“She is alone with me,” he informed them all, striding out of the bedchamber
with the Beysa cradled in his arms.
Molin watched as they went through the doorway-turning left for the prince’s
suite rather than right toward hers. He suppressed a smile as the snakes found
safe harbor with the other Beysib women, not all of whom were so comfortable
with a serpent spiraling under their garments as Shupansea had been.
Unimpressed by the ceremony surrounding them, the Storm-children behaved as if
just awakened from their daily nap. They had already pulled the velvet hangings
from the altar. Arton twisted the cloth around his head in unconscious imitation
of his S’danzo mother’s headgear while Gyskouras put all his efforts into
wrenching the golden tassels free from its comers.
The archpriest turned to his single acolyte, Isambard, who could scarcely be
expected to control the Stormchildren when they became either adventurous or
cantankerous-which they were certain to do. “Isambard, go downstairs to the
hypocaust room and remind Jihan that the children need her more than anyone
else.” The young man bowed, backed away, then scampered from the room.
Molin then turned his attention to the Beysibs in the room. The musicians he
dismissed immediately, sending them on their way with only the most perfunctory
of compliments. The women stared at him, defying him to give them orders as they
gathered up the discarded cosa and bore it reverently from the chamber. This
left him with a double-handful of priests, their foreheads still bent to the