The Froth Daughter’s hand was gentle on Tempus’s face, turning it away from the
boy. “We have children who are worse hurt,” Jihan said. “Both poisoned by the
snake who bit them.” Her chest was heaving, her muscles torn; flaps of skin hung
loose from her thighs as if a man-wide rope had burned her.
But the children-Arton and Gyskouras, who might be his or perhaps just the
offspring of the god-had crowds to care for them and all of Sanctuary’s
priesthood to pray for them, while Stealth had only what a Stepson could expect.
Tempus sat flat on the floor, knees crossed under him, ignoring ichor slick
which smarted and caused his skin to hiss and curl. “Get me what medicine you
can, Jihan. You and I must heal this one. He wouldn’t want life returned by
magic.”
They exchanged glances-one immortal and mortally tired, one feral and full of
the fire of fierce and forgotten gods.
Then Jihan nodded, rose up, and said, “Your dagger skewered the eagle-witch. I
saw it. She’s wounded, maybe gone for good.”
But it didn’t please him, not at the price Niko always seemed to pay for others’
folly.
Sometime in that interval, because Niko was conscious and could hear, Tempus
affirmed and renewed their pairbond so that he had a rightside partner once
again. And so that Niko, should it matter, would know that he was not alone.
Down by the White Foal Bridge, the gathered Stepsons waited: Kama was there,
with a dozen hand-picked fighters from Sync’s 3rd Commando.
It made Crit uncomfortable to command the Riddler’s daughter’s unit, so he gave