night too-she was determined he should, and she gazed back at him in the dim
light of golden candles, in the eclectic clutter of her private alcove-strewn
spiderlike with bright silks, with the spoils of other men, other victims of her
peculiar curse.
“Why,” he asked (Straton was always full of questions), “why can’t you get rid
of this-curse of yours?”
“Because-” She laid a cautioning finger on his chin, and planted a kiss after
it, “because. If I told you that you’d not rest; you’d be a great fool all for
my sake. And that would be the end of you.”
“Ranke’s ending. What have I got? Maybe I’d rather be a fool. Maybe I can’t help
but be one.” A tiny frown-line knit his brow. He stared into her eyes. “How many
men are this lucky this long?”
“None,” she whispered, low as the rustle of wind in the brush, as the ghost
voices outside. “None for long. So far. Hush. Would you love me if there were no
danger? If I were safe you’d leave me. The same way you left Ranke. The same way
you’ve stayed in Sanctuary. The same way you ride the streets on that great bay
horse of yours that too many know-it’s death you court, Strat. Indeed it is. I’m
only a symptom.”
“You mean to add me to your collection, dammit; like Stilcho, like Janni-“
“I mean to keep you alive, dammit, for my reasons.” The dammit was mockery. Her
curses were real, and deadly. She touched his temple, where a small scar was,
where the hair was growing thin. “You’re no boy, no fool, I won’t have you
become one at this stage of your life. Listen to me and I’ll tell you things-“