strainer, one, two, three cups. Brought one to her and ignored the other two. /
don’t try. But a mother might, whose son lay sick in the palace, in company with
a dying god. Priests or some messenger from Molin had been here already. Someone
had told the S’danzo; or she had Seen it for herself, scryed it in the
fracturing heavens, or tea leaves, gods knew.
And consolation might make a clearer mind in her service.
“Do you think they’ll slight your son,” Ischade asked, and sipped the tea, “for
the other boy? Not if they value this city. I assure you. Randal’s very skilled.
You certainly needn’t doubt which side the gods are on in your son’s case. Do
you?”
“I don’t know … I can’t see.”
“Ah. My own complaint. You want to know the present. I can tell you that.” She
shut her eyes and indeed it was little work to do, to sense Randal at work. “I
can tell you the children are asleep, that there is little pain now, that the
strength of the god holds your son in life. That a-” Pain assaulted her, an
acute pain behind the eyes. Mage-fire. “Randal.” She opened her eyes on the
small, cluttered room again, on the S’danzo’s drawn face. “I may be called to
help there. I don’t know. I have the power. But I’m hampered in using it. I need
an answer. Where is Roxane?”
The S’danzo shook her head desperately. Gold rings swung and clashed. “I can’t
See that way-it’s a present thing; I can’t-“
“Find her tracks in the future. Find mine. Find your son’s if you can. That’s
where she’ll go. A man named Niko. She’ll surely try for him. Tempus. Critias.