The words of a spell, one they had used when they were children, which made the skin sting as if nettled, leapt to Khallayne’s lips. She had not thought of it in fifty years, hadn’t used it in a hundred, but it would be very interesting to see whether Jyrbian could be as charming if she sent it spiraling through the air. She could almost taste the words, then forgot them as Lyrralt spoke.

He faced her with a mock look of remonstrance wrinkling his forehead. “My father’s minor nobility and wealth isn’t enough to suit Jyrbian. He’s aiming much higher these days. And so far, all it has gotten him is an errand that will make him miss the slave races next week.”

“What errand?”

The closeness of her body, the warmth of her breast against his arm had the effect she desired.

Lyrralt covered her hand with his and leaned closer, answering as if he were not aware of the words. “Some fool errand to Khal-Theraxian for Lord Teragrym.”

As he said “Teragrym,” she turned her face away, afraid that he would see the change in her expression, in her smile. Surely she must look like a wolf, ready to pounce. “Yes, I’ve heard talk,” she said, “about the governor of Khal-Theraxian. Something about a new method of working his slaves that has increased production.”

She composed her expression, molding it to a flirtatious one. Tucking her hand securely into the crook of Lyrralt’s arm and lifting the heavy hem of her robe, she started down the stairs. “Is that Teragrym’s youngest daughter with Jyrbian?”

“No, that’s Kyreli. She’s not the youngest. She’s the one who sings so well. I think Teragrym is hoping she’ll be the next Singer.”

Khallayne’s brows pulled together in a frown that had no playfulness about it at all.

The Ogres made a song for everything. They sang for happiness, for sadness, for rain, for sun, for cold, for heat. They raised their lovely voices in song for the most important thing and for nothing at all, and even the gods paused to listen. Hunters charmed the beasts with the beauty and grace of their voices; slavers lured their prey into shackling their own hands.

Khallayne was irritated by it all. For she of winsome ways, of quick mind and daring beauty, could not sing. She had hair that was like silk pouring through a man’s fingers, eyes that could beguile the most hardened heart, a magical power so natural and strong she dared not expose it. But she could not sing. Her singing voice had all the beauty, the charm, of a stone door scraping over a sill filled with grit.

Lyrralt stopped as they reached the bottom of the stairs. He leaned close and lowered his voice as if imparting a secret. “Have dinner with me. I’ve got something to tell you that’s much more exciting than rumors of warriors.”

She considered him from beneath her eyelashes. Maybe he knew something of Teragrym’s interests in Khal-Theraxian.

She smiled and took his arm once more, settling in against his warmth, and leading him toward the far end of the huge chamber that contained the dining area.

They circled the king’s table, off which nothing could be eaten. It was there purely to be savored, relished, for admiration of the “flavor of the appearance.”

“Have you ever wondered from where this curious custom comes?” Lyrralt asked as he slowly walked the length of the table, admiring the rare ghen blossoms cooked in honey and floating in wine, sea darts and other fish, brought all the way from the Turbidus Ocean, swimming in spices and gingerlike leaves.

“No, I haven’t.” Khallayne followed him, barely noticing the complementary arrangement of scent and texture and color.

As she filled a plate with juicy, broiled scrawls and bread dripping with honey jelly, she asked, “Did you notice earlier, when the keeper left the stage, that Tenal guards were waiting in the hallway?”

Shaking his head, Lyrralt placed something on her plate that resembled a delicate blue flower.

“I was thinking that perhaps it means one of Tenal’s sons or daughters has been named as successor to the Keeper. She’s well past the age when the Song should have been passed on.”

Though he tried to cover it, she saw that Lyrralt had made the connection she’d hoped he would. He furrowed his heavy, silky brows in surprise. They found an empty table against a wall, somewhat isolated from the other tables, and dispatched a slave for wine.

“I thought it especially odd,” Khallayne picked up the thread of their conversation with false nonchalance. “Because I felt sure one of Teragrym’s daughters would be chosen.…”

“So was Jyrbian.” Lyrralt grinned suddenly. “And he’s pursuing the wrong daughter! He had big plans for tonight… I think I’ll wait until tomorrow to tell him. The look on his face will be-”

“Oh, I think we can do better than that.” Khal-layne sipped her wine, savored the tartness on her tongue. “Much better.”

Lyrralt paused, goblet halfway to his mouth, staring at the gleam in her black eyes. He’d never seen an expression so wicked, so alluring. Excitement and foreboding surged within him. The runes on his shoulder burned as when they were new. “Is this why you wanted Jyrbian’s help?”

“Yes. But I think you’ll do a much better job.”

She paused. “I’ve got an idea,” she purred. “A perfect idea. It will get us both what we want.”

Lyrralt drew his chair close, leaned toward her. “And what is it you want?” He could feel the heat of her body. “It’s never seemed to me that you strived for the usual things-position, nor even gift of land or a home outside the castle walls. When Jyrbian and I heard you were coming to court, we thought you’d seek to regain your family estate from the Tenal clan. But, unless you’re even more devious than I imagined, I haven’t seen any evidence of it.”

She smiled and touched the rim of her goblet to his. “Thank you, sir. I am even more devious than you imagine. But land is not what I desire. What I have learned in my three hundred years is that land is a transitory thing, easily given, easily taken away on a whim. I seek a more permanent reward.”

“And you will tell me. Perhaps tonight as we walk the parapets?”

She stared at him, speculatively, and slipped a hand underneath the edge of his sleeve.

His eyes widened as her fingers crept upward on his skin. When she touched the edges of the runes, he trembled.

“Wouldn’t your order be extremely pleased if you obtained the sponsorship of Lord Teragrym?”

“How?” He drained his goblet without taking his eyes from the movement of her hand under his sleeve.

“Very simple. I think we can get our hands on something Teragrym wants very much. And we can do it so that Jyrbian would be blamed, in the unlikely event this… redistribution was discovered.”

For a moment, Lyrralt was too stunned to speak. All the blood had drained from his face, rendering his skin a dull grayish hue.

But Khallayne knew she had him-a fish swimming lazily along, complacently, agreeably, right into her net. His mouth was even hanging open in an oval, like a fish gasping for air.

“The runes spoke of this,” he whispered.

Her hand froze, then the tips of her fingers twitched on his skin, on the spongy runes just above his elbow. “Of what?”

He gazed at his sleeve. The runes engraved into his skin were the gift of his god, a sign that his piety had been accepted. Even more importantly, they were a gift to his god. For a race as beautiful and as proud of its beauty as the Ogres, to allow their flawless skin to be marked and scarred was a sign of absolute devotion.

The first markings were not usually shared with those outside his order. Few were privileged to view the first communications of Hiddukel with a disciple. Later, when his arms and hands were covered with markings, he would wear sleeves that exposed his forearms and wrists, as the High Cleric did.

“The runes spoke of many things. Of destiny and revenge. Of position and power. And there was a reference that I didn’t fully understand, until I saw you tonight. To a dark queen.”