Molin tried to concentrate. He’d been childishly pleased with himself when he’d
hidden the actuality of the canvas while leaving its semblance plainly visible
on the wall. It was hard enough for an apprentice of his experience to tuck
something away in magic’s shadows but now, with Tempus and Crit watching him
impatiently, it was proving impossible to find it again. He had almost located
the frayed edges when the door slammed open again and he lost them.
“You can’t bum it,” Randal said, the words coming between gasps for air. “No one
knows what will happen when you do.”
“We bum the witch-bitch when we bum it-that’s what happens.” Critias touched his
knife to the facsimile ofRoxane’s face as he spoke. “Find it,” he added for
Molin’s benefit.
“We don’t know what happens to Niko… or Tempus,” Randal continued.
Critias fell silent and Molin, getting desperate, lucky, or both, closed his
mind around the canvas and gave it a little tug. The image on the wall shimmered
before vanishing and, with an unpleasant sulphurous discharge, the rolled canvas
dropped to the floor at Tempus’s feet. He reached down and held it in his fist.
“No,” the big man said simply.
“We can’t destroy the globe,” Critias said as Randal shuddered in agreement. “We
can’t kill the Stormchildren.” Molin’s knuckles went white. “And now you’re
telling me we can’t bum the picture. Commander, what can we do?”
Molin saw his opportunity open before him. Opening the pouch, he laid the scarf
across the worktable and waited for reaction. Randal stared, Crit looked