“Don’t turn around,” Niko advised as if he were training a student in the
martial arts; “don’t look at it; don’t listen. This is my rest-place, after all
not theirs.”
“And me? It’s not mine, fighter. Nor are you.”
“And they are. I know.” There was no abhorrence in the Bandaran fighter’s
glance, just infinite patience. And as Ischade looked, his visage changed,
contorting through a metamorphosis that seemed to include all the tortures of
his recent past- eyes rolled up, cheeks split over bone, lips purpled and torn,
teeth cracked and crumbled, bruises filled with blood.
Then the entire process reversed itself, and a handsome man still in the last
bloom of youth regarded Ischade once more.
“You’re very beautiful, you know-in your soul,” Niko said. “It shows here. In
spite of everything.”
Behind her, the Tasfalen-thing was shambling closer; she could hear it splash
into the stream. She almost whirled to fight it; her fingers spread into a shape
suitable for throwing coun-terspells.
Niko shook his head chidingly: “Trust me. This is my place. As for your welcome
here-when I needed help, you came here, where risk is greater than mortals know,
and tried to aid me. I haven’t forgotten.”
“Are you dead?” she asked flatly, though it was impolite.
His smooth brow furrowed. “No, I’m sure not. I’m reclaiming what’s mine … with
a little help.” Behind the fighter, the semblance of the pillar of fire came to
be.
He knew it was there without looking. He said, “See, you must trust. We’re
giving Janni his proper funeral, you and I. At last. And you, who kept him from