the beauty of the wooden doors. Panels of equal size spread vertically below the stone arch, showing in sequence the Water of the sea, whitecaps picked out in silver; Air rippling across a golden wheat field; the majestic Earth of the Veresch Mountains topped in silver snow; and the Fire of a sunburst carved deep into the wood and lavishly gilded. Yet even as his spirit sang with the beauty, he cringed inside at knowing how little he deserved entry into this place.
He sneered at his own scruples. The Goddess had surely abandoned this oratory long ago in disgust at the man who had ordered it built. He would not feel her presence within, disapproving and perhaps a little sorrowful. No, not that; the only sadness was his own self-pity. His lip curled and he reached out to push the doors open. But then he heard the faint sound of laughter from within. Not Lady Palila’s voice, though it held much of her malicious amusement. This laughter was deeper, more full-throated. Crigo cracked the door open just wide enough to see, and peered into the dimness.
Two women were seated on either side of the aisle in the first row of chairs. He recognized Palila from the silver pins that held her veil at the crown of her head, but had trouble identifying the taller woman. Yet a turn of her head showed him the profile that boasted the High Prince’s fine, proud nose and brow. Crigo swallowed a gasp of shock. Princess Pandsala loathed her father’s mistress as much as the rest of the daughters did. What was she doing here having a private talk with Palila?
He did not want to know. He knew too many secrets already, things that would mean his death if Roelstra ever lost faith in the powers of dranath. Yet the temptation was almost overwhelming. He owed Palila for the “gift” of dranath; should he overhear something useful, he might have his vengeance on her at last. He opened the door a little wider and strained to listen.
Pandsala spoke in a low, earnest voice, leaning forward in her chair. “. . . make the change . . . four of them . . . surely a boy in the lot . . .” Crigo heard only a few words, none of which made sense to him. But Palila suddenly sat bolt upright, her posture one of rapt attention and no small amount of fear.
“But the risk!” she gasped out. “It’s insane!”
“Be quiet!” the princess exclaimed. “Do you want the whole castle to hear?” Her tone dropped again and Crigo frowned in concentration. “Ianthe plans very well . . . should work . . . but fool my clever sister . . . save your neck . . . Father gets his son at last . . . trust your servants with this?”
Crigo bit down hard on his lower lip as the meaning of the princess’ words nearly shattered his composure. He shut the door soundlessly and crept back down the hall, barely breathing until he had reached his own chamber and the door was firmly locked behind him. He turned at once to the drugged wine.
Goblet in hand, he lay back in a soft chair and drank deeply, gulping down the liquid as much for liquor’s customary effect as to get the dranath quickly into his system. The first sign of its presence was a headache that made him grit his teeth. It soon vanished, as he had known it would, replaced by a delicate haze that lasted little longer than it took to identify its warmth floating through his arms and legs. During the first year or so of his addiction, this feeling had been superseded by a strong need for a woman, but for a very long time now his only lover had been the dranath. He waited for the real effect of the drug, the one he wanted tonight, and eventually felt his senses sharpen to almost painful clarity. He had left almost half the wine for later, when he would need the blessed unconsciousness of a large dose.
Opening his eyes, he stared up at the carved beams of the ceiling and assessed what he had seen and heard in the oratory. He thought he understood what Pandsala was offering Palila—and wished he did not—but what could the princess hope to gain in return?
The answer was so obvious that he choked on laughter, not knowing if he was more amused or appalled.