Stilcho but he lacked the complex magical vocabulary necessary to contend
directly with the inertia of a dead or mortally wounded body. He had failed with
Tasfalen; the Rankan noble’s body had turned a pasty shade of blue and its
stiffness, when Roxane returned, would be far more serious than muscle cramps.
But Tasfalen had been Haught’s first attempt; he had already learned from those
mistakes-and Straton was not dead.
The would-be witch studied Tasfalen’s silver-white eyes. A touch from the globe
and he’d have the power to mend Strat’s body enough that the Stepson would no
longer have his retreat into delirium and imagination. He’d unwind the man’s
secrets like so much silk from a cocoon and present his mistress/master with a
portion of it.
Just a touch.
A piece of Haught swiped out toward the Globe of Power like a child dragging a
finger through the icing on a cake. He had enough to heal and a bit to hide for
the future but he hesitated. The wards were wrong: weakened, eroded, vanishing.
He reached a little farther and had a vision of an equine face surrounded by
ward-fire; consuming the ward-fire-
“Impudent slime! Ice water! Damn her! And you-“
The voice was Tasfalen’s but the inflection was all Nisi and malice. The witch
swung a clublike open hand at him, striking with the force of a Wizardwall
avalanche. Haught heard his spine crack against the far wall and felt the blood
streaming from his nose and mouth.
She does not love you, a nameless voice rose out of Haught’s memory. Remember
your/other: a wind-filled husk of flayed skin when the Wizardwall masters had