Stormgod’s wrath?”
The gravediggers, like everyone else in Sanctuary, suspected that the Stormgod
was impotent or vanquished but none of the trio was about to say so to a palace
nobleman whose power in the simple matters of life and death was not in
question. They agreed to return to their posts and await the delivery of the
body. Molin watched the door close behind them, then pulled Walegrin back into
the shadows.
“What in seven hells is going on here?”
“There’s a bit of a problem,” the younger man explained, drawing the priest up
the stairs. “Someone you should talk to.”
“Who’ve you got-?” Molin demanded as Walegrin knocked once, then shoved the door
open.
Kama had put her time and the water to good use. The soot and grime were gone
from her leathers and her face; her hair framed her face in a smooth, ebony
curtain. Walegrin saw something he did not immediately understand pass silently
between them.
“Kama,” Torchholder said softly, refusing for the moment to cross the threshold.
Throughout the afternoon and into the evening he had forced any thought of her
from his mind; had, in effect, abandoned her to fate. He believed she would not
have expected, or appreciated, anything else and saw by her face that he had
believed correctly-but correctness did nothing to alleviate the backlash of
self-imposed guilt which swept up around him.
“Shall I leave?” Walegrin asked, piecing the situation together finally.
Molin started; weighed a dozen responses and their probable consequences in his
mind, and said: “No, stay here,” before anyone could guess he had considered