she will know how much it will hurt when I do her. Do you understand, dearie?”
Abby could only whine that she did, as tears streamed down her cheeks.
“There’s a good girl,” Mariska whispered from so close that Abby was forced to breathe the spicy stink of the woman’s sausage dinner. “If we even suspect any tricks, they will all die.”
“No tricks. I’ll hurry. I’ll bring him.”
Mariska kissed Abby’s forehead. “You’re a good mother.” She released Abby’s hair. “Jana loves you. She cries for you day and night.”
After Mariska closed the door, Abby curled into a trembling ball in the bed and wept against her knuckles.
D elora leaned closer as they marched across the broad rampart. “Are you sure you’re all right, Abigail?”
Wind snatched at her hair, flicking it across her face. Brushing it from her eyes, Abby looked out at the sprawl of the city below beginning to coalesce out of the gloom. She had been saying a silent prayer to her mother’s spirit.
“Yes. I just had a bad night. I couldn’t sleep.”
The Mother Confessor’s shoulder pressed against Abby’s from the other side. “We understand. At least he agreed to see you. Take heart in that. He’s a good man, he really is.”
“Thank you,” Abby whispered in shame. “Thank you both for helping me.”
The people waiting along the rampart—wizards, sorceresses, officers, and others—all momentarily fell silent and bowed toward the Mother Confessor as the three women passed. Among several people she recognized from the day before, Abby saw the wizard Thomas, grumbling to himself and looking hugely impatient and vexed as he shuffled through a handful of papers covered in what Abby recognized as magical symbols.
At the end of the rampart they came to the stone face of a round turret. A steep roof overhead protruded down low above a roundtopped door. The sorceress rapped on the door and opened it without waiting for a reply. She caught the twitch of Abby’s brow.
“He rarely hears the knock,” she explained in a hushed tone.
The stone room was small, but had a cozy feel to it. A round window to the right overlooked the city below, and another on the opposite side looked up on soaring walls of the Keep, the distant highest ones glowing pink in the first faint rays of dawn. An elaborate iron candelabrum held a small army of candles that provided a warm glow to the room.
Wizard Zorander, his unruly wavy brown hair hanging down around his face as he leaned on his hands, was absorbed in studying a book lying open on the table. The three women came to a halt.
“Wizard Zorander,” the sorceress announced, “we bring Abigail, born of Helsa.”
“Bags, woman,” the wizard grouched without looking up, “I heard your knock, as I always do.”
“Don’t you curse at me, Zeddicus Zu’l Zorander,” Delora grumbled back.
He ignored the sorceress, rubbing his smooth chin as he considered the book before him. “Welcome, Abigail.”
Abby’s fingers fumbled at the sack. But then she remembered herself and curtsied. “Thank you for seeing me, Wizard Zorander. It is of vital importance that I have your help. As I’ve already told you, the lives of innocent children are at stake.”
Wizard Zorander finally peered up. After appraising her a long moment he straightened. “Where does the line lie?”
Abby glanced to the sorceress on one side of her and then the Mother Confessor on the other side. Neither looked back.
“Excuse me, Wizard Zorander? The line?”
The wizard’s brow drew down. “You imply a higher value to a life because of a young age. The line, my dear child, across which the value of life becomes petty. Where is the line?”
“But a child—”
He held up a cautionary finger. “Do not think to play on my emotions by plying me with the value of the life of a child, as if a higher value can be placed on life because of age. When is life worth less? Where is the line? At what age? Who
Abby could only whine that she did, as tears streamed down her cheeks.
“There’s a good girl,” Mariska whispered from so close that Abby was forced to breathe the spicy stink of the woman’s sausage dinner. “If we even suspect any tricks, they will all die.”
“No tricks. I’ll hurry. I’ll bring him.”
Mariska kissed Abby’s forehead. “You’re a good mother.” She released Abby’s hair. “Jana loves you. She cries for you day and night.”
After Mariska closed the door, Abby curled into a trembling ball in the bed and wept against her knuckles.
D elora leaned closer as they marched across the broad rampart. “Are you sure you’re all right, Abigail?”
Wind snatched at her hair, flicking it across her face. Brushing it from her eyes, Abby looked out at the sprawl of the city below beginning to coalesce out of the gloom. She had been saying a silent prayer to her mother’s spirit.
“Yes. I just had a bad night. I couldn’t sleep.”
The Mother Confessor’s shoulder pressed against Abby’s from the other side. “We understand. At least he agreed to see you. Take heart in that. He’s a good man, he really is.”
“Thank you,” Abby whispered in shame. “Thank you both for helping me.”
The people waiting along the rampart—wizards, sorceresses, officers, and others—all momentarily fell silent and bowed toward the Mother Confessor as the three women passed. Among several people she recognized from the day before, Abby saw the wizard Thomas, grumbling to himself and looking hugely impatient and vexed as he shuffled through a handful of papers covered in what Abby recognized as magical symbols.
At the end of the rampart they came to the stone face of a round turret. A steep roof overhead protruded down low above a roundtopped door. The sorceress rapped on the door and opened it without waiting for a reply. She caught the twitch of Abby’s brow.
“He rarely hears the knock,” she explained in a hushed tone.
The stone room was small, but had a cozy feel to it. A round window to the right overlooked the city below, and another on the opposite side looked up on soaring walls of the Keep, the distant highest ones glowing pink in the first faint rays of dawn. An elaborate iron candelabrum held a small army of candles that provided a warm glow to the room.
Wizard Zorander, his unruly wavy brown hair hanging down around his face as he leaned on his hands, was absorbed in studying a book lying open on the table. The three women came to a halt.
“Wizard Zorander,” the sorceress announced, “we bring Abigail, born of Helsa.”
“Bags, woman,” the wizard grouched without looking up, “I heard your knock, as I always do.”
“Don’t you curse at me, Zeddicus Zu’l Zorander,” Delora grumbled back.
He ignored the sorceress, rubbing his smooth chin as he considered the book before him. “Welcome, Abigail.”
Abby’s fingers fumbled at the sack. But then she remembered herself and curtsied. “Thank you for seeing me, Wizard Zorander. It is of vital importance that I have your help. As I’ve already told you, the lives of innocent children are at stake.”
Wizard Zorander finally peered up. After appraising her a long moment he straightened. “Where does the line lie?”
Abby glanced to the sorceress on one side of her and then the Mother Confessor on the other side. Neither looked back.
“Excuse me, Wizard Zorander? The line?”
The wizard’s brow drew down. “You imply a higher value to a life because of a young age. The line, my dear child, across which the value of life becomes petty. Where is the line?”
“But a child—”
He held up a cautionary finger. “Do not think to play on my emotions by plying me with the value of the life of a child, as if a higher value can be placed on life because of age. When is life worth less? Where is the line? At what age? Who
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