“He didn’t say that.”
“No, he didn’t. I’m going with him, and I’m saying it.”
“I’ll come-“
“He did say that, Strat. He wants you here, just in case . . .” It sounded like what it was, a whitewash.
Strat’s horse backed a few steps and from there she heard Straton say, “Go on, then. Ischade’s warned him off, told him something. I’ll find out what. You need help, you’ll get it.” His voice was thick.
She was glad she couldn’t see his face. She ran blindly to her horse, grabbed a handful of mane, vaulted to its back, and urged the skittish roan toward the iron gate where weird flowers bloomed. In her belt, the talisman she’d taken from Zip seemed hot against her leathers, hot enough to make her sweat.
It was the proximity to Ischade’s wards, she told herself- Nothing to fret over. She had plenty to worry about without adding the talisman into the bargain.
Crit crossed one leg over his saddle’s pommel and lit a smoke, staring at the building across the street. No sign on its steps or to either side of the rubble they’d passed getting here, of the whirlwinds and firestorm of destruction that had ravaged Tasfalen’s ancestral home.
This building was intact, its shutters drawn. The vampire had been certain of where to look, but uncertain that looking was wise.
“She said,” Crit told Kama, “that Tasfalen’s in there, with Haught. You remember Haught.”
“I remember,” Kama said through clenched teeth.
Mor-am and Vis were off to one side, ordered to accompany them by Ischade, who evidently was in charge of more than her Foalside cottage. Damn Tempus, for putting Crit between sorcerous rocks and political hard places. Vis had brought him to Mor-am, who’d grinned and brought him to Ischade with more satisfaction than Crit liked.