this, he comes to me. Wonderful. Now what?
For Tempus, who could refuse a god and obstruct an arch-mage, knew, looking at
Abarsis, that he could refuse this one nothing. It was an old debt, a mutual
responsibility stretching far beyond such trifles as life and death. It was a
matter of souls, and Tempus’s soul was very old. So old that, seeing Abarsis yet
young, yet beautiful in his spirit and his honor in a way Tempus no longer could
be, the man called the Riddler felt suddenly very tired.
And Tempus, who never slept-who had not slept since he had been cursed by an
archmage and taken solace in the protection of a god three centuries past-began
to feel drowsy. His eyelids grew heavy and Abarsis’s words grew loud, echoing
unintelligibly so that it seemed as if Theron and Abarsis spoke together in some
room far away.
Just before he collapsed on the table, snoring deeply in a sleep that would last
until the weather broke the following day, Tempus heard Abarsis say clearly,
“And for you, Tempus, whom I love above all men, I have this special gift… not
much, just a token: on this one evening, my lord, I have haggled from the gods
for you a good night’s rest. So now, sleep and dream of me.”
And thus Tempus slept, and when he woke, Abarsis was long gone and preparations
for Theron, Tempus, and a hand-picked contingent to depart for Sanctuary were
well under way.
Trouble was coming to Sanctuary; Roxane could feel it in her bones. The
premonition cut like a knife to the very quick of the Nisibisi witch, once