Gilla swallowed and forced herself not to look away. ‘Lalo’s been in some kind
of trance for two weeks now. I want you to get him back into his body again.’
She reached for the bag at her neck.
‘Keep your gold,’ the sorcerer said querulously. ‘Your husband already asked me
that question and I agreed – it would be amusing to see what Sanctuary would
make of a man who has faced his own soul – but Lalo is beyond my reach now.’
‘Beyond your reach?’ Gilla’s voice echoed painfully. ‘But they call you the
greatest wizard in the Empire!’ She met the red glow of the sorcerer’s eyes, and
after a moment it dimmed and he looked away.
‘I am great enough to know the limits of my power,’ he answered bitterly. ‘I
cannot speak for the Beysib, but no mage of Sanctuary will meddle with
Sikkintair. The Flying Knives have taken your husband, woman. Go to the Temple
of Ils and see if Gordonesh the priest will listen to you. Or better still, go
home – Lalo is gods’ business now.’
The Sikkintair devoured Lalo’s flesh and scoured his bones until the wind harped
through his rib cage and drummed out a rhythm with the long bones of his thighs.
His clever painter’s hands, stripped of the muscle that had made their magic,
rattled like winter-bared twigs against the sky.
And when they were done with the skeleton they let it fall, and mother earth
laid down new flesh around his bones. He lay thus enwombed for a season or a
century, and when his time was’ accomplished he found himself naked in a forest
glade starred with flowers like jewels, his new body as supple and strong as a