The pale blue glow of the Procession dimly illuminates a barge of bleach-white wood, trimmed in intricately carved ivory. It sails over the western side of Babel, borne apparently by a team of albino rakhtors, and not by the aid of envelope – though some manner of magic surely must be at work to support an airship even as small as this, for wings of rakhtors alone could not hold it. Long spines radiate out and trail from the sides and aft, like the barbs of a beautiful but poisonous fish. From the spines, tattered silken banners – devoid of sigil, slogan or any other visible mark – flutter violently in the ship's wake. The ship glides through the night, like a ghost or cloud, without customary running lanterns, or any hint of interior lights.

A flight of three rakhtors – also albino – approaches the ship, with Eeee riders on their backs – riders dressed in the black and blood-red robes of the Yodhsunala, priestesses of the Goddess of Death. The first two maneuver into position, their riders leaping free of their backs and taking wing. From the barge, two more priestesses take flight to meet them, and with practiced, ritual moves, the Eeee set loose one of the rakhtors from the barge's harness, and then replace him … and then, in turn, similarly replace another. Before the third relief is taken to position, however, the giant bird sweeps low to the deck of the barge, and from a distance, it would be hard to notice that this particular rakhtor had two riders – an Eeee priestess, and a small wingless humanoid bundled up more than absolutely necessary to stave off the night's chill.

As the third rakhtor flies back up to take its turn at the harness, and the other priestesses start to guide the two tired rakhtors back to Mount Sunala, the secret passenger of the third rakhtor is ushered across the flat landing deck of the barge, and to the stairs and door leading downstairs. There are no windows to hint at what might be inside, and the decor of the exterior has all the pomp and severity of a wealthy noblewoman's tomb.

Through complete darkness, the lone traveler is led, held at each arm by Eeee priestesses who know their way by memory, not even daring to emit a single sounding cry to find their way. Then, a faint light breaks the total darkness – the dim glow of embers only barely seen through tiny holes … a hanging censer. The traveler blinks at the faint light, trying to focus on it, with glittering purple eyes. Gentle but cold hands guide the visitor into the room beyond the unseen door, then let go. The door whispers shut.

"I was wondering when you would come." The small cabin is only modestly lit by a single small ornately-crafted brass censer hanging by chains from the ceiling – a censer fashioned to resemble three Eeee skulls fused together at the crown, as if of some misbegotten birthing. The lantern provides only a dim glow from the embers of burning incense, meant for fragrance, not illumination.

Below the censer, an Eeee girl is seated in a throne of bone and ivory; she seems conspicuously small for her throne, although the bulk of her costume – a slightly more ornate version of that worn by the priestesses – tries to make her look more imposing. Her ears tilt slightly, and she looks up with white, blind eyes that peer from an ebony black face, framed by bleach white hair.

The traveler pauses for a moment, then reaches up to pull the scarf away from her face, revealing a feline face of golden fur and mottled spots, and dark hair tied back in a loose braid. Uncertainty is written across her face, as she opens her mouth, then closes it again. She picks words, then discards them, then thinks again, but finally what comes out is, "We all miss you."

A wistful smile tugs at the corners of the bat girl's mouth. "Please. You may sit, Pouncer." She gestures without looking. There are no other chairs in the room – only pillows and rolled mats, which look like more recent additions to the chamber, and somehow very out of place.

Pouncer nods, stammering, "Th-thank you, Sr – " She lets the word hang in the air, unfinished, and looks at the young bat girl with uncertain eyes.

"Sunala," the bat girl finishes. "Srinala is a station, not a name, and it is my guise no more."

"As you wish … Sunala," Pouncer says, awkwardly setting herself down on a couple of stacked cushions. Her face fills with a certain resolve. "But that is what I wished to come here about. I mean, to talk to you about. Whether you really need to be Sunala. Or Srinala. Or … or whatever name you think you should have."

Sunala shakes her head. "I am Sunala. For a time, my memory was clouded, and I was uncertain, living this role only in my dreams … but now, it is clear. I slew the Three Stygian Gargantuans – I remember very clearly the stench of them … how it felt to cut into their thick hides with Blakat's missing dagger … to stretch them out upon frames to make the blessed shields for the Vault Guardians. I was there when Anioch the Great fell to the poisoned sting of Hashabet. He cried out on that day to me to overcome Hashabet's curse of eternal pain – to take his immortality from him so that he might suffer no more. I remember kissing his lips, and his life pouring out through them."

"I remember a different version of that story," Pouncer interjects, her voice trembling slightly, as she still fights to regain something resembling composure… "I … I don't know many Babelite poems … but … I've done some reading … especially anything about … well, about you … who you think you are." She clenches her mittened fists and her teeth, wearing a pained expression as she tries to wrestle her words into submission – to speak coherently. "It wasn't a kiss."

"Yes. I remember … that, too." Sunala frowns slightly. "He was very handsome… "

"But you aren't like that!" Pouncer protests, fighting to keep her tone down and controlled, but only partly succeeding. "That's not you. I know you! You're my friend … and … and that's just not like you at all. That's more like … like Inala, even. Can you really see yourself doing that? And half the stories don't even make sense – they contradict each other. There's no way you could be Sunala, and for most of those stories to even be true."

"The realm of spirit does not follow the laws of the realm of flesh," Sunala says, patiently. "It is difficult for mortals to understand. But if we want to get into fine points of theology, I am quite familiar with the Book of the Star. I can bring up many passages that offer contradictions to the reader, if taken at face value."

Pouncer lets out a sigh. "I … I'm not trying to get into an argument here. I'm not very good at them. But I've got to let you know: you have a choice. You don't have to be this … this … death goddess in Babel. You can come with us. I could even get the help of the Knights. The real ones."

"I am not a prisoner here, that I should require warriors to fight my way out," Sunala says. "Though, if they are urgent for bloodshed in the service of the Greater Powers, I can offer them several prime targets of my ire."

"That's not – " Pouncer starts.

"I know," Sunala says. "But think about what you are suggesting. Shall one of the Seven Sisters incarnate lay down her mantle, tell her priestesses, 'It was all a mistake!' and then fly out of Babel, to live a happy little life in some secret hideaway, for the rest of my mortal days? Perhaps I shall even settle down with some handsome Eeee knight – or are there any? Will such a lie make you happy?"

"This is the lie," Pouncer protests. "You know about the Royal Mages and their scheme. You know about the Dream Realm… "

"… which means," Sunala cuts in, "that I am not real at all, doesn't it? That I am merely an artificial spirit, fashioned in the mythic image of Sunala, and planted into the body of a gibbering idiot, working it like a puppet of flesh. I am then an embodiment of all that is abhorrent to the authorities of this world – a possessing, corrupting spirit, fit to be exorcised. And once that is done, then perhaps you will have your Srinala back … but I do not think she will be quite so engaging."

"I … I don't know what you are – " Pouncer starts, but before she can finish her thought… " – then you cannot tell me that I am not Sunala," Sunala finishes. "Who is to say how the divine powers work – who, that is, save me? When you thank your Star for the food on your plate, do you mean to say that it was conjured up from the dust just that morning, and fashioned by angels for your pleasure? Or do you accept that divine power may work through other avenues of creation? I am here, in this avatar, in mortal form, by the means provided in this mortal world, so that I may interact with it. The Royal Mages might claim credit for bringing me here, but in the end, they will all answer to me."

"But if that is the case," Pouncer counters, "why is Babel in the state that it is in? Or is that all part of your plan?"

Sunala frowns severely at this, and a hint of anger breaks through her countenance, though she suppresses it quickly. "You claim your Star is omnipotent … and still, there is evil in the world, and no end to conflict. I make no such claim, for I have always struggled with the other Powers – even my very own sisters. Now, we struggle against the foreign gods. If all Babel were faithful, they would fall within a day … but even in the shadow of our temples, there are enemies among our own people who pledge fealty to the First Ones, and put to the torch the temples of my weaker sisters. In the name of the First Ones – and your Star – they will put to the sword every last one of my daughters … those who do not pass on to me of their own hand."

"Then you should lead them away to somewhere safer," Pouncer says, fear and worry betrayed in her eyes. "And … and I can't say that the Anchorites really follow my Star. To them, the Star is just another power … a force … not even necessarily a force for good, but just order."

"I do not act for the safety of my followers," Sunala says.

"Oh yes you do," Pouncer protests. "If you didn't care about them, then why … why is it even an issue that they might die? What does it matter to you, an eternal deity, Death, who cannot be defeated? All you need to do is wait a while. You'll outlast us all. Why is it that your priestesses use their power for healing now and then? Doesn't healing involve … well … maybe not 'safety,' precisely, but certainly looking out for their well-being?"

"Death is my realm," Sunala says, "and so too is the delaying of death."

"You do care about them, though, admit it!" Pouncer says, half-rising from her cushions. "I know you do – You don't want to say you're not Sunala because … because … you're afraid that they'll all try to kill themselves, just like … like when Ariel told her priestesses to stop worshipping her!" She speaks with a conviction more pleading than true, as she searches Sunala's face with uncertain eyes.

Sunala meets the accusation with silence.

The timbers of the barge creak faintly, as it sways almost imperceptibly in the rakhtor-borne harness, but other than that, no sound filters in through the thick walls or door from the outside world to break the long pause.

At last, Sunala ventures, "In Babel's time of need, it is only appropriate that we aid them."

"But why?" Pouncer asks. "There is nothing in the myths that explains just why they would lift a finger to do anything for a mortal, unless they would get some sort of perverse pleasure out of it, or some other benefit. Sunala wouldn't help out Babel. That sounds more like Rinala."

Sunala's blind eyes light with a cool fury. "Rinala? Now, would turning me into a more pleasant goddess be more in keeping with your religion? A compromise? Perhaps, to better fit into your theology, I should tend to the Sylvanian way, and present myself as an angel made flesh, rather than deity. Is that where you were going? Is this what would satisfy your Star?"

"No," Pouncer stammers, looking hurt. "I … I wasn't thinking … I … Oh, I can't do this! I don't know how to talk to you. I'm half amazed that you haven't … haven't struck me dead by now, or something. If … if Father were here, he'd… "

"Your father doesn't even know what name to call himself," Sunala retorts, coldly, "and neither do you."

"That's not fair!" Pouncer protests, her eyes tearing. "You don't know … the betrayal … all that he went through. All the humiliation of what they're doing now to the name of the Knights he once so proudly served with. He trusted them – he pledged an oath … and they used him. You … you can't do that to him. You know he loves you, too!"

Sunala says, "But he does not have all the answers, now does he? I have certainty, but you wish me to exchange that for doubt. Am I really any better off with you, than with those here who fear, respect, and worship me?"

Pouncer wipes at her eyes. "I … I just want to let you … I want to be your friend. I want to get you out of here, away from all this blood and madness. People killing each other, killing themselves, doing all these awful things… I don't really like the Temple much anymore, or how they're going about doing things here, but … you don't belong here. Nobody does. You … you are you. Even if I have to call you Sunala, you can decide who Sunala is – who you are. Nobody makes rules for you. If you're Sunala, then nothing is going to change that, whether you live up to everybody's expectations or not … and I will be quite happy to call you Sunala, or whatever you like, if I could just get you out of this nightmare. Don't let them hold you prisoner. They can't – not unless you let them. Sunala … please … come with me."

"I will not abandon my people," Sunala says, firmly. "I will not run away, just so I can be 'safe.' That is no concern of mine. But these people are mine, and as mortal as they are, I do care about them, and I'm going to deliver them from their enemies. Babel will not be defeated by the First Ones, nor will it be defeated by the Star – yours or anyone else's."

At this proclamation about the Star, Pouncer looks for a moment like she'd like to say one thing, but instead offers another. "The Sunala I read about wouldn't care. She certainly wouldn't admit it. And she would never say anything to admit that she's not omnipotent. If there's one thing Sunala is … she's proud, no matter what." At a narrowing of the eyes from Sunala, Pouncer adds, "But that's not my point! I mean, look – you're already different from what the stories say about you. You have a free will."

"I don't think that was ever in question," Sunala says in a low voice, though not entirely convincingly. "But what do you want from me? Some sort of proof? Would you like me to strike dead every last enemy of mine in the Tower of Babel?"

"No," Pouncer says, shaking slightly. "No … that's not necessary. I … I already know you can do that."

Sunala is silent at this, with the barest hint of surprise in her face.

"The prophecy … the prophecy from the Champion of Amber, back in Wyrmwood," Pouncer says, swallowing hard. "I haven't forgotten about it. The one where so many people died. That's what would have happened. I was going to be in danger … and you … you were just going to kill them all … though I don't think at the time, you knew… "

Sunala's head turns to the side, as if regarding the wall for some contribution to the conversation, and then she says, "The 'wave of death' Kasaris spoke of, yes." She looks back to Pouncer. "But from what I heard, you are making a considerable assumption. You were there, too – and you have a special connection to Amenlichtli, now don't you? Why couldn't it have been you that struck them dead? Perhaps you are Amena, reincarnate."

Pouncer sighs wearily at this, shaking her head. "I … what … " She pauses, putting her mittened hand up to her forehead, as she gathers her thoughts. She shakes her head again. "What is it about our world … that nobody's really important unless they can make some claim to deity? Seriously… "

"In any case," Sunala says, "such flagrant displays would be unbecoming. I prefer more subtlety than my sisters."

"Or you're afraid you'd lose control of it … or … or else you really don't want to kill people," Pouncer ventures.

"Will you not stop challenging me?" Sunala shoots back, her voice squeaking a little more than usual. "You call me your friend, but you are constantly prodding at me with your words!"

"I'm trying to help you," Pouncer counters. "I am your friend … and I know I don't have all the answers, but I love you – like a sister – like your so-called 'sisters' never have. I'd … goodness, I was about to say I'd die for you, but … well, the Yodh don't really care about you, either. They just want power. To the people of Babel, you – that is, Sunala – and all the 'Kindly Ones' are wicked but powerful … a necessary evil, simply because 'that's the way it is,' not because they really like any of them."

In the pause that follows, Sunala has nothing to say, and it is only after even more silence that Pouncer dares pick up again. "I … Okay. I'll stop trying to tell you you're not deity. For now. I don't even know that the word means the same thing to you as it does to me. To Babel, 'gods' are just really powerful spirits, I guess … but to me, the Star is a whole lot more. But … let me help you then, somehow. I am your friend … and if you are going to stay in Babel, to help your people … then I want to help, too."

"Help?" Sunala's ears swivel, focusing more intently on Pouncer, and her expression bears a mixture of emotions. "To fight?"

"If I have to," Pouncer says, biting her lip, "though I don't know what Father would think. But you aren't going to win Babel by attacking the Tower and killing all your enemies. Even if you struck them all dead, you wouldn't solve anything. Babel … they need something. Something to look up to. Something to have hope in. You've got all these very skilled priestesses. They could lend aid to the suffering. They could bring hope. You don't need to be some cold, distant, cruel goddess. You care about them … and you could let them know that."

"I don't run hospices," Sunala says, in a near-mutter.

"You don't … or 'Sunala' wouldn't?" Pouncer's expression is pleading, not accusing.

"Our resources are strained. It would be foolhardy to risk my followers by sending them out all over," Sunala says.

"Then don't. Just … just do what you can. Let the people come to Mount Sunala, only don't demand offerings of them for help. Or maybe even this barge… " Pouncer looks around her at the darkened room.

"Blasphemy," Sunala says, with an odd quirk to her mouth. "You have all the nerve, don't you? You come to me, and try to sway me to the cause of goodness and light. The sappiness of it all makes me want to feel sick to my stomach."

"I don't care how you package it," Pouncer says. "I mean … I really wish that you'd just stick to the truth, but … you are in a position of authority. I'm not advocating that it's a good thing for you to call yourself a goddess, but if you're going to be in charge of the Yodhsunala … well, you could do so much to help people, if you had a mind to. And I want to help, even if it's changing bedpans and bandages. I care about you … and if you care about these people, then I care about them, too."

"Does that mean you wouldn't care about them if I didn't?" Sunala says, a hint of a tease breaking through her voice.

"I – augh! That's not what I meant … and you know it!" Pouncer forgets herself (a little more than usual), and giggles briefly – but then suddenly cuts herself off, as if only just now remembering where she is, still.

"Of course I do," Sunala says, slowly rising from her throne. "You may not believe in me, Pouncer Zoltan, but I will never forget the aid that you and your father lent to my followers, in the securing of this avatar away from the hands of the Temple. For your sake, I will consider your ideas … but I make no promises."

Pouncer looks momentarily lost, trying to sort out just which "ideas" are to be considered, but then she puts on a hopeful face. She awkwardly rises, not certain of the proper etiquette. "Thank you."

"Will you be staying then?" Sunala asks.

"If you'll let me," Pouncer answers. "For a while, at least. Once Father gets word of what I'm up to … well … he might have other ideas, but… "

Sunala smirks faintly. "My daughters will make arrangements. It is good to see you again, Pouncer Zoltan."

"And you … Sunala," Pouncer whispers, a formal mood taking her as she half-bows without really thinking about it, then blushing.

A moment later, as Pouncer is led through the darkness by unseen but still gentle hands, a thousand thoughts fight their way through her mind. Oh Star, she quietly prays, am I doing the right thing? Please don't let me say anything stupid! And please, please, please help Srinala!