79 Olabar, Main Urecari Church

Despite her secret influence within the church, Villiki felt imprisoned, and while her hatred gave her focus, it did not grant her freedom. Many years had passed since she had been stripped, exiled, disgraced—but the people of Olabar had not forgotten her. Certainly not Omra. Certainly not Kel Rovic or the palace guards. Certainly not the Tierran slave woman who now called herself the soldan-shah's First Wife.

Villiki had not forgotten either.

Oh, she had comforts in her lavish quarters deep underground. She had exotic food and fine Abilan wines, treasures, clothes, comforts. But she was neither happy nor free.

By the light of several large bright candles scented with cardamom oil, Villiki sat at her desk and opened the twinned counterpart of the ship's journal aboard the Al-Orizin. She perused the earlier entries Sikara Fyiri had written in her cabin far away on the other side of the world. Why had she stopped? Something must have happened.

A priestess guard rapped at Villiki's door, disturbing her. “Your forgiveness, my Lady. Ur-Sikara Erima has come to speak with you. She begs your indulgence.”

With an annoyed sigh, Villiki closed the journal and concealed it. The ur-sikara was wrapped firmly around her finger, but the woman asked far too many questions, required too much assistance. Villiki longed for the days when her predecessor Ur-Sikara Lukai—a strong, like-minded woman—had served the church. Erima was… far less than that.

The tall, dark-skinned woman entered the underground chamber and stood before Villiki's desk with a deferential bow, but her dark eyes sparkled with a sheen of anxiety. “I came because I was anxious to see you, my Lady, and to serve the church.”

Of course you did. Villiki began to calculate just how many innat seeds it would take to keep Erima complacent.

When this woman from distant Lahjar had been chosen to take the place of Ur-Sikara Lukai, Erima had been viewed as an acceptable compromise among the factions within the church. Every priestess formed alliances and rivalries, but because she came from so far away, Erima was seen as separate from the core of church politics, far from squabbling partisan sikaras. Though considered a safe choice, the Lahjar candidate was a lukewarm alternative and spoke with a thick accent. People considered Erima unambitious, a bumpkin from a far-off and uncivilized land.

By rights, Villiki should have been ur-sikara herself, but that would never be possible. She had been forced to cement her influence in some other way.

As Erima waited, tense, a few droplets of sweat appeared on her brow. “I am ready to deliver the sermon you wish, as soon as it is written. Shall I summon the faithful so that they may anticipate a major address at this evening's sunset services?”

Villiki pretended not to know what the other woman really wanted. Just to emphasize Erima's subservience, she shuffled some papers on her desktop, moved items around to no real purpose, while the ur-sikara waited. Finally, with a sigh, Villiki reached into a drawer and removed a pouch made of soft calfskin. Slowly and tantalizingly, she undid the tie and spread open the pouch, drifting her fingers through the tiny dark seeds inside. With her fingertips, she pulled out a few and dropped them into the palm of her other hand. “I suppose a few more innat seeds will help you to concentrate so you can give a more passionate address.”

“Yes, my Lady.” Erima's gaze was fixed on the seeds. “Most assuredly so!” She was too anxious; perhaps Villiki had accomplished her goal too well.

“But if you consume too much, you might not be focused enough.” Villiki reconsidered, then dropped two of the seeds back in the bag, to Erima's profound disappointment.

Before Villiki had first secretly offered them, Erima had never experienced the rush that innat seeds released in the body. Villiki had cautiously consumed only one or two, to demonstrate their safety, and the new ur-sikara had liked them… far too much. Villiki was magnanimous, giving Erima frequent doses of the seeds, so that the other woman was now thoroughly addicted. Villiki paid substantial bribes to the guards and priestesses to ensure that Erima did not find an alternate supply of the drug. She had to come here to beg, in order to satisfy her longing. That was the way it should be.

“I want you to appreciate what you have, Ur-Sikara. I want you to revel in the sunshine, enjoy your freedom to walk in Olabar.” She tied the pouch again, put it away. “Every time you do so, think of me here, unable to see the light of day.” On some nights, when it became unbearable, Villiki dressed like an old poor priestess and slipped out to walk the streets of Olabar. She kept her disguise close, but rarely risked using it.

Erima continued to stare at the seeds in her hand. “Someday I will secure a pardon for you, my Lady. Soldan-Shah Omra cannot rule forever.”

“And I won't live forever, either!” Villiki tapped several sheets of paper on which she had written another invective-laden speech. “Here is what I want you to tell the people. You may have these few seeds now, and once I hear your degree of passion in delivering the sermon, I will calculate your reward.”

Erima backed away. “Thank you, my Lady. It shall be done exactly as you say.”

After the ur-sikara departed, the inner-circle priestess guards ushered in the young girl. Cithara was quiet and shy, with beautiful features that would someday blossom into a seductive loveliness just like her mother's. However, with Villiki's careful instruction, Cithara would not make the poor decisions, and would not be left defenseless, as Cliaparia had been. Only a weak and unskilled woman could have allowed her husband's love to fade, especially when competing against a worthless Tierran slave like Istar.

The girl bowed. “I am here for my lessons again, Lady Villiki.”

“I'm pleased with the progress you are making, child. Have you read the passages in Urec's Log that I pointed out to you?”

“Yes, I studied them carefully. The words of Urec cannot be questioned.”

Villiki folded her hands before her on the desk. “Yes, and I am the one to interpret them for you.” Cithara always seemed so attentive, so interested.

Each afternoon, Villiki spent hours grooming the girl, turning Cliaparia's daughter into a special weapon, an operative who could live right under the soldan-shah's nose. She had already told the girl what sort of woman Istar truly was. Even though the former slave had adopted Cithara and pretended to love her as much as she loved her own two daughters, she was still a Tierran woman, an Aidenist. And Aidenists always lied.

“This story will be painful for you, child, but you must hear the truth. Urec's Log tells us that we mustn't be afraid of the truth.”

Cithara sat cross-legged on a rug on the hard stone floor and listened attentively.

“You know that Istar murdered your mother while your father was away conquering Ishalem for the glory of Ondun. Istar followed your mother to the docks and stabbed her once, twice, three times.” Each time she said the woman's name, she added a heavy emphasis. “Poor Cliaparia could do nothing to defend herself. Istar pushed her dying body against the nets and fishhooks, then dumped her into the water, like nothing more than a bucket of fish guts.”

Cithara sat stony-faced, troubled by the story. Villiki leaned farther over the desk. “And that isn't her only crime, you know. When she was just a slave girl, she lied and conspired against me and Ur-Sikara Lukai. She arranged for Lukai's poisoning, and she worked a spell on the former soldan-shah so that he banished me.

“You and I have reason to hate Istar more than anyone else, my dear child. She was just a slave, and an Aidenist at that… and now she fancies herself the soldan-shah's First Wife. But you can help me change all that. You can save us all.”

Cithara nodded, listening with rapt attention.