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People threw stones and rock-hard clods of dirt at him. His followers pretended not to believe. He heard one say, "He's possessed. Very wise, but a little crazy. Who knows, though. Maybe it will rain."

"Maybe," was the answer.

It did rain, not long after they reached the city of Itscrid Genshiye, capital of Itscriye province. People stood in the streets, craning their necks and listening to the cool breeze that rustled in their clothing. At the thunder they held up their hands to wait for the first drops. With the citizens, the refugees and the Verloringers there were hundreds, silent, holding up their hands. When the heavy rain struck their faces, they turned to one another to watch the masks of grime dissolve and run down to their feet and the earth. They embraced, they danced and drank. Those who could still remember the way returned to their homes.

The Lir Temple priests never arrived. Akiva supposed they had died in the wilderness, and he chanted over them as best he could, but without much enthusiasm. Had they not had the power to bring rain and failed so long to use it?

In the city, where Verloring's legends carried less weight, his name was linked to that of Fatayad, god of agriculture. The god warned him in nightmares and, when Akiva could not stop the rumors, began to stalk him. Retribution came. The rain that had saved them in August returned in February and threatened to linger through March. Since the flooding began, he had been distracted with fear and unable to meditate. Thoughts nagged him. He would listen to the rain on the roof, sometimes going up there himself to be nearer to it, but instead of becoming tranquil in its strength his mind lost itself in its chatter. Even in the dark of his unwindowed room, he sat watching.

The door creaked. A child grunted in the hallway. It must be morning. Akiva lay back and pulled up the blanket. He wished there were a window here so he would know when the night ended instead of waiting for someone to tell him. If no one came, he thought, there might be no day. He smiled. Fatayad would certainly catch him then.

What would happen? Would the god tear off his limbs, or would it only seem so? Whatever happened in the dream world, he had always returned safe at morning to this one. If morning did not come, he might not.

The door creaked again and weak yellow light from the hallway advanced into a corner of the room. Neshar stepped in.

The boy came and stood by Akiva's head. Akiva lay still, watching out of the corner of his eye as the top of Neshar's head bobbed up and down. Neshar tugged at the blanket, calling out "Day! Day!" on the downstroke like a bell.

"I'm awake," Akiva said.

"Can I come up?" Neshar was too small to climb onto the bed.

"No. I'm coming down." He sat up. "Is it still raining?"

Neshar nodded. "It's running where the plow goes." He went ahead of Akiva to the doorway.

Rain fell evenly from the toneless sky to shimmering puddles as wide as Akiva's height. His followers stood in the mud, waiting. They had all been living so long in the rain that they scarcely noticed it. One of the fathers beckoned him. Akiva set Neshar down and slogged out to them.

"They won't let us in the temple. That knock-kneed folkpriest just threw us right out. Now we've got no place to pray. We might as well be back at home as here. Just as much mud in one place as the other. What are we going to do?" the man asked.

"Pray out here." Akiva spread his arms. The others began coming toward him, and he was about to begin his lecture when he noticed that Neshar was surrounded by a group of children. He dropped his arms and went to fetch him.

A boy of about ten squatted in front of Neshar, taunting, "Babyface, babyface, make us cry. Your papa set you free and your mama let you die."

"Leave him alone," Akiva said.

They stared at him. "He's the rain-bringer," a girl said. "Get him, Karlie. He killed Ma."

Several of them jumped on Akiva, punching him and pulling his hair. A girl kicked the backs of his knees and knocked him down. The fight was insanely difficult. Akiva threw them off, head downward into the mud like dogs. It was only because they forgot him that Neshar remained unharmed.

"Hey, let our kids be!" a voice yelled.

Adults were running out of the temple. Akiva saw stones and hoehandles among them. The children fled. He picked up Neshar and held him to his chest. The boy clung tight. Rocks were flying around them, most well wide of the mark. One struck Akiva's hip. He picked it up and faced the mob. Although he made no move to throw, they halted. His group edged toward him. "He'll call down fire on you!" one shouted. The mob turned to her, than back to Akiva.

"What have we done to you?" one of them called.

Others took up the cry.

"What have we done?"

"Let us be!"

"Go someplace else with your rain!"

"I paid my taxes!"

Taxes? Akiva thought. That was a lie--the world knew Itscriye province had fought the tax collectors after the last good harvest--but the lie showed that the people were in the dangerous mood of attributing all their torubles to him. He held out the stone. "This is what you paid me. I will bring your tribute to the capital."

That was worse than the threat of fire. The mob yelled. Stones flew. Akiva's followers began to run. He ran after them. The mob pursued him. Both sides ran slowly, sinking knee-deep into the mud at every step.

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