It was Haught who came. Even Mor-am was too afraid; but Haught – who touched
her, with his hands and in a different way, like the flickering of a fire. He
took Stilcho up; Mor-am helped, and Vis, and Moria last of all.
Ischade drew herself to her feet, walked over to the window and unshuttered it
by hand, considerate of her guests. There were some things they might bear with
in the dark of night; but by day – that seemed unkind, and she felt washed clean
this morning. A bird was perched on the untouched hedge. It was a carrion crow;
it hopped down out of sight, in a fluttering of unseen wings.
Mradhon Vis strode along the street in the silence of the morning free, inhaling
air that had, even with its stench, a more wholesome quality than that within
the riverhouse.
Haught, Moria, Mor-am – they were afraid. The Stepson slept, unharmed, in
Ischade’s silken bed, while the witch herself – gods knew where she was.
‘Come on,’ he had pleaded, with Haught – with Moria, even. Mor-am he had not
asked. Even the Stepson: him he would have gotten out of there if he could. But
maybe it would be a corpse he was carrying before he had gotten to the street.
‘No,’ Moria had said, seeming shamed. Haught had said nothing, but a hell was in
his eyes, so he had it bad. ‘Don’t – touch her,’ Mradhon had said then, shaking
him by the shoulders. But Haught turned away, head bowed, passed his hand over
one of the dead candles. A bit of smoke curled up on its own. Died. So Mradhon
knew what hold Ischade had on Haught. And he went away, went out the door with