railing circling the Hall of Justice: Jihan and Randal, leaning on each other
for strength, with Niko close behind; Isambard, dragged forward by the exuberant
Storm-children; the functionaries, retainers, and day-servants all barefoot and
in their nightclothes. The palace was no different than the rest of Sanctuary
this night-every rooftop, courtyard, and clearing had its collection of
awestruck mortals.
Brilliant light streamed into the prince’s bedroom. He awoke, sighing with the
knowledge that the best must also seem the shortest, and meant to leave
Shupansea undisturbed. His heart sank when he realized he was alone in the bed;
it did not rise when he saw her transfixed by the column of light in the open
window.
Dragging a silken blanket behind him, he came slowly to join her.
“She has kept her promises,” Shupansea explained, taking a comer of the blanket
around her shoulder and pressing close against him. “Stormbringer fights the
demon.”
It did not seem like gods and demons at first glance. It seemed like a single,
great cloud spewing lightning at a flame of impossible size and brightness-but
such a vision was, in itself, so improbable that the Beysa’s explanation was as
acceptable as any other. Certainly the lightning struck only the flame and the
flame directed spirals of its substance at the cloud. The stormcloud, with its
percussive thunder, deflected the fire away from itself to the ocean and,
occasionally, the city.
“He has it trapped,” the Beysa said, indicating the precision with which the