She walked out to the middle of the silk-strewn floor. ‘Stilcho,’ she said; and
a man who had been near dead moved, tried to sit.
‘Don’t,’ Moria said, a strangled, small voice – not love of Stepsons, it was
sure; Mradhon felt the same, a knot of sickness in his throat.
Ischade held out her hands. The Stepson rose, swayed, walked to her. She took
his hands, drew him to sit, with her, on the floor; he knelt, carefully.
‘No,’ Haught said, quietly, a small, lost voice. ‘No. Don’t.’
But Ischade had no glance for him. She began to speak, whispering, as if she
shared secrets with the man. His lips began to move, mouthing words she spoke.
Mradhon seized Haught’s arm, for Haught stood closest, drew him back, and Haught
got back against the wall. Moria came close. Mor-am sought their corner, the
furthest that there was.
‘What’s she doing?’ Mradhon asked, tried to ask, but the room drank up sound and
nothing at all came out.
She dreamed, deeply dreamed. The man who touched her -Stilcho. He had been deep
within that territory of dreams, as deep as it was possible to go and still come
back. He wanted it now: his mind wanted to go fleeting away down those dark
corridors and bright – Sjekso, she chanted, over and over: that was the easiest
to call of all her many ghosts. Sjekso. She had his attention now. Sjekso. This
is Stilcho. Follow him. Come up to me.
The young rowdy was there, just verging the light. He attempted his old
nonchalance, but he was shivering in the cold of a remembered alleyway, in the
violence of her wrath.