two,” he nodded toward Critias and Walegrin, “to decide if you need the Third’s
help. I’ve arranged for brandy and roast meat to be waiting at the palace
barracks: Be sure that everyone- regulars. Stepsons, and the Third if they want
it-gets a share.”
Molin waited until Randal had directed a docile-looking horse toward Straton
before turning his own gelding away from the men gathered around the ox-cart.
Critias had ridden down to talk to the 3rd and Walegrin was proving himself
quite capable of getting the oxen to turn the cart around. A few riders from the
3rd split off toward Strat and Randal but most of them headed back toward the
General’s Road and whatever billets they had Downwind or near the Bazaar.
He held the gelding to a slow walk a good number of paces behind them. They were
all Rankan people, allied in one way or another to the Emperor or the remnants
of the Vashankan priesthood he was no longer on good terms with. They were
probably as uncomfortable around him as he was around them but here they had him
outnumbered.
The riders were well beyond the ox-cart and still a good distance from the walls
when Molin felt the first twinges of divine curiosity. Blood-red auroras rose
from the horizon; the ground heaved and stretched, moving him further apart from
the others. Despite the rain soaking through every garment he wore, the priest
felt a cold, nauseous sweat break out on his forehead and spread, quickly, until
it reached his weak, suddenly numb knees.
Stormbringer.
Gathering every mote and shred of determination, Molin concentrated on weaving