those who’d use him if they could, Niko was drawn to Roxane like a Sanctuary
whore to a well-heeled drunk or, if rumor could be believed, like Prince
Kadakithis to the Beysa Shupansea.
Not even Bandara’s gravel ponds or deep seaside meditation had cleansed his soul
of its longing for the flesh of the witch who loved him.
So he’d come down again to Sanctuary, on the excuse of answering Randal’s
ephemeral summons. But it was Roxane he’d come to see. And touch. And talk to.
For Niko had to exorcise her, take her talons from his soul, cleanse his heart
of her. He’d admitted it to himself this season in Bandara. At least that was a
start. The lore of his mystery whispered that any problem, named and known, was
soluble. But since the name of Niko’s problem was Roxane, Stealth wasn’t sure
that it was so.
Thus, he must confront her. Here, somewhere. Make her let him go.
But he didn’t find her in the Alekeep, just a fat old man with a wispy pate
who’d aged too much in the passing seasons, who had a winter in his eyes with
more bite to it than any Sanctuary ever blew in off the endless sea.
The old man, when Niko told him of his daughter’s fate, simply nodded, chin on
fist, and said to Niko, “You did your best, son. As we’re all doing now. It
seems so long ago, and we’ve such troubles here….” He paused, and sighed a
quavery sigh, and wiped red eyes with his sleeve then, so Niko knew that the
father’s hurt was still fresh and sharp.
Niko got up from the marble table where he’d found the father, alone with the