the risk of experiment; I moved the globe.”
Priesthoods, Randal considered as he met Molin’s stare, did a better job of
educating their acolytes than the mageguilds did with their apprentices.
Askelon, at his most magnificent, could breathe more life into the simplest
phrases, making every word a threat and a promise and a truth. But Askelon was
hardly mortal anymore. Not that Molin Torchholder was exactly typical
ofVashanka’s priesthood. Randal had met Brachis, Molin’s hierarchical superior,
and been singularly unimpressed. The truth was that only Tempus, who broke
mercenaries’, mages’, and priests’ rules at his whim, could conceal more raw
power in his voice and gestures.
It was a realization to make a cautious mageling look in some other convenient
direction. “You might make a mistake one day, Torchholder,” he said with a
confidence he did not feel.
“I will make many mistakes; I already have. Someday, I expect, I will make a
mistake I cannot survive-but I haven’t yet.”
Randal found himself staring at the unfinished portrait of Niko, Tempus, and
Roxane that Molin had nailed to the wall behind his worktable. There was
considerable similarity between the witch and the priest even though she had
been portrayed transforming herself into her favored black eagle and Molin’s
facial bones showed some of the refinements ofRankan aristocratic patrimony. It
wasn’t surprising: the priest had been born to a Nisi witch. He had, thus far,
adhered to his promise to learn only enough to defend his soul from his