Wching from a distance through the slow fall of rain, Oba didn't see anyone outside the cedar log house that lay beyond the tangled undergrowth and trees. There had been tracks-the boot prints of a manaround the shore of a small lake. The tracks weren't fresh, but they had led Oba up a path to the house. Smoke from the chimney curled lazily in the stagnant humid air.

The house up ahead, almost hidden under trailers of moss and vines, had to be the home of the sorceress. No one else would be fool enough to live in such a miserable place.

Oba crept lightly on the balls of his feet, up the back steps, up onto the narrow porch. Around in front, columns made of thick logs supported a low, overhanging roof. Out beyond the wide front steps lay a broad path-no doubt the way visitors timidly approached the sorceress for a telling.

In the grip of rage, and well beyond any pretense of being polite enough to knock, Oba threw open the door. A small fire burned in the hearth. With only the fire and two little windows, the place was rather dimly lit. The walls were covered with fussy carvings, mostly of animals, some plain, some painted, and some gilded. It was hardly the way Oba chose to carve animals. The furnishings were better than any he had ever grown up with, but not nearly as nice as he had become accustomed to.

Near the hearth, a woman with big dark eyes sat in an elaborately carved chair-the finest of the furnishings-like a queen on her throne, quietly watching him over the rim of a cup as she sipped. Even though her long golden hair was different and she didn't have that hauntingly austere cast to her face, Oba still recognized her features. Looking into those eyes, there could be no doubt. It was Lathea's sister.

Eyes. That was something on one of the mental lists he kept.

"I am Althea," she said, taking a cup away from her lips. Her voice wasn't at all like her sister's. It conveyed a sense of authority, as did Lathea's voice, yet it didn't have the haughty ring that went with it. She didn't rise. "I'm afraid you've arrived much sooner than I expected."

Seeking to quickly nullify any potential threat, Oba ignored her and hurried to the rooms at the rear, checking first the room where he saw a workbench. Clovis had told him that Althea had a husband, Friedrich, and, of course, there had been a man's boot prints outside. Chisels, knives, and mallets were laid out in an orderly fashion. Each could be a deadly weapon in the right hands. The place had the tidy look of work put up for a time.

"My husband is gone to the palace," she called from her chair by the fire. "We're alone."

He checked for himself anyway, looking in the bedroom, and found it empty. She was telling the truth. But for the rain on the roof, the place was quiet. The two of them were indeed alone.

Finally confident that they would not be disturbed, he returned to the main room. Without a smile, without a frown, without worry, she watched him coming toward her. Oba thought that if she had any brains, she should at least be worried. If anything, she looked resigned, or maybe sleepy. A swamp, with its heavy humid air, could certainly make a person drowsy.

Not far from her chair, on the floor off to the side, rested a square board with an elaborate gilded symbol on it. It reminded him of something on one of his lists of things. A pile of small, smooth, dark stones sat to the side on the board. A large red and gold pillow lay near her feet.

Oba paused, suddenly realizing the connection between one of the things on his lists and the gilded symbol on the board. The symbol reminded him of the dried base of a mountain fever rose-one of the herbs Lathea used to put in his cures. Most of Lathea's herbs were already ground up, but that one never was. She would crush a single one of the dried flowers only just before she added it to his cure. Such an ominous conjunction could only be a warning sign of danger. He had been right; this sorceress was the threat he had been concerned she might be.

Fists flexing at his side, Oba towered over the woman as he glared down at her.

"Dear spirits," she whispered to herself, "I thought that I would never again have to stare up into those eyes."

"What eyes?"

"Darken Rahl's eyes," she said. Her voice carried a thread of some distant quality, maybe regret, maybe hopelessness, maybe even terror.

"Darken Rahl's eyes." A grin stole onto Oba's face. "That's very generous of you to mention."

Not a trace of a smile visited her. "It was not a compliment."

Oba's smile curdled.

He was only mildly surprised that she knew he was the Darken Rahl's son. She was a sorceress, after all. She was also Lathea's sister. Who knew what that troublesome woman might have tattled from her eternal place in the world of the dead.

"You're the one who killed Lathea."

Her words were not so much question as condemnation. While Oba felt confident, because he was invincible, he remained wary. Though he had feared the sorceress Lathea his whole life, she had in the end turned out to be less formidable than he had reckoned.

But Lathea was not the equal of this woman, not by any means.

Rather than answer her accusation, Oba asked a question of his own.

"What's a hole in the world?"

She smiled a private smile, then held a hand out. "Won't you sit and have some tea with me?"

Oba guessed that he had the time. He would have his way with this woman-he was sure of that. There was no rush to be done with it. In a way he regretted having rushed right into it with Lathea, before he'd thought to get answers to everything, first. Done was done, he always said.

Althea, though, would answer all his questions. He would take his time and be sure if it. She would teach him many new things before they were finished. Such long-anticipated gratification should be savored, not rushed. He cautiously sank into the chair. A pot sat on the simple little table between the two chairs, but there was no second cup.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said when she noticed his eyes searching and realized the omission. "Please go to the cupboard over there and get a cup?"

"You're the hostess of this tea party, why don't you go get it for me?"

The woman's slender fingers traced the spiral curves at the ends of the chair's arms. "I'm afraid that I'm a cripple. I can't walk. I'm only able to drag my useless legs around the house and do a few simple things for myself.»

Oba stared at her, not knowing if he believed her. She was sweating profusely-a sure sign of something. She was sure to be terrified in the presence of the man powerful enough to do away with her sorceress sister. Maybe she was trying to distract him, hoping to make a run for it as soon as he turned his back.

Althea took her skirt between forefingers and thumbs and lifted the hem in a dainty manner, allowing him to see her knees and a little higher. He leaned over for a look. Her legs were mangled and withered. They looked like they had died ages ago and not been buried. Oba found the sight fascinating.

Althea lifted an eyebrow. "Crippled, as I said."

"How?"

"Your father's work."

Well, wasn't that just something.

For the first time, Oba felt a very tangible connection to his father.

He had had a difficult and trying morning and was entitled to a leisurely cup of tea. In fact, he found the notion provocative. What he had in mind for her would be thirsty work. Oba crossed the room and retrieved the biggest cup from among the collection he found on a shelf. When he set the cup down, she poured it full of a dark thick tea.

"Special tea," she explained when she noticed the frown on his face. "It can be terribly uncomfortable here in the swamp, what with the heat and humidity. This helps clear the head, too, after the onus of a morning's difficult tasks. Among other things, it will sweat the weariness from tired muscles-such as from a long walk."

His head was pounding after his tough morning. Although his clothes were finally dry after his swim, and the blood had all been washed off, he wondered if she could somehow sense the difficult time he'd had. There was no telling what this woman could do, but he wasn't worried. He was invincible, as Lathea's end had proved.

"Your tea will help all that?"

"Oh yes. It's a very powerful tonic. It will cure many problems. You'll see for yourself."

Oba saw that she was drinking the same thick tea. She was sweating, sure, so he figured she was right about that. She downed the rest of her cupful and poured herself another.

She held her cup up in toast. "To sweet life, while we have it."

Oba thought it an odd toast. It sounded almost as if she was admitting that she knew she was about to die.

"To life," Oba said, lifting his cup to tap against hers. "While we have it."

Oba took a gulp of the dark tea. He grimaced at recognizing the taste. It was what the symbol on the board represented-the mountain fever rose. He had learned to identify the bitter taste from the times when Lathea crushed one and added it to his cure.

"Drink up," his companion said. Her breathing seemed labored. She took a few long swallows. "As I said, it will solve a lot of problems." She drained the rest in her cup.

He knew that Lathea, despite her mean streak, sometimes mixed up cures to help sick people. While he'd waited on her to make cures for him and his mother, he had seen her crush up a mountain fever rose in many a concoction she mixed for others. Now, Althea was downing it by the cupful, so she obviously had faith in the distasteful herb, too. Such heavy humidity always gave Oba a headache. Despite the bitter taste, he took another sip, hoping it would help his sore muscles in addition to clearing his head.

"I have some questions."

"You mentioned that," Althea said, peering at him from over the rim of her cup. "And you expect me to provide answers."

"That's right."

Oba took another swallow of the heavy tea. He grimaced again. He didn't know why the woman called it "tea." There was no «tea» about it. It was just ground dried mountain fever rose in a little hot water. Her dark-eyed gaze followed as he set the big cup on the table.

The wind had picked up, beating the rain in against the window. Oba guessed he'd made it to her house just in time. Foul swamp. He turned his attention back to the sorceress.