The higher peaks of the Veresch were smothered in white and would remain so well into summer, crowning the heights above Castle Crag. The keep itself was lower down in the hills, perched on the side of a terrifying gorge like a dragon with its claws sunk deep into the cliffs. Land on either side of a canyon carved out by the Faolain River was summer-green, thick with trees and bright with flowers below a sky pierced in the distance by the highest range of snow-capped mountains.
Lady Palila had absolutely no interest in any beauty but her own. She stood on the steps above the thick lawns of the trellis garden, frowning in annoyance because the groundskeepers had shorn her favorite rosebush, the one that produced blossoms exactly the pink of her cheeks. Instantly she reminded herself that wrinkles resulted from unpleasant emotions, and smoothed her face. Her power for the present lay in her looks, and these she had in abundance, starting with but not limited to the wealth of auburn hair that was held back by a thin gold chain studded with brown agates that matched her eyes. Skin the color of pale honey; a bone structure that sculptors dreamed of and had paid homage to in silver, bronze, marble, and even gold; delicate arched brows and a finely carved, passionate mouth—Palila was the most beautiful woman of her generation, and it was only fitting that the High Prince had chosen her as his mistress. She had been careful not to allow her four pregnancies to mar the perfection of her body, and intended that this fifth child—A boy, a boy at last, she chanted silently—would leave no mark on her, either. The cut of her dark violet gown concealed her thickening waist for the time being. As ardently as Roelstra desired a son, pregnancy repelled him. But Palila knew she would have to go on getting pregnant until she presented him with a male heir. And then she would be mistress no longer, but wife. Princess. High Princess.
There were princesses scattered all over the gardens this afternoon. Four of them, plus thirteen other daughters dignified by the title of “Lady”—seventeen girls, she thought in disgust. By six different women, all that Roelstra had managed were girls and yet more girls. His only legal wife, Lallante, had birthed three boys who had all died within a few days. After his wife’s death, the High Prince’s search for a single male offspring had taken him through five mistresses—all nobly born and all dead now, with the exception of Palila. She had gone to a lot of trouble to make sure that she was indeed the exception. Castle Crag positively seethed with women, and the oversufficiency frayed her nerves. She loathed her own sex on principle, seeing all women as rivals for Roelstra’s attention. She was fond enough of her own daughters, but not even they escaped this basic suspicion. Palila rested one hand on her belly and vowed that this time there would be a son.
She descended the short steps, irritated anew that Roelstra was busy elsewhere in the keep, for the gardens were a charming context for her beauty—and for the little play she had perfected over the last few years. The place was a great bowl sunk into the rock, filled with flowering vines and daughters in bright summer silks. Palila visited each little group, pausing to smile and chat, keeping up her role of solicitous foster-mother to them all. Her position as their father’s sole mistress for the last four years had gained her their respect, if not their liking. She cared little whether they liked her or not, so long as everyone behaved as if terribly attached to everyone else—no matter how much they all hated each other.
The four princesses were seated beneath a trellis, playing cards. Tall, dark, well-built girls; of the four, lanthe alone had inherited their father’s shrewd brain. Naydra was placid and biddable, Lenala was simply stupid, and Pandsala had a sidelong way of glancing at people which Palila thought might be a sign of slyness or intelligence or both. But lanthe, at twenty-two the youngest of the four, was sharp and never bothered to hide it.
Lady Vamana’s four girls were plain and boring. Their mother’s looks had been lost somewhere; Vamana had lost them, as well, to a disease that might have been cured had Palila not switched medicine bottles. She hadn’t meant for Vamana to die—but she hadn’t wept at her pyre, either. Lady Karayan’s daughters stood by the rose wall solemnly tossing a ball back and forth. Palila dismissed little Kiele and Lamia with a shrug, much as she had dismissed their mother from Roelstra’s service with a drop of poison in her breakfast wine.
Lady Surya’s girls, Moria and Cipris, were near in age to Palila’s elder daughters and competed with them for Roelstra’s attention, just as Palila had with their mother until a slip on wet tiles by the bathing pool had cracked open Surya’s blonde head. Palila hadn’t even had to push her very hard.
Yet having rid herself of three rivals, she had soon been presented with a fourth. Roelstra’s infatuation with charming, empty-headed Lady Aladra had lasted for two miserable years. She had been genuinely liked by all the daughters; Palila’s stomach curdled whenever the pretty idiot opened her mouth. Her death in childbed, giving birth to another daughter, had sunk the castle into honest mourning. Palila, though innocent in this case, had made a substantial donation of wine to Goddess Keep—supposedly in Aladra’s memory, but really in thanks for her deliverance.
There had been no new mistresses since. Palila reigned supreme. Even though she was no novelty to him, her hold on Roelstra was still strong and the baby on the way had increased it. Yet fond as he was of the daughters she had given him—his “little flowers,” he called them—and showing no signs of becoming bored with Palila, she knew that neither sentimentality about his children nor sensuality in her bed would be proof against a woman who could give him a son. Thus she intended to provide the long-awaited male heir herself, become his legitimate wife, and preside over the marriages of his seventeen daughters.
Their marketability was the one good thing about them.
For the foreseeable future they could be parceled out like gold coins to reward useful men. Roelstra would be pleased to have tedious negotiations taken care of by Palila, and even more pleased when her arrangements increased his power. She would make herself essential to him politically and gain a tidy profit for herself into the bargain through bribes exacted from princes and lords wishing to marry the High Prince’s otherwise useless daughters.
She went to her own girls and hugged them, laughing aloud in anticipation of the time when she would find for them the richest and most important men in all the princedoms. But they were very young and she need not worry about their futures yet. Currently she was shopping for men to marry the legitimate daughters, and her primary prey was Prince Rohan. He was rumored to be studious, so Naydra’s quietness might attract him; he was also said to be rather blank of eye on occasion, so perhaps Lenala’s stupidity would suit him. Palila promised herself that neither clever lanthe nor sly Pandsala would have him, for the idea of either married to such power was intolerable.
“Just look at her,” Pandsala whispered to lanthe. “That bitch!” lanthe smiled sweetly. “Lenala, you cannot play the horse atop the rider, dear. Naydra, explain the rules to her again, won’t you? Sala and I are going for a stroll.”
The younger pair left the elder and wandered across the lawns. Vines spread splashes of color across rough-hewn stone walls that rose to twice the princesses’ height and sealed in the trellis garden, just as the rest of Castle Crag and, therefore, their world was sealed. But they could feel the sheer drop of the cliffs beyond the wall, and the free, swift rush of the Faolain far below, just as without looking at it they could sense the silent, spired bulk of the castle behind them. Generations of their forebears had made it the most imposing keep in all the princedoms. The maze of rooms and corridors, antechambers and staircases was punctuated with turrets and towers jutting out wherever builders had found breathing space—with the result that there was no breathing space anywhere in the piles of gray and black stone. It was said that long ago the dragons had favored the cliffs here as a summer home during non-mating years, and had flown across the sky in so many hundreds that they blocked out the sun. It was from this place that lanthe and Pandsala wanted desperately to flee, as the dragons had done long ago.
Pandsala plucked a rose from the wall and put it in her hair. “When are we going to do something about Palila?”
“I’ve been thinking about it.” lanthe’s dark eyes sparkled gleefully. “Have you ever noticed how many women there are at Castle Crag, and how many of them are pregnant at any given time?”
“It must be in the air,” Pandsala replied, making a face. “Women breed, and they breed daughters.”
“Not all of them.”
Pandsala frowned, then stared. lanthe laughed.
“If Palila has a son—which isn’t likely, but all things are possible—I have my eye on several girls right now who are just as far along as she is.”
“Why not do to her what she did to poor Surya?”
“I’ve considered it,” lanthe admitted. “But her personal servants are absolutely loyal—Goddess alone knows why! She sleeps either with Father or with guards outside her door and two women on the floor of her chamber. She doesn’t go out riding, she doesn’t leave the grounds, she doesn’t bathe with the rest of us and she never eats anything her own servants haven’t prepared. If you can find opportunity in those things, be my guest!”
“I always did think her ‘delicate stomach’ was a flimsy excuse.”
“She doesn’t trust us any more than we trust her. Oh, she makes sweet eyes at us and pretends we’re all the closest of friends. I don’t know who she thinks she’s fooling—certainly not Father!”
“He doesn’t give a damn about any of us, except when we can amuse him. lanthe, I’m so tired of amusing him! Tell me what you have planned.”
“If we’re to be rid of her, we’ll have to be even more devious than she. You know she’s planning to sell us to the highest bidder.”
“I could do with a husband. It would get me out of this nursery!” She gestured to the lawns where their half-sisters played in the sunshine. lanthe paced along the garden wall until she found a perfect violet rose. She plucked it and ran the soft petals across her cheeks and lips. “There’s nothing wrong with a husband of one’s own choosing. But remember who’s sent emissaries recently? Prince Vissarion—now, there’s a fine specimen, if you like lechers. And then there was that lisping idiot sent by Prince Ajit. How would you like to join the list of wives he’s buried? Four now, isn’t it?”
“Five—no worse than Father,” Pandsala retorted, but there was fear in her dark eyes now. “Very well. So the idea is that if Palila manages a son, we’ll find some way to switch the child for a girl.”
“If Father gets an heir, we’ll count for less than nothing.”
“I know.” Pandsala scuffed the toe of her slipper against’ a clod of newly turned earth. “But lanthe—this is our brother we’re talking about.”
“And if he grows up a servant’s son instead of a prince, what of it? It’s our future we’re concerned with, Sala! Father’s wealth split seventeen ways is bad enough—but if there’s a son, instead of a seventeenth part we’d be lucky to get a hundredth. You and I and Naydra and that imbecile Lenala will get larger shares, of course, being princesses. But five hundredths is still nothing multiplied five times.” She crushed the rose in her palm. “If there’s no son, Father will have to choose the next High Prince from among our sons.”
Pandsala’s eyes narrowed for an instant, but then she hastily smoothed her expression. “Some other woman than Palila might give him a boy. You know, lanthe, we’d do better to have him gelded.”
The younger girl burst out laughing “And you call me foul-minded!”
Pandsala laughed with her “I’d call us both practical, wouldn’t you?”
But as they walked on, conversing in perfect accord, neither spoke of the sons they hoped they would have—or the husband each hoped would father them.
The High Prince—who was not as unaware of his daughters as they believed him to be—sat behind the desk of his private study high above the gardens. Roelstra’s forty-five winters showed in a thread or two of white in his dark hair, a line or two around his pale green eyes, a notch or two let out in his belt. He had been a remarkably beautiful youth and had matured into a handsome man; oncoming age only added to his looks. But many years of absolute rule had set certain things into his eyes—arrogance, cynicism, contempt. All of these were in evidence as he looked at his most valued, though not most trusted servant.
“So. The old dragon is dying. It’s certain, Crigo?”
“Yes, your grace. He was gored most horribly and now lies in his bed, from which he will not rise.”
“Hmm.” Roelstra tapped his index finger against his lips and regarded Crigo. “You seem tired. Have you been indulging too much or too little?”
The man’s fair head bent. “I ... apologize for my condition, your grace.”
“Sleep it off. Come back to me at moonrise, for I wish to send a message to our contact at Stronghold. And you must take better care of yourself, Crigo,” he cautioned, smiling without humor. “It’s not every prince who has his very own renegade Sunrunner.”
Crigo’s lean shoulders flinched at the reminder of what he was. Roelstra studied him for a few more moments, thinking that it might become necessary to acquire a new faradhi soon. Crigo was beginning to look used up.
“Leave me,” he ordered, and rose to look out the windows. The door latch clicked softly, and Roelstra was alone. He gazed at his daughters, saw Palila’s auburn hair gleaming in the sunlight, and wondered what plots were whirling around in their heads today. The princesses were getting to a dangerous age, he reflected—too old to be placated with toys and games, old enough to want more of the silks and jewels that were an idle woman’s playthings. lanthe and Pandsala in particular would bear watching, for they were intelligent. A woman with a brain was not a thing to be relished.
He wondered if the young princeling had a brain. Son of the old dragon and nephew of the redoubtable Lady Andrade; perhaps he could think. Roelstra hoped so. It would make life much more interesting.
He wondered, too, if Andrade knew about Crigo or the dranath. Such a humble little plant, growing only in the highest reaches of the Veresch, but incredibly potent when boiled, dried, and refined to powder. Crigo was its slave, and because Roelstra was master of his dranath supply, the Sunrunner was Roelstra’s slave as well. It was a pity so useful a too! was wearing out.
Inhaling deeply of the moist breeze off the river, he thought of the dry heat of the Desert and grinned. One of his daughters would soon find out how people survived there. The Goddess had not cursed him with so many female offspring for nothing. Prince Zehava would be dead soon; by late summer when the Hatching Hunt was over, the new prince would be seen for the weakling he was. At the Rialla in autumn, Rohan would find himself matched to one of the princesses and overmatched in his dealings with their father.
Roelstra stretched his powerful shoulders and smiled, thoughts of the Rialla bringing to mind the beach at Brochwel Bay and making love to Palila there. But he reminded himself that pregnancy would have swollen her to grotesque proportions by then. Roelstra preferred very slender women. But if her looks were lost for the sake of bearing a son— He bit his lip against a hope that surely ought to have died after seventeen daughters.
Which one should be Rohan’s bride? Naydra might do; Lenala was impossible. Pandsala or lanthe—now, there was a thought. Beautiful, brilliant lanthe. But would she come to relish power and forget who had given it to her by making her Rohan’s wife? He tried to identify the faces and characteristics of his other girls, and could not; there were so damned many of them. Still, the fact that they had rarely been called to his notice led him to believe that they might be more trustworthy than lanthe. Women who wanted his attention inevitably wanted something more—gowns, jewelry, trinkets to keep them content for a while before they desired more. Those things were easy compared to doling out power. No true child of his would ever be content with anything less.
Which of them would understand his goals and play the game with relish to match his own? Which of them could be used best and trusted most? It was a pretty problem, and he mulled it over as he gazed down at his girls. A pity Kiele was too young; aside from lanthe and Pandsala, she showed the most spirit. But perhaps one of the others would surprise him. He would have to keep an eye on them over the rest of the summer.
Whichever one it turned out to be, he would have to provide handsomely for her. A nice, fat dowry, and the border castle of Feruche thrown in, none of it very hard to part with because within ten years he would have it all back, and the Desert itself besides. All the wealth of mines and salt, horses and silk trade would be his. He would have everything.
Except a son.
Crigo shivered in the day’s warmth as he crept between the bedsheets. His head ached abominably, his tongue was thick in his mouth with the wanting of dranath, and his fingers shook as he clenched blankets in his fists. But he was used to the physical discomfort and knew how much of it he could take. What he had never grown used to was the betrayal of everything he was.
Five years ago he had been on his way north to Fessenden, assigned by Lady Andrade to replace afaradhi killed in a climbing accident. Crigo had been thrilled by the honor and enchanted by the long journey overland, for aside from Goddess Keep and his home farm in Grib, he had never been anywhere in his life. He’d sent his impressions back on the sunlight to his friends at Goddess Keep, keeping them amused and envious for many days. But just inside Princemarch it had been necessary to cross a branch of the Faolain River, and even that short row over placid water had left him insensible. And that was when the High Prince’s men had taken him.
Crigo had not been bound; there had been no need. All they had had to do was keep him on the river. Technically he was free to leave at any time—but sick, shaking, unable to think past his physical misery, he had barely been aware of the journey upriver to Castle Crag. When he finally was in possession of his faculties again, he found himself lying in a soft bed within a luxurious room. This chamber, with its brocade hangings and its view of the mountains, had become his prison—for this chamber had contained a pitcher of wine laced with dranath.
At first he hadn’t known. Lady Palila herself had brought him the wine, and the honor of having her serve him had not seemed unusual to a Sunrunner accustomed to instant respect and hospitality wherever he went. She had told him word had been sent to Goddess Keep that he was safe, and he need not worry. She had been all smiles and solicitude. He had suspected nothing.
But the wine had changed. Crossing water had been nothing compared to the loss of dranath during those rainy days of late autumn when the sun denied itself to him and the moons vanished behind clouds. His physical agony was made all the worse by the fact that this time he had all his wits about him. At last the High Prince himself had come to him late one night after some sort of celebration, wrapped in a cloth-of-gold cloak that shone in the firelight. Its brightness seared Crigo’s eyes and * sent swords of cold fire into his brain. After drinking the wine Roelstra offered, he had listened in mounting horror as the High Prince explained exactly why Crigo felt better now.
A thousand times since that night he’d asked himself why he hadn’t chosen to die. There were easy answers: he was young, he loved life, he had thought to wean himself from the drug, he had intended to report back to Lady Andrade in secret. He had long ago recognized all these answers as lies. Shuddering into his blankets, he wondered bitterly why he could still feel such shame, and closed his eyes to the cool silver pitcher on the table. He hated it, craved it, blessed it, cursed it. It owned him as surely as Roelstra did. And that was the only answer that counted.
A thousand times since that night he had ridden the light for the High Prince, using his faradhi skills to communicate with Roelstra’s spies in major courts. Today he had made his regular contact with Stronghold’s wine steward, bracing himself against the bite of that rapacious mind in order to glean the information the High Prince wanted. Tonight he would use the moonlight to contact the steward again, this time to convey whatever message Roelstra wished. Crigo nearly sobbed aloud as his aching body crying out for the drug. Lady Andrade had special ties to those at Stronghold, ties of kinship and affection. To betray the young prince was to doubly and triply damn himself. Worthless in his own eyes, he was worth a very great deal to Roelstra. It was the difference in the price they each set on his soul.
Slowly, painfully, Crigo sat up. He raked the thin blond hair back from his eyes, drew in a long breath— and poured himself a measure of drugged wine.
Palila was in Roelstra’s chambers when the renegade Sunrunner was admitted. She was always nervous in Crigo’s presence, for he was a reminder of the bizarre old crone who had provided her with the dranath years ago. She had heard of a sorceress in the mountains who guaranteed all sorts of charms and spells. Desperate for a son— and needing something to put in Lady Surya’s wine that could not be traced or suspected—Palila had summoned the old woman secretly to Castle Crag. No son had come of it, though Palila had done everything required. But Surya had died of something the crone claimed was dragon’s blood, and in addition Palila had learned the secret of dranath. She would much rather have had the son than the presence of this pallid, drawn Sunrunner at Castle Crag. Roelstra had been forbidden an official faradhi by Lady Andrade for offenses not even rumor could guess at, and Palila did not mind the lack. Sunrunners did things she feared, and in the five years Roelstra had been using Crigo she had never gotten over the suspicion that one day he would reach his limit. Who knew what somebody trained by that witch Andrade might do? But Palila was wise enough to sit quietly on her couch and hide her wariness, for Roelstra wanted her to witness what happened this night.
“Come in, Crigo,” the High Prince said. “Be seated.”
A chair had been placed in the full moonlight. He huddled into it, wrapped in a thick cloak though the room was still warm with the day’s sunlight, shivering, his eyes slightly glazed with the effects of the drug. The three small moons were far apart in the sky, casting a blurred series of shadows and making Crigo’s usual pallor almost greenish.
“Before the message is sent, you’ll do something for me, Crigo,” Roelstra said. He withdrew a candle from a pocket of his tunic and Crigo flinched. “I have a whim to see this young princeling. Conjure him for me.”
Palila caught her breath and Roelstra glanced at her over his shoulder. Quickly she said, “Forgive me, my lord, but I’ve never seen—“
“I’m sure you’ll find it interesting.” He held out the candle to the faradhi, “Light it,” he commanded softly. “Show me the princeling, Crigo. I want to see what manner of foolish child I’ll encounter at the Rialla.”
Crigo lifted both thin hands, the six rings of his earned rank glimmering in the moonlight. The wick sprang to life. Crigo looked up at Roelstra dully, his eyes reflecting the tiny flame. Palila held herself from shrinking back as • the Sunrunner stared into the Fire of his calling.
The flame grew and a face began to form. Palila was drawn forward despite herself, fascinated. First the vague oval of the face, crowned by fair hair; then the lines of jaw, brow, nose; at last the features resolved and the curve of the mouth and the color of the eyes were clearly seen. A proud face, and very young; untested, unripe, and unaware of Roelstra’s fine manipulations of power.
“Well?” the High Prince asked suddenly. “Which of my girls will do for him, Palila? I value your advice.”
She stared at him in shock, distracted from the face in the flame. So this was why he had spoken with his elder daughters tonight at dinner, she thought. He usually ignored them, preferring to concentrate on the little ones and their amusing chatter. But tonight he had tested each of them, and now he was testing her. Mind working furiously, she tried to outguess him. He had already decided which daughter would marry Rohan, of course. She would have to anticipate that decision. His green eyes were coldly amused as they watched her during the few seconds she had in which to think.
“lanthe,” she said.
He frowned and she knew it was the wrong answer. “Why her?”
“She’s the prettiest of your legitimate daughters, and close to this boy in age. She’s sensuous, and this man-child is obviously a virgin. Anyone looking at him could see it. lanthe will be able to rule him through his senses if she’s clever enough. And Goddess knows the girl is clever.” She paused and made herself look at the flame again.
“Why should I give him one of my legitimate daughters?”
“Would a man of his wealth, family, and position accept a bastard?” she asked bluntly.
“Any daughter of mine would be an honor, but I suppose you’re right. There’s great pride in that face— and his mother is even worse. Go on.”
“lanthe is also intelligent. She’ll understand where her advantage lies. I assume I’m correct in that this advantage will not be with her new husband?” She smiled, more confident as ideas came to her. “And she is ambitious.”
“How would that serve me, if she’s wed to this powerful young prince?”
“How long would he be able to keep that power on his own?” she countered. “I’ve never heard anything of him except that he’s quiet and studious. You’d never waste a daughter on a man who lets power dribble through his fingers. lanthe will keep it for him—and for you. The Merida still sit in Cunaxa, north of the Desert border. Would lanthe allow them to put so much as a boot heel on anything she owned?”
“She does have rather acquisitive instincts. But I fail to see how I may be assured of keeping her in line.”
“She is ambitious and intelligent—but she is also not stupid in any way that I’ve ever seen. Of course you can’t trust her. But at least you know her qualities. Can you say the same of Naydra, who can barely string two sentences together, or Pandsala, who never says what she thinks—if she thinks anything at all? As for Lenala—we all know very well that she cannot think. But you know lanthe. And lanthe knows it.” And apart from all that, wonderful it would be to get rid - mo,™ r^c.-m Palila lived so
AS ir Koeistra naa heard me tnougnt, he smiled and said, “The advantage to you being her removal from Castle Crag.”
Palila smiled back, inwardly cursing his perceptiveness. “Her elevation will increase your power and honors.”
“Then it may be lanthe,” he mused.
Crigo made a soft sound and the face of the young prince vanished from the flame, Roelstra turned, scowling. “Control yourself, Sunrunner. You’re not finished for the night.”
“I—I’m sorry, your grace—“ he mumbled, gripping the candle now with both hands.
“lanthe is indeed a clever girl,” Roelstra said to Palila. “But I worry that perhaps she’s too clever.”
“She will rule her husband, and you will rule her.” Palila shrugged. “You have spies enough at Stronghold, my lord, to keep her effectively under your eye at all times. All she really needs to do is have a couple of sons—grandchildren for you to protect.”
Roelstra laughed. “We must make sure this thought does not occur to her—or that she knows anything of her future honors until the Rialla at Waes. I will need you there, my dear.”
“I am yours to command,” she said formally, but with a smile that invited commands pertaining to the bedroom. Her expression hid relief at having talked her way out of potential danger.
Roelstra laughed again and placed his hands on Crigo’s shoulder. “You may douse the Fire now and make ready to ride the moonlight to Stronghold.”
But Crigo cried out in sudden agony and the candleflame surged upward, becoming a pillar of writhing Fire that grew talons and teeth and dragon wings. Palila screamed as faces formed and vanished in the brilliance: Roelstra, lanthe, Pandsala, herself, Prince Rohan, Zehava, and a girl’s face surrounded by a cloud of hair that seemed made of fire. The dragon reared up, snarling, and the flames caught on Crigo’s sleeves. He toppled to the floor, hands clawing the air, visions spitting into the wildfire light.
Roelstra tore the curtains from the window and smothered thefaradhi in it, cursing. Dragon and Fire vanished. The High Prince lifted Crigo’s limp form and went to kick open the door. Flinging the unconscious Sunrunner into the antechamber, he roared to. the servants, “Get him out of here!” He slammed the door shut and wiped sweat from his forehead.
Palila closed her eyes and trembled. She feared little in life beyond the loss of her beauty, but she was utterly paralyzed by fire. Her mind ignited with pictures of the whole room in flames that licked up the tapestries and wooden paneling, eating at her hair and consuming her flesh and bones while she still lived. She whimpered and wrapped her arms around herself, feeling the baby in her womb jerk and quiver in response to her terror.
“You were in no danger,” Roelstra said above her. “Palila, stop this. You might harm the child.”
She looked up at him, so tall and powerful. Her fingers dug into his tunic and she moaned as he gathered her in his arms to carry her to the bed.
“Palila, calm yourself,” he said.
She raked her nails across his chest, ripping the silk tunic, and he looked astonished for an instant before he burst out laughing. The flames still burned in her imagination—inside her body now, consuming her from within. Roelstra twisted a handful of her long hair into a rope and wrapped it around her neck as he undressed her.
“So your fear of fire makes you burn, does it? Remind me to change my method of execution,” he crooned. “I can hardly wait to find out what watching someone being burned alive will do to you. Would you like to see that, my pet? Just imagine the flames as they devour some helpless man or woman. How hot the fire can be, my darling,” he whispered as he bent her head back and tightened the rope around her throat. His lips brushed her mouth, fiery moist, and she used up the last air in her lungs on a scream that made him laugh with delight. “Think about the flames, Palila—“