They began moving slowly toward the warehouse where Strat had left his bay
horse.
“I’ve been following Crit,” Kama admitted. “When I saw him with the bow-I don’t
know if he’s got orders or not.” She paused to tuck a hank of hair behind her
ear. Whatever pain remained in her face had nothing to do with her injuries.
“Nobody in the palace understands any more. They haven’t set foot in the
streets. They don’t understand what’s happening. …”
Like everyone else who had spent the winter in Sanctuary- rather than in the
palace, or Ranke or some relatively secure war zone-Kama had lived through hell.
Walegrin guessed she would have more faith and friendship for anyone who had
also endured those long, dead-cold nights on the barricades, regardless of the
color on their armband, than she could feel for any outsider-even her father.
“It takes someone who’s been out here to understand,” he agreed, sliding his arm
under Kama’s other arm so she didn’t need to put any weight on her twisted
ankle. “There’s one I trust. I’d trust him at my back on the streets and I trust
him in the palace….”
Molin Torchholder slouched back against the outstretched wings of a gargoyle. He
would have preferred to be somewhere well beyond the city walls but winter was
finally yielding to Sanctuary’s fifth season: the mud, and he wasn’t desperate
enough to brave the quagmires masquerading as streets and courtyards. The palace
rooftop was deserted except for workmen and laundresses who could still be
counted on to leave him alone. He closed his eyes and savored the gentle warmth