Her eyes were grey as his horse. Silver shot her hair, but she was yet comely.
Her hands rose, hesitated, covered a mouth pretending to hardness and tight with
fear. He recognized the aborted motion other hands: towards her head, forgetful
that the rods she sought were no longer there.
He did not move in his saddle, or speak again. He let her decide, glance quickly
about the street, then come to him.
When her hand touched the horse’s bridle, he said: ‘It bites.’
‘Because you taught it to. It will not bite me.’ She held it by the muzzle,
squeezing the pressure points that rode the skin there. The horse raised his
head slightly, moaned, and stood shivering.
‘What seek you in there?’ He inclined his head towards Vashanka’s; a lock of
copper hair fell over one eye.
‘The tools of my trade were stolen.’
‘Have you money?’
‘Some. Not enough.’
‘Come with me.’
‘Never again.’
‘You have kept your vow, then?’
‘I slay sorcerers. I cannot suffer any man to touch me except a client. I dare
no love; I am chaste of heart.’
‘All these aching years?’
She smiled. It pulled her mouth in hard at its corners and he saw ageing no
potion or cosmetic spell could hide. ‘Every one. And you? You did not take the
Blue Star, or I would see it on your brow. What discipline serves your will?’
‘None. Revenge is fruitless. The past is only alive in us. I am not meant for
sorcery. I love logic too well.’
‘So, you are yet damned?’
‘If that is what you call it, I suppose – yes. I work for the Storm God,
sometimes. I do a lot of wars.’
‘What brought you here, Cle-‘