Auguries of Dawn

by Peyton Reynolds

After leaving his meeting with the Jennite assassin, Devlin had no choice but to start for the arena. There was one more task he’d wanted to see to beforehand, but had simply run out of time; he would just have to try to get to it between matches and hope that he’d still be quick enough to head off any looming trouble. One way or another, he had to find a way to speak with Oliveah Oslund as soon as possible.

  The games of the King’s Challenge took place upon a large, grassy field in the city’s east end. The field was encompassed on all sides by wooden benches, their rows elevated to provide all spectators a decent view. Devlin would be watching the fights with the rest of the royal council—including the king—from specially-placed seating at mid-field level, but since this was his show, he first needed to give the official opening address. Since everyone gathered already knew all the rules, and because this would be his ninth time publicly stating them, the very idea bored him. It had to be done, however, and so he strode out onto the field, giving very little thought to what he was about to say to the thousands now gathered.

  The rules of the King’s Challenge games were fairly simple. Two men would take the field with nothing but swords and shields, and duel until one was either defeated or dead. The man who lost remained completely at the mercy of his opponent, for there was no punishment for killing in the games, regardless of whether or not the act was necessary. The winner would then move on to the next round.

  Due to this year’s sixty-four entries, Devlin had devised six rounds, to be concluded upon the last day of the week, Fifteenth-day. Since the first round had to accommodate all sixty-four combatants, he’d broken the fights down to cover the first six days of the competition, having five or six duels per day. The thirty-two men to win—or survive—would then move on to the second round, and so on. By Fifteenth-day, only two men would remain. The winner of the final duel would then be awarded his prize of five hundred gold, and, in most cases, be offered a position on the royal guard—an offer which was accepted about as often as it was declined.

  The royal jester reiterated all of this to the crowd now, fully aware most weren’t bothering to listen, before moving on to recount the names of the twelve men scheduled to fight this day, and of the times each pair would take the field.

  First up would be one of the Justice officers living and stationed right here in Aralexia, versus the Jennite Rydin Kale. Devlin knew almost nothing of Kale, only that he was born to Chaos and what little else his assistant Reagan had relayed in her brief written report the night before. Devlin had paired him against a Justice officer basically just to see what happened.

  Retreating to his seat amongst the rest of the royal council, the jester was highly aware of the fact that Oliveah Oslund was no doubt sitting somewhere among the crowd, now having placed him as the one to have spoken to her five weeks ago in Tyrell. Whether she had definitively connected him to the Thieves who’d invaded her family’s vineyard was still up for debate, but at least Knoxx had been able to warn him of the possibility. Devlin knew it had been extremely sloppy of him to presume she wouldn’t make an appearance here in Aralexia this week, and he would now have to deal with the resulting mess. But also thanks to Knoxx, he thought he’d figured a way to handle it—just so long as he got to her before she had the chance to cause any trouble. Most likely, she was confused and more than a little afraid to see that the one she’d spoken to so casually was in fact the royal jester of King Redgar DeSiva.

  Within the box of seating reserved for the king and his court, expressions were varied, and Devlin took them all in with a swift glance as he drew near. Richert Poage, captain of the knights, and Valerio Catala, commander of Justice, were seated next to each other, neither speaking and both running cool eyes over the nearby crowd. Despite the presence of ten of Captain Poage’s knights standing sentry about the royal seating, both men were likely keeping an alert watch for any trouble nearing the king. It was always a stressful time for them when his majesty left the safety and confines of the castle.

  King DeSiva and his son, Prince Luken (who would not be fighting until the final day of the first round) were both wearing expressions of great anticipation, although, at least to Devlin’s eye, the king’s looked to be tinged with a predatory expectation and Luken’s with wariness. The jester still couldn’t quite figure why the king was allowing his only heir to enter into a situation so dangerous, but then many of King DeSiva’s decisions of late appeared to make little sense. The fact that the king was continuing to grow more and more nonsensical was a deep-seated concern to everyone upon his council, although discerning exactly how to deal with it was still largely left unanswered. For Devlin, it meant increasingly frequent and private talks with Luken, who was doing his best to counter the more bizarre of his father’s recent proclamations.

  To the other side of the royal pair sat Cadien Stavrakos. The treasurer and his majesty appeared to be exchanging the occasional word, which always made Devlin nervous. Stavrakos’s concern for Redgar DeSiva’s growing insanity was largely an act, in truth an affliction he enjoyed taking advantage of by way of manipulating the king into doing his own bidding. Stavrakos and Devlin existed within a constant struggle, the puppet masters of a demented king who was rapidly becoming too much for even the two of them to handle.

  Next to Stavrakos sat Seneschal Dusan Galaz, and Devlin moved to take the empty seat next to him. This man had secrets of his own, a few revealed to Devlin just recently, and for now, at least, their aims were as one. It was actually because of the seneschal that Devlin had traveled to Tyrell in the first place, an event which had now stirred up an incredible amount of trouble and one that would probably, sooner or later, see a great number of people dead. The jester was fully expecting to be one of them.

  He settled into the cushioned chair next to Galaz, their gazes meeting in only the briefest of glances. Devlin placed his arms onto the rests at his sides and then nodded to the bell-ringer who’d moved onto the center of the field.

  The man sounded the gong to announce the top of the hour, Seventh, and to call the first combatants forward. The crowd went into a frenzy at the signal, unleashing all the excitement they’d been harboring in recent days or even weeks. Devlin scrutinized the two men now coming forth, his mind writing rapid mental notes of everything his eyes observed.

  The Justice officer was approaching from the north end of the field, a beacon in white as he had evidently decided to wear his official uniform to the match. There appeared to be an equal amount of cheering and heckling, issued from law-followers and law-breakers alike, but the officer simply raised an arm in acknowledgment and gave the masses a smile. Devlin didn’t know the man personally, but rumor placed him as a cocky bastard who’d prompted more than a few official inquiries into his conduct. Apparently he enjoyed exerting excessive force while subduing those he arrested, and it was said he kept a list of all the bones of criminals he’d broken over the course of his career. His age was just past thirty, and he was now strutting into position next to the bell-ringer.

  Turning his eyes away, Devlin looked to take in the officer’s opponent, this man still moving in from the field’s southern end. His first observation was that Reagan hadn’t been exaggerating the man’s size, the second being that Kale was moving like one possessed of a poor sense of balance, a head wound, or an incredibly harsh morning-after headache. The Jennite was squinting under the blaring morning sun and staggering slightly as he drew near, and he appeared to be carrying a sword but no shield. His clothes were sloppy, as though he’d slept in them, and his face boasted at least a few days’ worth of stubble. The jester wasn’t quite certain what to make of his appearance, and apparently, neither was the crowd. Generally foreigners were insulted and ridiculed, although some of the kinder citizens offered them polite applause, but mostly the crowd was now falling into silence as they took in the Jennite Rydin Kale. He drew to a clumsy halt before the officer and bell-ringer, where a short conversation then ensued.
/>
  It looked to Devlin as though the bell-ringer was trying to explain to Kale that he was allowed a shield. The Jennite, however, kept waving away his words and gesturing impatiently with his sword. Evidently, he was anxious to begin.

  The bell-ringer looked away, finding Devlin’s eyes across the distance separating them and shooting to him a questioning look. Devlin waved for him to proceed—if the Jennite didn’t want to take advantage of the rule allowing him the protection of a shield, then so be it. Perhaps losing his head would cause him to re-think his recklessness.

  The bell-ringer acknowledged the command with a nod and turned back to the two men before him, gesturing for them to take their places at three paces apart. The Justice officer did this with alacrity, the Jennite with what looked like sluggish indifference. The bell-ringer leapt back to get himself clear of the soon-to-be deadly area, and raised the large brass bell in his hands.

  The Justice officer raised his sword toward Kale, and Kale responded in kind, their blades crossing in the space before them. They held the pose, and the bell-ringer sounded a mighty gong to officially begin the match.

  The officer stepped back and spun his wrist, lifting his blade from Kale’s and swinging it about low in an effort most likely meant to maim. Kale moved with alarming and unexpected speed to block with his own steel, even while taking a step forward and twisting slightly to drive his left elbow into the officer’s face. Before the man had any amount of time to react, Kale had several inches of his sword buried into his chest.

  Only because he was so disciplined in controlling his facial expressions did Devlin manage to keep his jaw from dropping as he stared. It was over—in the span of only heartbeats, over. Never before had he seen a fight finished so quickly.

  The crowd appeared to be lost to the same shock, as nothing but utter silence reigned as Kale then pulled free his sword and watched the dead Justice officer slump to the ground before him. Then he turned, snapped something at the bell-ringer, and began moving back down the field in the direction he’d come.

  The sudden and maniacal laughter of the king quickly pulled Devlin’s attention back, and he turned to see King DeSiva pounding the armrests of his chair with great amusement. “A fine show!” he bellowed between laughs. Devlin’s eyes slipped past him briefly and found Stavrakos’s—and the two shared an incredibly rare moment as they exchanged identical looks of weary exasperation.

  Beside the king, his son was still staring with wide eyes at the field, his gaze fixed upon the dead officer. Devlin took this in, wanting very much to reassure the prince, but knowing this public forum would not allow for any such words. Instead, he got to his feet and began striding out toward the center of the field.

  Much of the audience, by this time, seemed to have recovered from their shock, raining cheers and wild hollering down upon the field. Many others still appeared immobilized with surprise, or perhaps by the succinct brutality they’d just witnessed.

  Devlin reached the center of the field, but then paused. It was customary, at this time, for him to hoist the victor’s arm and officially declare him the winner, but after a quick glance he saw Kale was already moving off the field of play, either oblivious or uncaring to those who cheered his victory.

  “I told him he needed to stay until you declared him the winner,” the bell-ringer was suddenly hissing to the jester. “He mumbled something in reply about returning to his bed, and then threatened me against getting in his way.”

  “Probably best you decided to adhere,” Devlin replied.

  “He stank of cheap ale.”

  Devlin found that information unsurprising, given Kale’s appearance. Shrugging, he turned away and raised his arms to gather everyone’s attention, and then shouted, “The winner of our first match is the Jennite Rydin Kale, who will return to the field for round two! We’ll see you all back at Eighth-hour for our second match of the day!”

  His announcement, although redundant, was met with wild cheering. He gave the audience a good-natured wave, and then looked to make a quick exit from the field himself, leaving the rest of the royal council behind to see to the king; his maddened laughter continued to roll outward, intermingling with the other sounds from the crowd and likely drawing much unwanted attention. Truthfully, the last thing the city of Aralexia needed was further stories of King DeSiva’s slipping sanity.

  Following in the unsteady footsteps of Rydin Kale, Devlin moved quickly down toward the south end of the field, to where the forum emptied out into the mess of hundreds of vendors and hawkers who’d come to sell their wares to the spectators of the event. He would need to be back upon the field by Eighth-hour for the next match, which gave him less than an hour to locate Oliveah Oslund. And do so in a way that wouldn’t appear suspicious to any curious eyes that might be watching.

  He had no idea how he was going to accomplish this, but pressed on nonetheless, simply hoping that the luck Destiny had shown him back in Tyrell would be with him once again—for clearly, this was a matter Destiny was most interested in.

  But it seemed Destiny was either taking or nap or had other matters to attend to this day, for the jester caught absolutely no sight of the woman he sought, despite all his efforts to locate her between matches. A knight won the second round, injuring but not killing his opponent, and two Justice officers faced off in the third. At Tenth-hour the last-born prince of Navosa, Kem Maeda, took the field, against the knight Devlin had carefully selected to face him—a man the jester knew well, and one who had no care for needless killing. It came as a great surprise when Maeda actually bested the knight, and then proceeded to help his opponent to his feet and shake his hand after defeating him.

  The final two fights took a more brutal turn when a Justice officer slashed the throat of the Dhan’Marian mercenary he faced, and then as a knight completely severed the leg of the foreigner who’d clearly been aiming to kill him. The foreigner bled out and died on the field, but even this did not eclipse the drama of the day’s first match, with most still talking about Kale’s stunning victory as they filed from the forum in search of food, drink, and further entertainment.

  Devlin distanced himself from the knightly escort now assembling to take the king and his son back to the castle, giving his majesty the quick excuse of having some further games’ duties to see to. The statement wasn’t questioned, with the king simply waving him off impatiently, but Devlin knew Stavrakos, overhearing the comment, would now have eyes all over him. Thankfully, long practice had taught him ways to elude those eyes, but he would need to remain exceedingly careful. Were the treasurer to gain even a glimmer of truth in regard to the situation, the bloodbath Devlin so feared would likely be quick to follow—and he could not let that happen until after the truth was known.

  He left the field and began weaving his way through the crowds, feeling himself propelled along by their momentum. In only minutes he’d spotted two of Stavrakos’s spies, but the sheer mass of citizens now emptying into the streets seemed to be making their task of shadowing him extremely difficult.

  Devlin took full advantage of the situation by darting into what turned out to be a small but elegant eatery. The proprietor, standing just inside the door, looked appropriately surprised to find the royal jester suddenly within his place of business, and he scrambled to please him, offering him his finest table as well as much food and drink. Devlin quickly deduced that remaining here would only help his purpose, giving Stavrakos’s men further time to scatter about in futile efforts to locate him. The idea was also influenced somewhat by his rumbling stomach, a protest against his decision to skip lunch; a common occurrence when his birds were not around to sample his food. Stavrakos applied the same practice, as he and Devlin had, on several occasions, attempted to do away with each other in this fashion. Obviously, neither could yet claim success.

  He let the proprietor settle him into a private, corner table, and was just sitting back with a glass of wine to await the arrival
of his meal when a woman dropped suddenly into the seat across from him. A lacy shawl was wrapped about her head and hair, allowing only her face to be visible, but it was a face he instantly recognized. A hundred thoughts bolted through his mind before she even spoke her first word.

  “I see now why you were so hesitant to give me your name,” Madilaine Savannon said quietly, her smoky eyes staring at him from across the table. “Royal jester, we must speak.”

  His first reaction was to glance about the rest of the eatery, which remained largely empty. “How did you find me here?” he came back, seeing nothing suspicious.

  “I followed you from the field,” she told him simply.

  He found it concerning that he’d not noted her presence, and now wondered if he’d missed seeing any more of Stavrakos’s many spies. He gave the room another searching glance, but yielded only the same results.

  The diviner opened her mouth to continue, but stopped suddenly when the proprietor reappeared, babbling his apologies for not knowing the royal jester had been expecting a guest. He poured another goblet of wine for her and asked what else he could do.

  “The lady will be joining me for my meal. That is all,” Devlin said.

  “Very good,” the man nodded, before hurrying off.

  Devlin turned his gaze back onto the young woman, but didn’t speak. He would reveal nothing until he knew why she’d come.

  She ignored her wine and continued staring at him. “I trust you’ve heard of my great-grandmother, Danetria Savannon?” she asked, her tone still low.

  “I have,” he replied. He doubted anyone in the country would fail to recognize that name; Danetria Savannon’s talents were legendary.

  “She has urged me to trust you. And that is why I’ve come to you now.”

  Devlin took this in silently, finding the possible implications extremely worrying. Had this most powerful diviner seen the truth? “What else has she spoken of this?” he asked, his tone free of the wariness he was now feeling.

  Madilaine paused, glanced away, then looked back. “She warned me that to read for the king would mean my death.”

  He paused, for the mere thought of this was significantly alarming. It also appeared unlikely; never would the king be so foolish as to invite such an intimate glimpse into his life. Although, Devlin had to admit, the fact of the king’s insanity would have to be considered. He looked back to the woman across from him.

  “In that, she is most certainly correct. Get out of Aralexia, diviner,” he urged her. “ Tonight—now. If you value your life at all, you must do all you can to prevent such an occurrence from happening.”

  It was clear she understood the severity of his warning as she swallowed thickly at his words, but even so, she slowly began to shake her head.

  “I cannot. For my great-grandmother also revealed that I needed to be here in this city, this very week, for reasons largely undisclosed.”

  Devlin withheld a frustrated sigh. Dealing with diviners could be a tricky business, but there didn’t appear to be much to misinterpret here. He was also waiting for her to get to the true point of her presence here and now, suspecting he was not going to like it.

  “It was you who sent the Thieves to the Oslund vineyard, wasn’t it?” she asked.

  He stared back at her, expressionless.

  She began nodding as she went on. “I don’t know your interest in him, exactly, but clearly you’re somehow privy to his destiny. You sent the Thieves to spy.”

  She knows which of the two I seek!

  She also didn’t seem to be aware that he still didn’t know if it was Taleb Okin or Nathon Wythe who held his interest. And admitting this would not give him much validation in her eyes.

  “What do you know of it?” he asked, looking back at her mildly.

  The diviner bit her lower lip worriedly. “Only that blood and death surrounds him. That his purpose in this life is to take the lives of others—but that he holds to no evil intent.”

  Devlin worked to stifle a shudder. There it was—the vindication he’d needed, giving him reason to now know, without any further doubt, that what he was attempting to do, even while risking so many lives to do it, was right. The future fate of all Dhanen’Mar depended upon it.

  But he displayed nothing of this, merely looking back at the diviner. “What do you want of me?” he asked her bluntly.

  Her response was interrupted by the arrival of their meal, which neither of them so much as glanced at. The proprietor served them personally, then asked if everything appeared adequate.

  “Yes. You may go,” Devlin told him dismissively.

  Madilaine waited until he had crossed to the far side of the room before focusing back onto the jester.

  “I was hoping,” she said to him, “that you could tell me how to survive the next fifteen days.”

  “Your great-grandmother relayed all you need do. Stay away from the king, diviner.” He continued to regard her, and, like their meeting in Tyrell, found her an easy read. “What do you really want of me?”

  She sighed. “It is apparent you are not about to share with me what you know. My great-grandmother wouldn’t either. But that is not my business.”

  He was extremely relieved to hear that—clearly Danetria Savannon had realized the danger of this information and decided to keep it to herself for the time being.

  “Then what is your business?” he asked, picking up his fork to at least give the pretense of eating.

  “Oliveah,” she replied, looking back at him.

  He understood at once. Glimpsing the brutal fate that awaited either Nathon or Taleb, Madilaine Savannon was looking for any way to keep her friend from sharing in it. Also, thanks to Knoxx, Devlin was now well aware of the complications concerning Oliveah Oslund and those two men. The problem was, Devlin still didn’t know which of the two the diviner was now asking him to oust from Oliveah’s life. He cursed himself for not simply taking the risk and asking at the start of the conversation—but, since that moment had now passed, he really had no choice but to try and bluff his way through.

  He responded by giving Madilaine the address of the bookshop he used for his most secret of meetings, much like the one he’d taken earlier that day with the Jennite assassin, and by telling her to make sure Oliveah was there—alone—in one hour’s time. He was accommodating her request for one reason and one reason only—the distraction of a wife was not one the man he sought would need when the time came for him to fulfill his purpose.

  “There is something I would ask of you in return,” he then went on.

  “If it is in my power, you have only to speak it,” she said.

  “Besides being entered in the games, it is known to me that Nathon Wythe and Taleb Okin have come to Aralexia with the intention of confronting the Thieves they found in the Oslund vineyard. I need you to veer them from this path.”

  Madilaine winced. “I am not certain that is within my power, jester.”

  “I assure you, neither of those Thieves know any details of this, and any interrogation of them would only lead back to me. Also, one is my brother.”

  She began shaking her head. “Why can you not just tell him who he is, and end all of this secrecy?” she burst out in frustration. “I do not understand!”

  “He cannot know yet. I need time to shift other matters into place.” He took in her agonized look, even while stifling the urge to strangle her for continuing to unknowingly leave his interest unnamed. “It has to be this way, diviner. To tell him now would bring nothing but his swift death.”

  Her eyes were wide as she digested this, and then she slowly began to nod. “I think perhaps Oliveah and I can come up with some reason to give them, to keep them from going after the Thieves.” Her nodding grew more assured. “We’ll work it out somehow.”

  That made one less problem he’d have to deal with, leaving only another hundred or so to see to. The intrigues of this week were going to age h
im twenty years.

  “One hour, then,” she said, seeming to realize their business was now concluded. She got to her feet but then paused to deliver a final word. “Be advised, Master Alvik—Oliveah will not be easy to deal with. She’s feeling the weight of a great many concerns, and will likely make you their collective target. And perhaps not undeservedly.”

  Wonderful. Devlin had pissed off enough women in his life to know that, in some ways, they were much more dangerous than men. He predicted this was to be an aggravating confrontation.

  “Understood, diviner.”

  He sat back and watched her go, then proceeded to run through their conversation in his mind several times, looking for any clue that may have hinted at her specifying either Taleb or Nathon as the man in question. To his irritation, he found none, meaning that he would have to find a way to make Oliveah slip the information.

  He took his time finishing his meal, then left the eatery and started for the bookshop. It was his only haven in the city Stavrakos did not know about—or so he hoped—and he kept an ever vigilant eye about for any of the man’s spies as he made his way down one street and up another. He saw nothing and no one suspicious, prompting him to think his speculation had been correct; his delay in the eatery had most likely caused those tailing him to panic and scatter, frantic for any signs of him as they moved in a growing outward perimeter. Chances were they were scouring the farthest reaches of the city by now.

  The bookshop, owned and operated by one of his own well-paid spies, was by this hour closed, but Devlin had his own key and he let himself inside. He remained positive no one had been tailing him along the darkening streets. Settling himself upon the stool behind the counter he then prepared himself to wait, as the appointed time of their meeting remained twenty or so minutes distant.

  Oliveah didn’t keep him waiting that long.

  She hurtled into the shop just minutes later with all the momentum of a tidal wave, slamming the door behind her with enough force so that he was surprised when its glass pane didn’t shatter.

  “Lady Oslund,” he greeted, thinking he’d perhaps underestimated the diviner’s warning. The woman standing before him now was clearly and utterly furious, her eyes shards of green ice settled upon him.

  “You had better start talking, jester, or I will be out in the streets, shouting about how you sent spies to my home, before you could ever hope to stop me,” she threatened, keeping to her position before the door.

  Yes, he had most certainly underestimated the situation.

  He stood and began moving casually out from behind the counter. “Lady Oslund,” he said again, stepping toward her, “I would ask that you please calm yourself. Rest assured, I intend to tell you all that I know.” He reached around her and threw the bolt on the door. “Follow me, if you would.”

  He heard her coming after him as he pushed into the secret room behind the counter. “Sit,” he said, taking hold of a bottle of wine from the shelf and pouring them each a generous glass. She was seated and staring at him when he turned back to hand her one of the goblets. She took it and drank a few swallows before placing it onto the table before her.

  He settled down opposite her and began. “First, you must know that I never intended any harm to come from this. I understand some injuries were taken at your family home, and I do apologize for that.”

  Her eyes smoldered. “Injuries?” she repeated incredulously. “What care do I have for those now? He is entered in the games because of what you’ve done! They both are!” Furiously, she hefted her goblet and threw it at the wall behind him.

  He heard the glass shatter but kept to his position, only now understanding the true reason for her rage. She didn’t give a damn about what he was up to—only that he’d inadvertently endangered the lives of the two men she loved by doing it.

  “Oliveah,” he started delicately, “I understand your anger. But please believe I am just as horrified over that particular development as you are.”

  Her eyes narrowed to slits. “How incredibly foolish you must be feeling, then.”

  He gave her a small nod of dry acknowledgment before replying. “Would it help ease your worry if I were to tell you that I have every intention of seeing him from the Challenge alive and intact?” he went on.

  She cocked her head at him slightly. “How?”

  “It is commonly believed that I make the pairings by randomly drawing names, and that is indeed my typical practice. But none would be the wiser were I to deviate from that this year.”

  She thought on that for a few silent moments. “Then I suppose the only question remaining is, do you desire him ousted, or victorious?”

  “I want him out of it as quickly as possible.”

  “All right. Then it appears we’ve come to where you begin telling me why.”

  He paused. “What do you know?”

  “Only what Madi has told me. That he has a destiny that cannot be thwarted, and that this destiny . . . will take precedence over all other concerns in his life.”

  It was obvious those words pained her, but her gaze remained steady as she stared into his eyes.

  “You will have to let him go, Oliveah,” he told her forthrightly. “Too much is at risk for it to be any other way. Choose the other, and wish this one well.”

  She was now staring at him in a rather shrewd manner, her eyes again narrowed and her lips pursed in thought. He didn’t favor the look, and favored it even less after her next words.

  “You don’t know which of them I speak of, do you?” she asked.

  Devlin stared back at her silently, even while violently cursing himself. He’d known from their brief conversation in Tyrell that Oliveah was no fool, but he’d evidently still done her a disservice here tonight. This young woman was sharp, and had pretty much just left him no choice.

  “I don’t,” he finally admitted. “And I need you to tell me.”

  “Relay your interest first. No matter how I’ve tried, I simply cannot understand why you—or Destiny—would have any such care for an orphaned slave.”

  He’d known going into this conversation that he would have to tell her the truth of it. There was simply no way to handle the mess this had all turned into without enlisting her as an ally.

  But her reactions, in this at least, were predictable. First came the disbelief, followed quickly by shock and horror. And at last, the acceptance, which eventually came at the expense of the remainder of the wine. Finally she did nothing but stare at him from across the table, her eyes reddened but now dry.

  “You understand now, why you can speak of this to no one. Not even the diviner, Oliveah,” he cautioned.

  “I understand,” she repeated hollowly.

  “And you see now why you must let him go.”

  She gave no response to this, her silent stare just going on and on.

  “All right,” Devlin finally sighed. “I have held up my end. It is your turn. Taleb or Nathon?”

  Her voice was hoarse when she replied.

  “And why would I tell you that now?”

  He was startled, and actually gave a quick blink of surprise. “What do you mean?” he frowned.

  Slowly, she moved to lean across the table toward him. “As far as I see it,” she said, her eyes flat as they rested on his, “so long as you don’t know which of the two you truly seek, you’ll stay incredibly motivated to protect both of them through the Challenge.”

  Devlin felt a sudden and intense need to grind his teeth together in frustration.

  “You really should consider a life here in Aralexia, Lady Oslund,” he told her dryly. “For clearly, you can dance with the best of us.”

  “All I want now is to return home,” she replied. “But first, we must get through this week.” Her look was suddenly tired.

  “I swear to you, Oliveah, that I will do all I can to get them both through the games. But you must tell me what I need to know.”

&n
bsp; “That’s not good enough,” she told him, shaking her head stubbornly.

  “Then what do you propose?”

  “Get them both through the week alive. Then, and only then, will I give you the name you want.”

  Chapter 29