Tempus put a mild edge on his voice: "I haven't seen Randal in days and I saw Niko just before I came here. He was up and complaining about Jinan. No one mentioned any 'relapse'."
"Well, our little mage is a bit naive about these things, chaste and virgin-pure as he is. He saw something he didn't want to see, though, something he called a 'relapse', and went running from the room like he'd seen a ghost. You put it together, Riddler."
The edge, and some of the confidence, faded from Tempus's voice: "Roxane. Death doesn't stop Death's Queen. She reaches me where I cannot defend myself. Hasn't Niko suffered enough?" he asked a god who no longer listened.
"We never did find Roxane's body, you know. And by your own reports she could steal a body as easily as a soul. She pacted with demons that night; she had the power to slip inside his skull like a whisper-and we'd never know!"
"But Jihan would. She says there's not one iota of Niko that isn't pure. Pure pain. I tried to make him hate me once, and he suffered more."
"Damn you, man! He wasn't suffering when I saw him last night," Molin shouted, slamming his fist on the table to get the mercenary's attention. "If Roxane hasn't possessed Niko, then he's calling her back himself with these dreams. We could have a serious problem on our hands."
"I'd go to hell itself to set him free of her," Tempus resolved, starting to rise from his chair.
"Roxane's not in hell-she's in Niko. In his memories. In his lusts. He's bringing her back, Riddler. I don't know how but I know what I saw."
"The curse won't have him."
"Which curse? Yours, hers, or his? Or hasn't it occurred to you that Niko loves the witch-bitch far better than he loves you?"
"It is enough that he loves me at all."
"Very convenient, Riddler. This Bandaran adept, reeking of moat, brings the world's own chaos in his wake and it's all because he has the misfortune to admire you. I suppose you'll tell me Vashanka's gone because he loved you, too after his fashion."
"All right," Tempus roared, but he sat down again. "My curse-all mine-on the people I love. Does that satisfy you?"
"Well, at least I should be safe from it," Torchholder replied with a smile.
"Don't play games with me, priest. You're not in my league."
"I'm not playing with you; I'm trying to set you free. How many years have you been dragging that around with you? You think the universe spins in your navel? The only curse you've got is the arrogance of believing yourself responsible for everything." It was sudden death to provoke Tempus's wrath- everyone in the Rankan Empire knew that-so the priest's audacity left the immortal mercenary flat-footed and muttering • about magicians, love, and other things that passed the understanding of ordinary, uncursed, men.
"Let me tell you what I do understand, Riddler. I understand that a curse is only a threat-a potential. No wizard-no, more than that: no god-can curse a disbelieving man. No acceptance-no curse: it's as simple as that, Tempus Thales. You made some backwater mage's curse a prophecy. You rejected love in all its forms."
The shock was beginning to wear off; Tempus stiffened, his lips a taut line of displeasure across his face. Molin rocked back on the stool until its front legs were off the floor and his shoulders rested against the worktable: a posture so vulnerable it was insolent. "In fact," the priest said amiably, "a mutual acquaintance of ours-the highest authority in these matters, as it were-assures me that your curse is, shall we say, all in your mind. A bad habit. He says you could sleep like a babe-in-arms if you wanted to."
"Who?"
"Jinan's father: Stormbringer," Molin concluded with a smile.
"You? Stormbringer?"
"Don't look so surprised." The stool thumped back to its normal alignment with the floor. "We were both, in a sense, orphans. I..." Molin groped for the appropriate description, "-experience him quite regularly. Now that is a curse. Our paternal ancestor is head-over-heels in lust with the Beysib's Mother Goddess-except they don't have a matching set of heads, heels or whatever."
"Torch, you push me too far," Tempus warned, but the power wasn't there. "The Empire's coming back. Vashanka's coming back." His voice was more hopeful than commanding.
Molin shook his head, tsk-tsk'ing as if he spoke to a child. "Open your eyes, Riddler. Unbelievable as it might seem, the future is here in Sanctuary. There's an empire coming, and a war-god as well, but it won't be Rankan and it won't be Va-shanka. You came here, I imagine, to tell me to toe the line when the imperial ship arrives. Let me make a counter-proposaclass="underline" Make your commitment to your son-keep Brachis, Theron, and all Ranke alive only until Sanctuary is ready to conquer it."
"You'll see your guts spinning on a windlass for that, priest," Tempus hissed as he stood up and headed for the door.
"Think it over, Riddler. Sleep on it. You look like you need some sleep."
The big man said nothing as he disappeared into the darkness beyond Molin's apartments. If he could be brought into line, or so Stormbringer said, the ultimate triumph of the Storm-children would be ensured. There were things even the primal war-god didn't know, Molin mused as he closed the window, but he might be right about Tempus.
"I tell you-she's gone mad. She's lost control. She's gathering her dead-but she can't find them all."
The young man wrung his hands together as he talked; his words slurred and broke in a constant agitation of pain and chronic drunkenness. The fog of his breath in the cold, damp air was enough to intoxicate a sober, living man. Both witches raised better looking corpses, better smelling ones for that matter, but Mor-am wasn't dead-yet.
"S-She's l-l-lost c-control. S-she's l-l-looking for s-someone to k-k-k-k-" he gasped and coughed his way into incoherence.
Walegrin sighed, poured two-fingers of cheap wine, and slid it across the barrel head. In a backwater town renowned for its depravity and despair, this one-time hawkmask had drifted beyond the pale. Mor-am needed both white-knuckled hands to get the mug to his lips; even then a dirty stream oozed out the comer of his ruined mouth. The garrison captain looked away and tried not to notice.
"You mean Ischade?" he asked when the wine was gone.
"Seh!" Mor-am's back straightened and his eyes cleared as he uttered the Nisi curse. "Not Her name. Not aloud. S-She's l-l-looking for s-someone to k-k-kill someone p-powerful. I c-could find out h-his name."
Walegrin said nothing.
"I s-saw Her w-with T-T-Tempus-at m-m-my s-sister's h-h-house. S-She w-w-was angry."
Walegrin studied the stars overhead.
Mor-am gripped the cup again, throwing his head back, sucking loudly, futilely on the rim. He made a supreme effort to control his wayward tongue. "I know other things. She's looking for the witch. Got to have power-have her focus back. I can follow Her-She trusts me."
A flock of the white Beyarl made their way to the palace. A falcon's cry echoed across the rooftops. The white birds swooped back toward the harbor. Walegrin watched their slow-circling patterns and Mor-am lurched forward across the barrel head to grip his wrist with moist, sticky hands.
The young man began to speak in a rapid, malodorous whisper: "M-Moria's changed. G-G-Got f-friends w-w-who aren't Her f-friends. D-Deads at the P-Peres h-house w-w-who s-should b-b-be in h-hell. T-Taken a 1-1-lover. M-Moria's a th-thief-1 1-like H-Her. H-He's a m-mage-m-maybe b-b-better th-than H-Her. S-She'll t-t tell you w-w-what e's-"
The captain wrenched his arm away and whistled sharply. A burly soldier emerged from the inky doorway where he had been posted.