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And we both know who that is, now, don’t we?

No need to even nod. ’Cause from somewhere far below, the threads of his dragonfly-cloaked Lady’s influence came spinning up ’round both of them in a slack silk knot, just waiting for any excuse to tighten. And as she sat on the Sunken Ball-Court’s sloshing sidelines, Rook knew she grinned to hear herself discussed — she, her, the One Now Woken.

You, Rook “heard” Grandma blurt out.

And heard the reply in turn, a barest liquid murmur — Ah, yes: me.

A surging snap lit Rook from within, at the very sound. Not fear, so much, as a terrible urge to run wild and aimless in any direction, run ’til his skin rucked up and his muscles unstrung themselves, leaving his slick red bones to rattle at last into a sticky heap, reconfigured by their own momentum.

Before he could, however, Grandma’s hand moved again, and the unseen leash jerked him taut, puppet-stiff. When he made to protest, she sewed a quick seam across his lips with one needle-sharp nail, muffling them shut — a lock

ed purse, his tongue curled too tight in on itself to even move.

“Stay still,” Grandma told him. “The Lady of Traps and Snares has made threats, made you promises — of this I have no doubt. But even she, powerful as she has become, is no true god, grandson. She is Anaye, a monster. Enemy to all. Did she tell you you could be a god, perhaps, if you only did her bidding? Or was it . . . that he could?”

There was a note in her double-voice which rung through Rook like a bellyful of angry hornets, and made him just pissed off enough to wrench his sealed lips free — just pop them back open, uncaring of what might rip, and spit a mouthful of his own blood up, before answering: “Don’t you . . . talk about . . . him.”

He’d at least hoped to startle her, but had to settle for a bare smidgen of genuine respect, instead — before, with a flick of her fingers, she wound him tight on himself again.

And here the Rainbow Lady came whispering once more, from deep inside his ear’s shell — You are in a bad place now, little king. Do you wish my help?

Grandma’s head whipped ’round, bent low and seeking, as if she might be able to find the words’ source somewhere in the dust at her feet, if only given enough time to study it. “Do not answer her!” she ordered Rook, peremptorily.

The Lady, ignoring her, continued: For I will give it. That is how close we already are, given the blood we have shared, our marriage pledge. You have only to say the words . . .

Rook managed a groan, nothing more. Kicked out hard against Grandma’s net, and got the blood cut off to all his limbs at once, in return.

“Ohé, grandson — you will only hurt yourself, if you continue to struggle,” she warned him, without much sympathy. “I might have broken you of these bad habits gently, but my dreams tell me there is no time. If you do not learn your business quickly, she will hang you once more, and finish the job, this time — you, me, everyone else. Even that boy of yours.”

“His name is Chess. And he ain’t no boy.”

“No. He is rage and fire, a fierce warrior, one whose blood would enrich any tribe, did he not prefer to lie down with his own sex. I have seen many such, in my time: two-spirited as Begochiddy himself. But love is love, and you do love him, after all.”

Rook swallowed. “The hell’d you think I’d even come here for,” he managed, finally, “if I damn well didn’t?”

“Then why do you fight me, fool?”

Say it, husband.

“’Cause . . .” His head swam, lightening like the sky, as the dying fire sunk lower. “. . . she threatened to kill him . . . then promised to save him — ”

“From what, herself? In her time, the gods ate ones like him every day — the beautiful, the gifted. They ate their hearts, and drank their precious blood, because they could. Because that was what tasted best.”

Little king, say —

“That ain’t even vaguely what she — ”

“Oh, save me from all men, bilagaana or Diné — do you really believe no one but you knows how to lie? Wake up!”

Say it, say the words —

Rook opened his torn mouth wide, only to have it twist shut on him yet again, so fast it burned worse than a swallow of sparks.

“Your mouth stays shut, grandson,” Grandma repeated. “Or — ”

Or what, old woman?

Had he ever truly thought her gentle, kind? Damn, if the bitch wasn’t right: between her and the Lady, he might well be the stupidest whoreson alive.