sought out waking minds and could not find his in his restplace, and thus the
cook and all the menials must be spellbound, still-when men began to stir and
finish sentences begun before Askelon’s arrival, and Tempus waved him
imperatively on his way. He left on the double, ignoring the stares of those
just coming out of limbo, whistling to cover the wheeze of his fear.
3
So it was that the Sacred Bander Nikodemos accompanied Askelon into Sanctuary on
the young Stepson’s two best horses, his ears ringing with what he had heard and
his eyes aching from what he had seen and his heart clandestinely taking
cautious beats in a constricted chest.
Over breakfast, Askelon had remarked to Tempus that it must be hell for one of
his temperament to languish under curse and god. “I’ve gotten used to it.”
“I could grant you mortality, so small a thing is still within my power.”
“I’ll limp along as I am, thanks, Ash. If my curse denys me love, it
gives me freedom.”
“It would be good for you to have an ally.”
“Not one who will unleash a killing mist merely to make an
entrance,” Tempus had rejoined, his fingers steepled before him.
“Sorcery is yet beneath your contempt? You are hardly nonaligned in the
conflict brewing.”
“I have my philosophy.”
“Oh? And what is that?”
“A single axiom, these days, is sufficient to my needs.”
“Which is?”
“Grab reality by the balls and squeeze.’ “
“We will see how well it serves you, when you stand without your god.”
“Are you still afraid of me, Ash? I have never given you cause,
never vied with you for your place.”