world, wouldn’t survive. Send it back to the fires of creation-or to the bottom
of the sea.”
“It is safe, Illyra. It will hurt no one and no one will hurt it.”
She stared distractedly at the table; Molin wondered what her S’danzo sight
could actually reveal. “Its evil cries out in the night, Torchholder, and no one
is immune.” She lifted her hood and moved toward the door. “No one,” she
reminded him as she left.
The priest finished his cyder, then opened the parchment window. Time always
passed strangely when he was with Illyra-it had seemed no later than early
afternoon when she arrived, but now the sun had set and a fog bank was moving
across the harbor to the town. He should have arranged an escort for her back to
the Bazaar. Despite her prejudices Illyra was one of his most prized informants.
“Isn’t it rather early to be sending them home. Torch?” a familiar voice
inquired from behind.
Molin turned as Tempus settled himself into the chair which creaked and was
dwarfed by his size.
“She is the mother of the other child. Sometimes she brings me information. I
don’t mix business with pleasure, Riddler.”
They used mercenaries’ names when they met; their personalities always created
the aura of a battlefield between them.
“What was her information?”
“She is worried about the globes and their owners.”
“Globes, owners: plural? Aren’t we left with globe, singular, and owner,
singular?”
Molin smiled and shrugged as he dragged Hoxa’s stool across the room to sit
beside his guest. “I suppose you’d have to ask an owner.”