must, to see him through it. No remonstrance or doubt had shown in the fighter
called Stealth’s open countenance, that Tempus would come here against Askelon’s
wishes, and risk a Stepson’s life. It was war, the boy’s calm said, what they
both did and what they both knew. Later, perhaps there would be explanations-or
not. Tempus knew that Niko, should he survive, would never broach the subject.
“Torchholder, I think you ought to go see to the First Consort’s baby,” he said
as his hand came down heavily on the palace-priest’s be-baubled shoulder.
Torchholder was already pulling on his beard, his mouth curled with anger, when
he turned. Assessing Tempus’ demeanor, his face did a dance which ended in a
mien of knowing caution. “Ah, yes, I did mean to look in on Seylalha and her
babe. Thank you for reminding me, Hell-Hound.”
“Stay with her,” Tempus whispered sotto voce as Molin sought to brush by him,
“or get them both to a safer place-“
“We got your message, this afternoon, Hound,” the privy priest hissed, and he
was gone.
Tempus was just thinking that it was well Fete Week only came once yearly, when
above him, in the pink, tented clouds, winter gloom began to spread; and beside
him, a hand closed upon his left arm with a numbingly painful grip: Jihan had
arrived.
6
Askelon of Meridian, entelechy of the seventh sphere, lord of dream and shadow,
faced his would-be assassin little strengthened. The Hazards of Sanctuary had
given what they could of power to him, but mortal strength and mortals’ magic
could not replace what he had lost. His compassionate eyes had sunken deep under