are now, and more yet….”
Ischade looked down silently at what the light, the silver morning, the
irresistible joy beating in the air, had made of her. Long she looked down, and
lifting her hands, gazed into them as if into a mirror. Finally she lowered them
and said, calm as ever, “I prefer my way.”
Mriga looked a long moment at her. “Yes. Anyway, thank you,” she said.
“Believe me, you’ll pay well enough for what I’ve done for Harran.”
Mriga shook her head. “Down there-you knew everything that was going to happen,
didn’t you? But you were trying to spare us a disaster, trying to spare
Sanctuary one. Without looking like it, of course, and spoiling your
reputation.”
“I should have hated to lose a goddess who will be creating such wonderful
disturbances hereabouts in the near future,” Ischade said, her voice soft and
dangerous.
Mriga smiled at her. “You’re not quite as you paint yourself, Lady Ischade. But
your reputation is safe with me.”
The necromant looked at her and smiled a slow, scornful smile. “The day it
matters to me what anyone thinks of me, or doesn’t think … even the gods …
!” she said.
“Yes,” said Mriga. “And whoever raises the dead but gods? Let’s go in.”
Ischade nodded, holding the gate. Mriga went in, and with true sunrise, the
influences of the underworld died away and let day reassert itself: grimy,
pallid dawn over Sanctuary, reeking with smoke and the faint taint of blood
ghost-haunted, dismal, and bitter cold as befitted the first day of winter. At
Ischade’s back, the White Foal flowed and stank, filmed here and there with ice.