“Is this how you amuse yourself when I wonder where you have gone?” a man’s voice said contemptuously. “Why should I hold to anything when you risk our plan this way?” Abruptly the woman was on the bank, clothed in white, narrow waist belted in wide woven silver, silver stars and crescents in her midnight hair. The land rose slightly behind her to an ash grove on a mound. He did not remember seeing ash before. She was facing—a blur. A thick, gray, man-sized fuzzing of the air. This was all … wrong, somehow. “Risk,” she sneered. “You fear risk as much as Moghedien, don’t you? You would creep
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