groove in the floor and barked his knee hard against the edge of another cot.

  Andrei cursed in Russian and switched to French. "Unable as I am to examine my patient, give her half the medicines I might, and am only able to say to her, Vas em nir."

  A squeak from the girl and another click from Brother Bogdan. "One does not embed the Good Language, novitiate."

  "Does one allow a young girl to die because her doctor is blind?"

  "I am blind," said Brother Bogdan. "Even under the Sun, darkness follows me, and yet I do my duties."

  "I'm sure you're very proud of that, but I must see," Andrei insisted. "Surely you would rather bend your religious rules than allow this little priestess to die." Hopefully she didn't understand French.

  Silence from Brother Bogdan until Andrei gave up. "What," he fumbled in Bulgarian. "What is the pain, little one?"

  "Everyone calls me little, but I'm not a child."

  She was right under him. The cot he'd struck was hers.

  "I apologize, miss. What is your name?" Andrei felt for her hand.

  "Vlada." She grasped his wrist. Those fingers were too warm. "I have scarlet fever. I was better this morning, but then I got worse. But now I feel fine."

  "Vlada. A pretty name." Andrei brushed his fingers up the sweaty sheets until he found the side of her face. "A nice round cheek you have, too."

  It was too hot, as well. The skin was rough, as if with rash. Vlada had diagnosed herself accurately. "Fever. When was your last…thing?" He used the Russian word, "Bout?"

  "It was worse earlier. The Maiden came to me."

  "That was nice of her." Andrei felt the girl's thyroids. Still a bit swollen, but not badly.

  "The Maiden's voice is so beautiful," said Vlada, which gave Andrei an idea.

  "Look," he said in French. "I mean, listen to me, Brother Bogdan. Your Maiden. She's the Light-Bringer, right? The Torch-Bearer?"

  "Among many other things," came the old man's voice.

  "So, I suppose she has some sort of special dispensation to bring light? Would you summon her if a doctor ordered it?"

  Brother Bogdan spoke like a father asked for the dozenth time to buy a toy that he cannot afford. "That is impossible, novitiate."

  Andrei ran his hands down the girl's arms, feeling the rash there. Very probably, the girl was past the point of crisis.

  He should be relieved he had been given a patient who hadn't been blown to pieces. All Andrei had to do was keep her fever down tonight and she'd be recovered by morning. But what about next time?

  Will there be a next time? Do you intend to become the doctor to these people?

  Andrei turned his head toward the sound of the other man's voice. "What if, Brother Bogdan, your god the Wealthgiver demanded to see his Maiden?"

  A little chuckle. "Do you think He speaks through you? In French?"

  Andrei considered. This girl wasn't really ill. Was that Andrei's good luck, or the cave-Thracians' test? To see if Andrei would be a good Pluto. Cold shivers. Did they expect him to kill this child?

  No. Andrei massaged his temple, staring into the nothingness. He was thinking wrong. This wasn't about him. He'd been in situations like this, where he got nonsensical, contradictory orders because of some bureaucratic snarl further up the chain of command.

  A turf war. One faction of priests against another. The sibyl versus the priests. Kori Chthalmali seemed to want to open up the Mountain. Tell the world about the cave-Thracians. She thought Andrei could help with that. Look, we captured this outsider and didn't execute him. We must be all right after all.

  Except there was more to this than politics and pragmatism. The cultists really thought he might be an embodiment of their god. Or could be made into one.