nervous, and Tempus jerked upright.
“Mother of us all,” he sighed, laying the canvas on the table, taking the scarf
in its place. “Where did you get this?” His fingers read the uneven stitches as
he spoke.
“Stormbringer,” Molin answered softly enough that only Tempus could see or hear.
“Why?”
“To convince you that you have to sleep; that you have to talk to ASkelon
because Askelon’s decided he’ll only talk to you. And, more important, because
Stormbringer thinks Askelon’s got a way to reach Roxane.”
“Thinks? The god thinks? He doesn’t know?” He closed his eyes a moment. “Do you
know what this is? Did he tell you?”
Molin shrugged. “He thought it would be sufficient to convince you to go where
I’d already told him you had no intention of going.”
“Damn her,” Tempus said, throwing the scarf on the table and taking the picture
again. “Here,” he threw it at Critias, who let it drop to the floor, “do what
you damned well want with it.”
DEATH IN THE MEADOW
C. J. Cherryh
I
The floor creaked to the slightest step, and Stilcho moved quietly as he could
across to the old warehouse door, not trying escape, no, only that it was so
everlasting cold and he wanted the sun to warm his flesh, the sun that shone
bright through a crack in the shutters. He wanted it, and he had thought a long
time about getting up from that board floor and venturing outside-
-he had thought about going further too, but the front step would be enough, the
front step was all he dared think of, because Haught sleeping back there had
ways to know what he planned-