“You must have one.”
Ischade was silent. “Please pardon me,” Mriga said. “I shouldn’t have asked.
Power is a private thing.”
“You need not come with us,” Siveni said, without turning around, from ahead of
them. “You’ve already fulfilled your part of the bargain. Though we haven’t paid
you yet-“
Ischade didn’t stop walking, but there was a second’s hard look in her eyes that
was more than just the reflection of Siveni’s lightnings. “Don’t project your
fears on me, young goddesses,” she said, the voice silken, the eyes dark and
amused. “I have no reason not to see her.”
Mriga and Siveni both most carefully held their peace. Tyr, though, whined once
and wagged her tail, and for the rest of the walk never once left Ischade’s
side. Ischade appeared not to notice.
“See,” she said. “The gate.”
The south gate looked much as it did in Sanctuary, and made it plain that some
passions had not entirely died out here; the posts were splashed with PFLS and
gang graffiti. But there were no guards, no Stepsons, nothing but iron gates
that stood open. The great courtyard inside was drowned in shadow, and the
wailings of hell seemed subdued here. On the far side of the courtyard lay what
had looked like the Palace from a distance, but here proved itself to be an
edifice not even Ranke in its flower could have built: all ebony porticoes and
onyx colonnades, smoke-black pillars and porches, massive domes and shadowy
towers, halls piled on mighty halls, rearing up in terrible somber grace till
all was lost in the lowering overcast. Ischade never paused, but went right in