reclamation of a dozen or more estates beyond the city walls. Molin, having
refused any reconciliation with his wife, lived in a barren room not far from
the dungeon cells it resembled. He’d delegated all responsibility for the Rankan
state cults to Rashan who, it seemed, was eager to insinuate himself in Lowan
Vigeles’s good graces. The Eye of Savankala promptly moved his entire
disaffected coterie out to his estate at Land’s End in hopes that not only could
the Rankan upper class maintain itself there, untainted by the Beysib presence,
but that they could somehow promulgate the ultimate miracle and propel Prince
Kadakithis successfully back to the Imperial Throne.
Molin, in turn, spent all his time studying the reports his underlings and
informants brought him, searching for the clues that would tell him which of
Sanctuary’s numerous factions was most powerful or most volatile. He ceased to
care about anything Rankan and thought only of the fate of Sanctuary as it
revealed itself through his informants. He left his room only to visit the
children and practice with Walegrin each morning before dawn.
“Supper, My Lord Torchholder?” Hoxa inquired.
“Later, Hoxa.”
“It is later. Lord Torchholder. Only you and the torturers are still awake. Your
old quarters are empty now. I’ve taken the liberty of scrounging a new mattress.
Lord Torchholder, whatever you’re looking for, you won’t find it if you don’t
get some sleep.”
He felt his tiredness; the cramps in his legs and shoulders from too little
movement and too much dampness; and remembered, with a nicker of shame, that he