“Gods, Strat, we both still love him, you know?”
“I figure,” Strat agreed in an odd tone. “But he doesn’t love us. Get him out of there, Kama. If I go in, it’s just more trouble. She isn’t going to take kindly to him sticking his nose in where it doesn’t belong.”
Kama was already off her horse, handing Strat its reins. “I know. You stay here, there’s no use of you two getting into a brawl over this.” Poised to sprint for the door, she turned back: “Strat, we have to get used to things the way my father left them. It hurts all of us. Crit didn’t want this command. Not this way.”
“That and a soldat will still get you laid at Myrtis’s.”
Bitterness unanswerable. Kama sprinted for the door she’d always shunned, behind which was something she didn’t want anything to do with: Ischade.
Through the gate, up the steps, and stop, hearing your own breathing, wondering what you’ll do if she’s hurt him, ensorcelled him, gotten her claws into him like Strat, and Janni, and Stilcho and the rest . , .
Knocking with your heart pounding louder, suddenly aware of more than one male in there behind that forbidding door, and hoping those other voices aren’t undead voices. You’ve only seen the undeads at a distance, and even the memory raises gooseflesh . . . “Ah, Madame Is- chade, I’m here for Crit.” Blurted like a fool in a voice higher than you’ve heard yourself use since school days.
Inky eyes deeper than any uncursed well, a pale face whose features are somehow indiscernible, and a hand cold as anything Kama could remember touching.