around his own best-forgotten memories. Since his estrangement from Rosanda
thoughts about his origins, never before a subject of consideration, haunted
him. He hoped they’d vanish now that he had a fertile connection between
Nikodemos, Randal, Roxane, and the avatars to pursue. “We’ll see,” he
temporized, not wanting to offend his only efficient lieutenant. “Maybe after
Mid-Winter. Right now, look for Niko. And strengthen the barricades around the
Beysib cantonment. Ischade was honest and playing games of her own at the same
time.”
Walegrin grunted.
Two days, and the miserable nightmare-filled night between them, were sufficient
to make Molin reconsider a visit to the seeress. He watched Walegrin mangle some
stable implements, then headed for the Bazaar along a route which would not
likely bring him into contact with Illyra’s husband, Dubro.
He was recognized by the smith’s apprentice and admitted into Illyra’s scrying
room.
“What brings you to my home?” she asked, shuffling her cards and, unbeknown to
the priest, loosening the catch on the dagger fastened beneath her table. “Arton
is well, isn’t he?”
“Yes, very well-growing fast. Has your husband forgiven you?”
“Yes-he blames it all on you. You were wise to see that he was not here. You
will be wiser to be gone when he gets back.”
“Walegrin said you could help me.”
“I should have guessed when that soldier came to fetch Dubro. I have had no
visions of gyskourem since Arton went to the Palace. I won’t look into your
future, Priest.”
“There is work for him to do at the Palace and a fair price for his labor. Your