“Find him. Arrange a meeting. Offer him whatever he wants, if necessary.” He
swung into the saddle, shedding his aches and tiredness.
“Whoa.” Walegrin caught the gelding’s reins and looked Molin square in the eye.
“It said that was your lesser problem. Hoxa says you don’t eat enough to feed
one of your damn ravens and you sleep on the dirt under your table. You’re the
only one in the Palace my men respect-the only one / respect-and it’s not right
for you to be off with ‘greater problems.'”
Molin sighed and accepted the conspiracy between the officer and his scrivener.
“My greater problems, I was told, lie within my past. You’ll have to let me
struggle with them on my own.”
They rode away from the temple in silence, Walegrin keeping his mare a good
distance behind the gelding. He bit his lip, scratched himself and gave every
indication of reaching an unpleasant decision before trotting the mare to
Molin’s side.
“You should go to Illyra,” he stated sullenly. “Heaven’s forfend-why?”
“She’s good at finding things.”
“Even if she were, and I admit she is, I’ve taken her son from her. She’s got no
cause to do me a favor. I’d sooner ask Arton directly,” Molin said, thinking it
might not be a bad idea.
“Illyra’d be better. And she’d do it-because you have Arton.”
“That smith-husband of hers would use me for kindling. Even if she’s forgiven
me, he hasn’t.”
“I’ll crush a few wheels and send Thrush with a message that he’s needed at the
barracks to mend some iron. You’ll have the time.”
The priest had no desire to talk to the seeress. He had no desire to go rooting