gave him a dazed look at close range, lost for a moment in blue eyes and a
masculine scent unlike Haught’s, whose clothes always smelled of Ischade.
Doomed, she thought, damned. Dead. Gods save this man. Gods save me. And she
held his hand until his closed on hers with painful force.
“My lady,” Tasfalen whispered once, “what’s wrong? What’s happening here?”
“I can’t say,” she whispered back; while Ischade said something else to Tempus,
which made less sense than before. Of a sudden she realized they were speaking
some foreign tongue.
And there was no laughter. There was sudden quiet all about the table. No word
from Straton or the man next to him. Critias. The men nearest caught that
contagion and it spread down the table. Wine stayed untouched.
“It’s sufficient,” Ischade said at last. “Your pardon.” And rose.
Tempus got to his feet. Straton was next. The whole company began to rise, and
Moria thrust herself from her seat, tangling her legs and the skirts and the
resisting fabric of the chair until Tasfalen’s arm steadied her. She stood there
with her heart pounding in terror no wine could numb, suffered Ischade’s direct
glance, suffered a moment that Ischade put out a hand, lifted her chin with a
delicate forefinger and stared her straight in the eyes.
“M-m-mis-“
“How fine you’ve become,” Ischade said, and there was hell in that look, that
sent a weakness through her bones and her sinews and made her sway against
Tasfalen. Ischade let her go then, and nodded to the lord Tasfalen, as Straton
came and took her arm. She walked toward the door with Straton, while everyone