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“I know,” Brandon whispered back. “I’ve seen him at the temple before. He’s the secretary of the sanctuary.”
“Michalo,” Nadder named him. “If the high divine died suddenly, he’d be in charge.”
“Let’s hope the high divine doesn’t die,” Brandon muttered, and was rewarded by Finley’s snort of amusement.
The secretary paused halfway across the atrium to glance at the guards. “I’m here to see dona Villette,” he said. “Could someone tell me where she might be found?”
Brandon only stepped forward because he wanted an excuse to be present during Michalo’s conversation with Villette. Otherwise, he never would have done anything to draw the secretary’s attention. “She’s in the garden. I’ll show you the way.”
Brandon led the visitor down the arched hallway and into the enclosure. It was a beautiful afternoon, with a hazy cloud cover preventing the sun from generating an uncomfortable level of heat. Villette must have persuaded Nadder or Abe to set two of the metal chairs on either side of the pond, and she sat in the one facing the door. She was dressed in some pale, floaty fabric that made her look fragile and sweet, and she didn’t bother to stand as Michalo marched her way. Brandon took a position just under the canopy, a shadowed spot that he hoped rendered him almost invisible while allowing him to overhear every word.
“Oh, it’s you,” Villette said, making no attempt to hide her disdain. “Was the high divine so unnerved by our last conversation that he didn’t have the courage to face me again?”
Michalo sank gracefully into the opposite chair and lounged back, completely at ease. “I don’t think it takes courage to face one selfish, recalcitrant girl,” he replied. “He has so many duties more important than cajoling you.”
Villette laughed. “Ah, that will deflate my vanity! And here I’ve been thinking that the world itself will end if I don’t do everything the priesthood requires.”
Michalo touched the tips of his fingers together and studied her over his hands. “You are certainly valuable—or you could be,” he answered. “But you are not our only opportunity.”
“Your only commodity, you mean. Your only—thingto be used and discarded.”
“Nobody wants to discard you,” Michalo said mildly. “On the contrary, all of us wish you to live a long, healthy, productive life.”
She offered him a smile of such rage and hatred that Brandon wondered that even the arrogant Michalo didn’t cower before it. “I know you do,” she said. “Which is why, every night, I contemplate ending my life and destroying all your dreams.”
Brandon’s head jerked up and his heart nearly stopped. Villette thought about killing herself? Every night? Did she have a weapon that could do the job? Did she have the cold nerve and iron resolve to carry out her threat? He couldn’t bear to entertain the thought.
“You won’t do that,” Michalo said with gentle certainty. “You would much rather live to see how frantic we become when you spite us.”
Her laugh was surprised and genuine. “I would much rather live,” she agreed, “but in a world where I do not have to care about what you think or say or want from me.”
“Unfortunately,” said Michalo, “that is not the world we find ourselves in.”
Villette shrugged and glanced away from him, letting her eyes wander around the shrubs and bushes. Brandon thought her glance rested on him as he stood, glowering, under the linen canopy, but if so, it was just for a moment. She made no other attempt at conversation; her attitude made it clear that she had already dismissed Michalo from her thoughts.
Michalo sat there a few minutes, as if passing the time in companionable silence, then he roused himself and sat up. “Well, you know why I am here,” he said. “Let’s get it over with.”
Now Brandon was sure of it; Villette flicked a glance in his direction before turning her attention to Michalo. “And if I refuse?”
Michalo’s voice was weary. “Oh, must we go through this every time? I have two temple guards with me, and I cannot think your household staff would rally to your defense. Do not make me take by violence what I would much rather take by consent.”
She regarded him steadily. “I wonder if it is possible that you understand how very much I hate you,” she said.
“I know that you do,” he said. “I wonder if you understand how impossible it is that this can progress in any other way. Now give me your hand.”
Another second or two she glared at him, then she abruptly extended her arm. Michalo rose and crossed to her side, pulling a little bundle from a pocket of his robe. The items he shook out were too small for Brandon to see from this distance, but he saw the effects.
Michalo touched something to Villette’s fingertip and a bright dot of red welled up. The secretary blotted the blood with a square of fabric that he carefully folded and slipped back in the packet. He handed another bit of cloth to Villette, and she pressed it against her finger as she dropped her hand to her lap.
“All done,” Michalo said. “As always, thank you for your patience and generosity.”
Villette did not answer. She had turned her head and now she was gazing down at the fish pond, watching the shapes flit by. Michalo seemed to give up on the notion of any further conversation, because he returned the small bundle to his pocket and headed back to the house without another word.
Brandon fell in step behind him, but in truth he was so shocked he almost could not move his feet. Blood? They were cutting open Villette’s body and taking herblood?Why would the temple of Cordelan need such a thing—demand such a thing—hold Villette prisoner for such a reason? She had told him that the temple officials tested her blood, but somehow he had not realized how exactly they obtained it. He still had no idea what they were looking for in its ruby depths.
And he hoped with a ferocity that left him dizzy that the cherloshe in Zessaya’s amulet concealed whatever treasure they hoped to find.
As soon as Michalo entered the atrium, he nodded at the temple guards and said, “Search her room.” Wordlessly, they climbed the stairs and pushed open the door to Villette’s bedchamber.
