That put them eye to eye and the eyes of Ischade were deeper than Kama’s hidden grief for a child lost long ago on the battlefield and the man who’d refused to give her another chance.
“Yes?” said the velvet-voiced woman who held Strat in thrall.
Kama, who was more woman than she’d have chosen, looked deep into the eyes of the woman who was all any man who’d seen her had ever dreamed of wanting, and felt rough, unkempt, foolish.
“Crit’s horse… is it… ? Is he… ?”
“Here? The both. Kama, isn’t it?” Ischade’s dark eyes delved, narrowed just a fraction, then widened.
“It, I-I shouldn’t have come. I’m sorry. I’ll just go and…”
“There’s no harm. And no peace, either,” said the vampire-woman who seemed suddenly sad. “Not if your father has the say of it. You want him-Crit? Take care for what you want, little one.”
And Kama, who had never known her mother and thought of other women as if she herself were a man, found her arms outstretched to Ischade for comfort, weeping freely, sobbing so deeply that nothing she tried to say came out in words.
But the necromant drew back with a hiss and a warding motion, a shake of her head and a blink that broke some spell or other.
Then she turned and was gone inside, though Kama hadn’t seen the door open to admit her.
Suddenly alone with her tears on the doorstep of one of the most feared powers in Sanctuary, Kama heard words within- low words, some spoken by men.
Before the door could reopen, before Crit could see her weeping like a baby, she had to get out of here. She didn’t mean it; she shouldn’t have come. She needed nobody-not her father, not his fighters, not Zip or Torchholder and, most especially, not the Sacred Bander called Crit.