interference. “I care- isn’t that obvious? She damn near annihilated herself for
me.”
Your care is not enough. She is mortal now and requires something less abstract.
If love is beyond you, surely you remember rape? The Father-of-Weather
manifested himself before Tempus: all blood-red eyes and pans that did not
become a single whole.
The man who had been Vashanka’s minion shrugged his nonexistent shoulders and
gave the god a critical glance. “It is an option / retain,” he said defiantly.
You are a nasty little man-but I have need of you-
“No.”
She is a goddess.
“No.”
I’ll attend to this abomination.
“You’ll do that regardless-for what it did to her. The answer’s still no.”
I’ll turn my daughter’s eyes toward another.
“It’s a deal.”
The Stormchildren lay in state on a velvet-covered dais in the vault-ceilinged
room known as the Ilsig Bedchamber. Musicians gathered in an alcove, playing the
reedy, discordant melodies beloved by the Beysib and guaranteed to set Molin
Torchholder’s neck hairs on end. He pressed his forefingers against the bridge
of his nose and sought a pleasant thought, any pleasant thought, that might make
the waiting easier.
Shupansea, in a curtained alcove opposite the musicians, was equally anxious but
had not the luxury of isolation. Her waiting-women swarmed around her fussing
with her hair, her jewels, and the splendor of her cosa. She was the Beysa this
evening-as she had not been since her cousin’s execution in the summer. Her
breasts had been dusted with luminous powders and gilt with gold and silver; her