the streets on a fine horse. His clothing was plain. His face was smooth and
cold and he was younger than she had thought until he took her hand and she
looked up into his eyes by accident.
She stood there in mortal terror, mumbled something and surrendered a limp hand
to the man next-“Critias,” he named himself. “Moria,” she said, never taking her
eyes from the man who walked through the hall, an apparition as dreadful as
anything the house had yet hosted. 0 gods, where is She? Is She going to come at
all? They’ll steal the silver, they’ll drink down the wine and wreck the house
and come at me next, they’ll kill me, they will, to spite Her….
Thunder rumbled above the house, the light outside was stormlight, and never a
drop of rain spotted the cobbles. She looked outside in mortal terror, expecting
more apparitions. Wind skirled, committed indiscretion with her skirts. She held
her threatened hair and watched wide-eyed as a last man came from around the
comer where the horsemen had turned in, where the beggar-stableboys Ischade had
provided did service with the horses, in the little stable-nook to the rear of
the house. The man wore cloak and hood. For a moment she thought it was Stilcho
and held onto her coiffure and dreaded his approach. But it was not, it was a
different man, who came up the step with a matter-of-fact tread and looked up at
her with an expression different than the rest-with an expression as if she were
a wall in his way and he had suddenly realized something was in front of him.