better half, the coldest and boldest of the Stepsons, and the only man among the
lot of them who didn’t need more-than mortal help to do his job. And on the
boat, now seeming like a wedding gift, all wrapped in gilt and gloriously
colored sails as it drew nearer, was a man she’d helped become a king, one who
owed an unequivocal debt to Death’s Queen-Theron, Emperor of Ranke, who was so
anxious to pay Roxane’s price he was trekking to the empire’s anus to bow his
knee.
Oh, yes, she thought then. Trouble, let it come. For Roxane, once the visions
were cleared from the salted water of her bowl by an impatient, dusky hand, had
an idea-a thought, an inspiration, a vengeful task to undertake fitting to all
the harm past and present denizens of Sanctuary had done her: She’d seen the
error of her ways, and now she’d seen a new solution. She’d given up too much
for Nikodemos, who’d turned on her and spumed her. She’d trade this batch of
hapless souls to get back what she’d so foolishly bargained away.
And then it was left to her only to dismiss the snakes, drink the water in the
bowl, and settle down spread-legged in the middle of her summoning room floor,
awaiting the Devils of Demonic Deals, the Negotiators of Necromancy, the
Underworld’s Underwriters, to appear, to take the bait a witch could offer and
then, when sated, be tricked into giving Roxane back immortality in exchange for
the deaths of a pair of children who might be gods if ever they grew up, and
that of Nikodemos, who deserved no better if he’d thought to spurn the witch who