"Madame, I am not any persuasion of soul-selling magician: witch, necromancer, or whatever. You speak of interests and failures as if you knew mine. I served Vashanka and the Rankan Empire; now I serve His sons ..." He hesitated, unwilling to speak aloud the concluding phrase that had formed in his head.

Ischade softened. "And Sanctuary?" she concluded. "You see, we are not so different after all: I did not choose Sanctuary; my self-interest chose it for me. My life is complicated by enemies and allies alike. Every step my self interest dictates forces me further down a path I would not willingly travel."

"Then you will help me bring order to Sanctuary?"

"Order brings light into all the comers and shadows. No, Torchholder, Bearer of Light, I will not help bring your order to Sanctuary. I find that snakes, be they Roxane's or Shupansea's, are not to my interests."

"My Lady, we both use black birds. Does this make you a priest or me a wizard? Does it mean we are like Roxane, who favors a black eagle, or like the Beysib, who revere a white bird almost as much as they revere their snakes? Has not our shared, unwilling, concern for this cesspool of a town made us allies?"

"We could be more than allies," she smiled, moving closer to him until he could smell the sweet musk that surrounded her. Molin's dread mastered him. He bolted from the otherworldly house, her laughter and parting words ringing in his ears: "When you meet Randal, ask him about Shamshi and witch-blood."

Stilcho was gone. The gelding's eyes were ringed with white; flickering witch fire clung to its saddle. Molin had scarcely set his feet into the stirrups before it bounded away from the misty clearing. The gelding wanted the warmth and familiarity of its stall within the Palace walls; Molin fought it the length of the Wideway, past the curious fishermen waiting for the tide and the enticements of the few whores not yet taken for the night. They approached Vashanka's abandoned temple, passing behind the arrays of wood and stone which were now being appropriated for the reconstruction of the old Ilsig villas ringing Sanctuary.

One stone, a vast black boulder set deep into the soil and fractured by Vashanka's annihilation, would never be moved again. Molin approached it on foot. He could not make himself form the words to the Vashankan invocations he'd known from childhood, nor could he bring himself to pray, like an ordinary worshiper, to another god. His anxiety, despair and helplessness fled naked toward whatever power might be disposed to hear them.

"OPEN YOUR EYES, MORTAL. GAZE UPON STORMBRINGER AND BOW DOWN!"

Whatever Ischade believed, priests did not often look upon their gods. Molin had seen Vashanka only once: in the chaotic moments before the god's destruction. Vashanka had been swollen with rage and defeat, but his visage had been that of a man. The apparition which flickered above the stone had erupted from the bowels of hell. Molin's quivering knees guided him quickly to the ground.

"Vashanka?"

"DEPARTED. / HAVE HEARD YOUR PRAYERS. I HAVE BEEN WAITING FOR YOU."

Priests shaped the prayers of the faithful to a form acceptable to the god. Each priesthood evolved a liturgy to keep god and worshiper at a proper distance, one from the other. Private prayer was universally discouraged lest it disrupt that delicate balance. Molin had been caught in prayer so private that his conscious mind did not know what longings had drawn the swirling entity from its esoteric plane. Nor did he have any idea how to dispel or appease it if, indeed, either could be accomplished.

"I am troubled, 0 Stormbringer. I seek guidance to restore Vashanka's power to its proper place."

"VASHANKA WAS, IS, AND WILL BE NO MORE. HE DOES NOT TROUBLE YOU. YOUR TROUBLES ARE BOTH GREATER AND LESSER."

"I have but one need, 0 Stormbringer: to serve Vashanka's avatars."

"USE STEALTH, PRIEST, TO SERVE YOUR AVATARS. THAT IS YOUR LESSER TROUBLE. I WILL NOT HELP YOU WITH THE GREATER." The seething cloud that called itself Stormbringer, the ultimate Storm God, inhaled itself. "THAT THORN AND ITS BALM LIE WITHIN YOUR PAST," it whispered as it blended into the first red streamers of dawn light.

Molin remained on his knees thinking he was surely doomed. He had not begun to recover from Ischade's suggestions and insinuations, and now the gods were speaking in riddles: Use stealth; lesser troubles and greater troubles; thorns and balms. He was still on his knees when Walegrin clapped him on the shoulder. "I had not thought to find you praying here." The soldier flinched when Molin turned. "Have I changed so much in one night?" the priest asked.

"Have you been here all night? The sea air is dangerous for those not born to it."

"And lying is dangerous for those not born to it." He took Walegrin's arm and rose to his feet. "No, I went first to the house of Ischade, by the White Foal. She told me that our wayward mage, Randal, has been caught in the Nisi witch bitch's web to serve, our necromancer says, as bait for Roxane's lover." He looked at the swords Wale-grin carried. "I think we will only talk this morning and walk a little-until I can feel my feet. Hoxa will blame himself if I return limping. It was not a good night-"

Walegrin held up his hand for silence. "To walk away from her is cause for prayer."

Molin shrugged the sympathy aside. The need to confess and confide had become all-consuming and Walegrin, however inappropriate, had become its object. "I came here because I did not know what to do next and my thoughts, not prayers, summoned something-a god called Stormbringer. I don't know-maybe it was only a dream. It said I must use stealth to serve Gyskouras and Arton-but that's the lesser of my problems, it says. The greater one is inside me. God or dream, I make no sense from it."

Walegrin stopped as if struck. "Stealth? Randal is bait for Roxane's lover-eh?"

"According to Ischade."

"It fits. It fits, Molin," the blond soldier exalted, using his superior's given name for the first time in their acquaintance. "Niko's been seen at the Mere's Guild."

"Niko-Nikodemos the Stepson? I met him once-with Tempus. Has Tempus returned, then?" Molin brightened.

"Not that anyone's seen. But Niko-he'd be the lover, if rumor's true. More important: He's Stealth."

Torchholder leaned against the gelding. The habit of taking war names was not limited to the Stepsons. He'd become Torchholder one night on the ramparts at Val-tostin, though unlike most, he'd made his war name a part of his known name.

"Find him. Arrange a meeting. Offer him whatever he wants, if necessary." He swung into the saddle, shedding his aches and tiredness.

"Whoa." Walegrin caught the gelding's reins and looked Molin square in the eye. "It said that was your lesser problem. Hoxa says you don't eat enough to feed one of your damn ravens and you sleep on the dirt under your table. You're the only one in the Palace my men respect-the only one / respect-and it's not right for you to be off with 'greater problems.'"

Molin sighed and accepted the conspiracy between the officer and his scrivener. "My greater problems, I was told, lie within my past. You'll have to let me struggle with them on my own."

They rode away from the temple in silence, Walegrin keeping his mare a good distance behind the gelding. He bit his lip, scratched himself and gave every indication of reaching an unpleasant decision before trotting the mare to Molin's side.

"You should go to Illyra," he stated sullenly. "Heaven's forfend-why?"

"She's good at finding things."

"Even if she were, and I admit she is, I've taken her son from her. She's got no cause to do me a favor. I'd sooner ask Arton directly," Molin said, thinking it might not be a bad idea.