strained and worried, “I hope you’ve told him good things of me-I hope, in fact,
that you’ll remember your oath. I wouldn’t want to end up like my relatives in
Ranke-spitted and bled out like pigs in the town square.”
If the curse-or its ghost-was still in effect, it would mean that all the
Riddler loved were bound to spurn him and those who loved him doomed to perish.
It was this that bothered him as he put a hand on Kadakithis’s shoulder and
assured the prince that Theron would look with kindness on Kadakithis’s
particular problems here in Sanctuary, that “he’s coming because the Slaughter
Priest manifested in the Rankan palace and told a soldier to look to the souls
of his soldiers. That’s why we’re all here, boy-and lady.”
He didn’t tell them not to fear. Both the prince/governor and the Bey matriarch
were too familiar with statecraft to have believed him if he had.
It wasn’t until after dinner that everyone realized there were too many dead
Beysib snakes in the palace for Niko-or the single snake he’d killed-to be
responsible. And by then, it was nearly too late.
Strat’s horse was at the gate. The bay horse he’d loved so well, who’d carried
him through so many campaigns. And Ischade was standing in her doorway, where
night blossoms bloomed, watching with that look she had which cut through the
shadows of her hood.
She’d healed the horse, obviously. She had the healing touch, when she wanted
to, had Ischade. He was so glad to see the bay, who nuzzled in his pockets for a
carrot or the odd sweetmeat, it took him a while to clear his throat and make