Sanctuary - Lynn Abbey [58]
Hoxa walked beside him. “They’re fools, Lord Torchholder, and—wait and see—the common folk will tell them so. They won’t listen to the Servants; they’re outsiders. And we all know the common folk of Sanctuary don’t listen to outsiders. They know there’s only one S’danzo seeress left in Sanctuary, and she was born here. They’ve known her all their lives. They’d sooner point their fingers at each other than ask Illyra to breathe on some raggedy cloth—”
Suddenly Molin saw the truth between himself and his amanuensis. He gasped, “Light from above—” and seized Hoxa’s arm. “Run to the stables,” he ordered. “Tell them to saddle my horse and as many others as they’ve got, then go to the barracks. Find Walegrin, if you can, but find an officer no matter what. Tell him to gather his best men and meet me in the stables.”
“For what, Lord Torchholder? Should they arm themselves? And how?”
“For butchery,” Molin replied with his eyes closed. He prayed to his god; there was only the familiar emptiness. He opened himself to witchcraft’s power and it flowed into him from the earth, from the sky, and from the man at his side.
Hoxa’s face was white and glassy-eyed when Molin released him. He blinked blindly until Molin gave him a shove toward the stables.
Molin’s chamber servants were equally stunned when he stormed through the door calling for his long-unused weapons and armor. He’d been an old man, a limping invalid when last they’d seen him. They whispered Vashanka’s name, assuming that their priest had finally relocated his god. They didn’t know about his witchcraft talents, and he saw no reason to enlighten them.
Young men came forward to lace Molin quickly into layers of quilted wool and studded leather. A young woman approached with the ceremonial sword he wore whenever he needed to appear more warrior than priest.
“Not that one. Not today. Get me the sword beneath my bed.” The young woman stood as blank as a whitewashed wall. “Under my bed!” he shouted at her. “In the chest under the bed!”
They were all young enough to be the children of Molin’s own children, his children who hadn’t lived, who hadn’t survived. He’d never noticed before, but he’d always avoided the company of older people, even now that he’d become an old man himself.
The young woman opened the dusty oblong chest she’d dragged from beneath Molin’s bed. The scabbard it held was as long as Molin’s arm and, once wiped of its greasy protection, faintly green, as though the steel had been adulterated with brass or bronze.
“Surely, Lord Torchholder … ?” she asked, eyeing the newly cleaned blade with careful disdain.
“Behold, the fabled steel of Enlibar,” Molin replied, taking the weapon from her hands.
It was lighter than common steel and it was adulterated with bronze. At least this blade was, bronze from the Necklace of Harmony, which had once adorned the marble statue of Ils in His temple on the Promise of Heaven. The crippled bellmaker who’d forged the blade had said only that the formula called for a relic of sanctity and power. Molin could have commandeered a medallion or weapon from his own god, but he and Vashanka weren’t on good terms that season, so he’d sent his thief to Sanctuary’s rival pantheon.
The thief had succeeded; likewise the bellmaker. While his servants watched, Molin plucked fruit from a bowl and let it drop an arm’s length to the blade. There was silence as the fruit split and fell in halves to the floor, then the young woman gasped.
“Stay here,” Molin told her and the others. “Listen to Hoxa after he returns. His voice is my voice in my absence. Whatever he tells you to do, do it.”
Panic returned to his servants’ eyes. Molin didn’t waste time allaying it. If his assumptions proved correct, even the fabled steel of Enlibar might not be enough to see him safely to sunrise.
He met Hoxa on the stairs.
“Did you find Walegrin?”
Hoxa nodded. “He came to me in the stables, my lord, while the hostlers were readying the horses. They’re waiting for you below, at the gate. I don’t understand, my lord. The city is quiet. You