shaking.”
“I’m cold, wet, and bedraggled,” she protested as he turned her gently to face
him. Then she added: “While you were communing with the Stormgod, my father and
Theron’s party came through the palace gates. My time is at hand, Molin. Don’t
hold out false hope to me, or gods’ gifts. The gods of the armies won’t overlook
the fact that I’m a woman-they never have.”
“Thanks to all the Weather Gods that you are,” said the priest feelingly and,
after peering into her eyes for an uncomfortably long instant, pulled her
against him. “I’ll take care of you, as I have taken care of this town and its
gods and even Kadakithis. Put your faith in me.”
Had anyone else said that to her, she would have laughed. But from Molin it
sounded believable. Or she wanted so to believe it that she didn’t care how it
sounded.
They were standing thus, arms locked about one another, when a commotion of feet
and then a discreet “Hrrmph” sounded.
Both turned, but it was Kama who whooped a short bark of disbelieving laughter
before she thought to choke it off: Before them were Jihan and Randal, the
Tysian Hazard, arms around each other.
Or, more exactly, Jihan’s arms were around Randal’s slight and battered frame.
She was holding the mage easily, so that his feet hardly touched the floor. His
glazed eyes roamed a little but he was conscious-his quizzical, all-suffering
looking confirmed it.
Jihan’s eyes were full of red flames and Kama heard Molin exclaim under his
breath, “The storm-of course, it’s brought her powers back.”