disbelieving man. No acceptance-no curse: it’s as simple as that, Tempus Thales.
You made some backwater mage’s curse a prophecy. You rejected love in all its
forms.”
The shock was beginning to wear off; Tempus stiffened, his lips a taut line of
displeasure across his face. Molin rocked back on the stool until its front legs
were off the floor and his shoulders rested against the worktable: a posture so
vulnerable it was insolent. “In fact,” the priest said amiably, “a mutual
acquaintance of ours-the highest authority in these matters, as it were-assures
me that your curse is, shall we say, all in your mind. A bad habit. He says you
could sleep like a babe-in-arms if you wanted to.”
“Who?”
“Jinan’s father: Stormbringer,” Molin concluded with a smile.
“You? Stormbringer?”
“Don’t look so surprised.” The stool thumped back to its normal alignment with
the floor. “We were both, in a sense, orphans. I…” Molin groped for the
appropriate description, “-experience him quite regularly. Now that is a curse.
Our paternal ancestor is head-over-heels in lust with the Beysib’s Mother
Goddess-except they don’t have a matching set of heads, heels or whatever.”
“Torch, you push me too far,” Tempus warned, but the power wasn’t there. “The
Empire’s coming back. Vashanka’s coming back.” His voice was more hopeful than
commanding.
Molin shook his head, tsk-tsk’ing as if he spoke to a child. “Open your eyes,
Riddler. Unbelievable as it might seem, the future is here in Sanctuary. There’s
an empire coming, and a war-god as well, but it won’t be Rankan and it won’t be