‘Huh,’ Hanse said critically. Laughed and swung on his heel, caught the blind
servant by the arm and started out with him. But remembering the movements in
the outer hall, the thing which had brushed at his leg – ‘All right, all right,’
he said suddenly, and let go the man’s arm to put the blindfold back in place.
‘All right, rot you, wait.’
The thief went, and Enas Yorl rose from his chair. His shape had settled again
into a form far more pleasant than most. He walked to a hall more interior to
his house, examined hands delicate and fine, that were purest pleasure to touch
– and all the worse when they would begin … next moment or next day … to
change.
It was a revenge, a none too subtle revenge, but then the wizard who had cursed
him had never been much on subtleties, which was why his young wife had had Enas
Yorl in her bed in the first place – a younger Enas Yorl in those days, but age
meant nothing now. The forms his affliction cast on him might be old or young,
male or female, human or – not. And the years frightened him. All the time he
had had, to become master of his arts, and his arts had no power to undo
another’s spell. No one could. And some of his forms, still, were young, which
suggested that he did not age, that there was no end to this torment – for ever.
Yet wizards died, lately, in Sanctuary. Tell the thief that was the name of the
game, and even threats might not persuade him. But in these deaths, Enas Yorl
was desperately, passionately interested. Ischade … Ischade: the name tasted