of.”
The scrivener retrieved his mug and refilled it for the bird, but he would go no
closer to it than the far side of the work-table and shrank back to the corner
while Molin lured the beast onto his arm. Unlike his other winged messengers who
carried tiny caskets, this one spoke its message in a language only the proper
receiver could understand: another property of the spelled ring. Molin whispered
a reply and let it take flight again.
“The Lady of the White Foal wishes to see me, Hoxa.”
“The Nisi witch?”
“No-the Other One.”
“Will you go?”
“Yes. Find me the best cloak she left behind.”
“Now? I’ll send for Walegrin-“
“No, Hoxa. The invitation was clearly for one. I hadn’t expected this-but I’m
not surprised, all the same. If anything happens, you can tell Walegrin when he
comes looking for me in the morning. Not before.”
He shook out the cloak Hoxa offered him. It was black, lined with crimson-dyed
fur, and appropriate for visiting Ischade.
Winter’s night in Sanctuary belonged to the warring partisans, the forces of
magic and, especially, the dead- none of which challenged Molin as he rode by.
He felt eerie sensations as he neared her home: the eyes of her minions, their
silent movements around him, her dark-woven wards lifting when he touched the
flimsy iron gate.
“Leave the horse here. They don’t like it closer.”
Molin looked down into the ruined face of a man he had once known-a man long
dead and yet very much alert and waiting. He hid his revulsion behind a benign,
priestly demeanor, dismounted and let what remained of Stilcho lead the gelding