even the gods can violate moat’s sanctuary.”
“Randal?” Molin asked.
The mage pushed himself away from Jihan’s healing hands. He started to speak but
the words were too great an effort. Quivering, he sank back to his knees; tears
ate their way down his cheeks. “They had him for a year, Riddler,” he pleaded
for understanding. “He hates her. He remembers and he hates her but when she
comes for him…. A year, Riddler. 0 gods, after a year he remembers; he hates
but he can’t-won’t-refuse.”
Critias pounded the windowframe. “Seh!” he said, watching the smoke rising from
the city’s rooftops. The Nisi obscenity was somehow appropriate. If the gods,
what remained of them, had intended to cripple what remained of order and
competence in Sanctuary they could not have done a better job. He had even
allowed the fatal thought-that the situation could not possibly get worse-to
percolate through his consciousness.
“Commander,” he said with a heavy sigh. “You’d better take a look at this.”
Tempus followed the lines of his lieutenant’s outstretched arm. He said nothing,
so the others-Molin, Jihan, Shupansea, and finally Randal-crowded around the
broken window.
“It’s all up now.” Torchholder turned away and slouched against the wall.
Jihan closed her eyes, reaching deep into her primal knowledge of all water and
salt water in particular. “We’ve got a bit of time. With the tides they won’t be
able to enter the harbor until after sundown.”
“I don’t expect you’d be able to send them back the way they came?” Molin asked.