Haught slapped him. The blow was faint against his cheek. The dark gateway was
more real, the thing ripping at it was clearer, and if it looked his way-
“When it’s dark. To Moria’s house.”
Stilcho slumped aside on his knees, rested his back against the door, his heart
hammering away in his chest. And Haught grinned with white teeth.
The old stairs creaked under any step (they were set that way deliberately, for
more than one Stepson used the mage-quarter stables and the room above)-and
Straton trod them carelessly, which was the best way to come at the man whose
sorrel horse was stabled below.
He had left the bay standing in the courtyard. It would stand. He left it just
under the stairs, out of line of the dirty window above, if Crit had come to
look, if he were wary. But perhaps he would be careless. Once.
Or perhaps Crit was waiting behind the door.
Strat reached the top landing and tried the latch. It gave. That should tell him
enough. He flung the door inward, hard; it banged against the wall and rebounded
halfway.
And Crit was standing there in the center of the room with the crossbow aimed at
the middle of his chest.
The stream Janni followed ran bubbling over the rocks, among the trees, cold and
clear; and a wind sighed in the leaves with a plaintive sound, like old ghosts,
lost friends. The trees stood, some unnaturally straight, some twisted, like old
monuments. Or memories. They afforded cover, and the place had a good feel to
it, this shade, this shadow of green leaves.
The brook left that place and flowed into sunlit grass. The meadow beyond hummed