This end of the tomb smells fresher because in the oracle’s chamber there is both an air shaft and a hole for speaking to people outside. Five lamps burn, illuminating a table set with a basin and pitcher, a stack of books atop a wooden chest, and a curtained bed where the oracle must be seated, hidden from the mourners.

One of the bed curtains stirs. I stiffen, holding my breath so I don’t shriek out loud.

Pale fingers brush through a slit in the curtains, probing from the inside.

She sees me. I know it. A wave of dizzy fear makes me sway.

The oracle speaks in a whisper like the scratch of a poisoned thorn.

“The tale begins with a death. Where will it end? There could be a victory, a birth, a kiss, or another death. There might fall fire upon the City of the Dead, upon the tombs of the oracles. A smile might slay an unsuspecting adversary. Poison might kill the flower that bloomed brightest. A living heart might be buried. Death might be a mercy.”

Shorty nudges me from behind. The file is moving. I stumble in Gira’s wake, accidentally brushing the clammy skin of Lord Ottonor’s dead hand with my own. Sweat breaks down my back. A pulse pounds in my ears and I am not sure if it is my own or that of the spark that animates the corpse’s chest. Maybe the oracle’s heart beats in time with mine.

I do not know where I am going.

I cannot think.

At the archway that leads out from the chamber I glance desperately back toward the five attendants, realizing I have lost my only chance to try to communicate with them, just to make sure they are no one I know. With a hiss through teeth like a snake giving warning before it strikes, Gira drags me after her. I stagger through the outer chamber and onto the porch where with a gulp of fresh air I see the blue sky unfolding above. A sob knots in my throat, but I keep it down in my heart where it must stay.

I feel like a walking corpse as we return through the city to Garon Palace.

The training stable gate with its horned and winged fire dog greets us like a refuge.

It is already late afternoon as we wash up with the ritual prayers. Many servants remained behind to spend the day preparing a huge repast to celebrate the dead man’s safe passage to his next house of existence. The leavings we receive in the stable are the most magnificent feast I have ever laid eyes on. None of Father’s victory feasts nor any of the social engagements we girls were allowed to attend boasted platters of gingered-orange quail, date-stuffed chicken, wine-soaked beef, white fish garnished with almonds and saffron, salted eel, barley cooked with herbs and onions, honey cakes, and enough beer to drown a city.

I force myself to place a moist honey cake on my tray.

“Did you hear anything in the tomb?” My voice quavers. I am afraid they will say yes, but I am even more afraid they will say no.

“No, but it sure smelled,” says Gira, wrinkling up her nose. “Why do you ask?”

“No, thank the gods.” Shorty cuts her off. “And I’ll thank you not to repeat the question.”

“It would be ill fortune,” adds Mis. “The oracle never speaks until the tomb is sealed.”

The honey cake sits uneaten.

I imagined the words. That’s all.

The party looks likely to spill late into the night, so I make excuses and creep off to my bed. Wide awake although exhausted, I listen to the adversaries singing lewd songs as they get drunk. From over the palace wall, a melody of tuned bells mingles with the breath of flutes. At intervals a male voice rises to sing sonorous stories of the splintering of the old empire and of how the first Kliatemnos and Serenissima bravely defeated the corrupt magic of the old Efeans and erected a new and pure kingdom on Efean soil.

As I drift, a horrible certainty swims to the surface of my mind. Through her oracle’s magic she was speaking to me alone. For Gargaron’s poisonous scheme to work, he must remove Mother from Father’s reach forever in case Father is tempted to seek out the beautiful woman he has loved for half his life. How better than to bury her where no one can look for her and where religious law prevents her rescue?

I wake with a jolt, like I have been stabbed.

I will have my stewards make provision for the women, Lord Gargaron told Father.

And so he has.

22

My guts twist in knots as I struggle not to throw up. I lie shaking so hard I cannot stand.

When the fit passes I dress, finding everything by feel. It is the middle of the night but I have to go there now. I have to save them. I pin my Garon badge inside my tunic in case I need it, but for now I must not advertise where I come from.

Outside, a single lamp burns by the drinking basin. The tables are clean, benches set atop them for the night. It is so quiet and still that as I pad past the Fives court I don’t at first notice a person standing on one of the beams. She is balancing on her left leg while holding her right leg straight out in front of her with her hands grasping the flexed right foot. Not a wobble disturbs her. She might as well have been turned to stone. By the shadow of her clubbed hair I know it must be Talon. I freeze, waiting for her to shout, to betray me. But I am met with silence.