“And it is certainly not to your interest that you, yourself, fail. So you think
that we should, together, protect the mage, the lover and our own interests from
the Nisibisi witch?” Molin said, striving to match her tone.
Ischade spun down to sit among her pillows. The hood of her cloak fell back to
reveal a face that was beautiful, and human, in the candlelight. “Not together,
no. In our separate ways-so none of us fail and Roxane does not succeed. You can
understand the dangers of the preternatural around us, the danger to the
children you shelter? The ways of magicians do not mix well with the ways of the
god-choosers. Sanctuary grows bloated with power.”
“And the powerful? If I am to protect those children, I’d be best without any
magicians. You, Randal, or Roxane.”
She laughed again. Molin saw that it was her eyes that laughed with death
madness. “It is not my power that we’re talking about. My power is born in
Sanctuary itself-in life and death.”
“Especially death.”
“Priests! God-chooser, you think that because you have a ready buyer for your
soul you are somehow better than those who must sell theirs piecemeal.”
She was angry and her inky eyes threatened to engulf him. Molin rose unsteadily
from the chair but faced her without blinking.
“Madame, I am not any persuasion of soul-selling magician: witch, necromancer,
or whatever. You speak of interests and failures as if you knew mine. I served
Vashanka and the Rankan Empire; now I serve His sons …” He hesitated,
unwilling to speak aloud the concluding phrase that had formed in his head.