vulnerable.
“On your knees,” Haught said, and Stilcho found himself going there, helplessly,
the way every bone and sinew in him resonated to that voice. He stared at Haught
with his living eye while the dead one held vision too, a vision of hell, of a
gateway a thing wanted to pass and could not. But if he was sent there now, to
that gate, to meet that thing-
“Say you beg my pardon,” Haught said.
“I b-beg your pardon.” Stilcho did not even hesitate. A fool would hesitate.
There was no hope for a fool. Ischade would banish him down to hell to confront
that thing if he went back to her now after what Haught had done, and Haught
would tear his soul to slow shreds before he let it go to the same fate. Stilcho
knelt on the bare boards and mouthed whatever words Haught wanted.
For now. (No, no, Haught, for always.)
Haught gathered himself to his feet and ran a hand through his disordered hair.
His pale, elegant face had a gaunt look. The hair fell again to stream about it.
The smile on his face was fevered.
He’s crazy, Stilcho thought, having seen that look in hospital and in
Sanctuary’s own street lunatics. And then: 0, no, no, no, not Haught! No!
The prickling of his skin grew painful and ceased. Haught came closer to him,
came up to him and squatted down and put his hand on Stilcho’s cheek, on the
blind side. Chill followed that touch, and a deep pain in his missing eye, but
Stilcho dared not move, dared not look anywhere but into Haught’s face.
“You’re still useful,” Haught said. “You mustn’t think of leaving.”