angry. Torchholder heard the rumble of thunder and did not think it was his
imagination.
” ‘Kouras-no,” Arton interceded, taking his brother’s hand. The children stared
at each other and the light ebbed gradually from Gyskouras’s eyes. Molin sighed
and relaxed until he realized that the light had moved to Arton’s eyes instead.
“He is ours already, Stepfather. We do not need to take him,” the dark-eyed
child said in a tone that was both consoling and threatening.
They made the rest of the journey in silence: Seylalha huddled in the corner;
the children sharing their thoughts and Molin staring at the triple portrait.
There were two hectic days until Mid-Winter’s Eve. Molin had the satisfaction of
knowing his plans could not be thwarted and the irritation of knowing the events
already in motion were of such magnitude that he had no more power than anyone
else to alter them.
By the time the sun set, Torchholder had become hardened to the cascade of
coincidence surrounding his every move. He went out of his way to stop the
Mageguild from donating Askelon’s, and Randal’s, enchanted armor to Shupansea in
gratitude for her permission to meddle with the weather at their Fete. He even
considered refusing it when she suddenly turned around and offered it to him “as
we have no Storm Gods nor warrior-priests worthy to wear it.” But, in the end,
he accepted all her gifts gratefully-including the authority to name Jennek and
his rowdy friends as his personal honor guard.
He retired to his sanctum to await the unfolding of fate alone-except for Lalo’s