off, wiping hands on his winter woolens as he followed his sacrifice out toward
the altar and called over his shoulder, “You’ll have to say the rites, Ace.” Ace
was Straton’s war name. “I’m not qualified, being an envoy of magic and thus an
enemy of gods-even yours.”
Strat ignored the Hazard and watched Ischade still. “Is it my fault?” he asked
simply. “Some consequence of lying with you against all that’s natural?”
“No more than Janni’s fate, or Stilcho’s, can be laid at any other’s feet. Men
make their own fates-it’s personal, not a matter for debate.” She reached up,
taking a chance, touching his lips gone white as the big Stepson struggled for
control, his hand upon his sword hilt. He might well try to kill her there and
then, to exorcise his guilt and pain.
Then what would she do? Hurt this one, in whose arms she could be a woman, not a
Power too fearful to survive for any other man? Never. Or not unless he forced
it.
Her touch on his lips didn’t cause him to toss his head or step away. He said,
“Ischade, this is more than I bargained for …”
“It’s more, Strat, than any of us bargained for.” Her hand slipped from his
lips, down his neck, across the sloping shoulder to rest on his powerful right
arm-in a moment she could numb it, if there was need. “It’s your god, warring
against the Ilsig gods and the Beysib gods-if they have them-turning men’s heads
and hearts. Not us. We’re as close to innocent as your sword, which would as
soon stay in its scabbard. Trust me. We all knew there’d be hell to pay, should