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obvious.
    “Then I suggest you put it to use.”
    “I will not tolerate the resurrection of slavery in my kingdom,” she said quietly.
    “Nor should you,” Prado replied quickly. “But
mercenaries
still have their use. Even now you employ them on the border with Haxus.”
    “In small numbers.”
    “Let me raise my old company, and give me your warrant to raise more. I will set out to hunt down and capture Lynan for you.”
    “I want him killed, not captured.”
    “Even easier.”
    The words sent a chill down Areava’s spine. She controlled it, ashamed of her reaction. “What is your opinion?” she asked Orkid. Orkid simply nodded. “Do you have particulars?”
    “Not yet,” Orkid said. “I wanted you to hear the suggestion yourself before going into any more detail.”
    “Do so. The council meets in three days’ time; give me your report before then and I will present it.”
    Orkid and Prado bowed and left.
    “I do not like that man,” Sendarus said.
    “You don’t have to like a rock to crush a spider with it,” she said.

    The boy was about four years old. He lay in a tight crumpled heap in his cot, his breathing labored, his face shiny with sweat in the torch light.
    “What is it?” Olio asked, running a hand through his unruly brown hair, struggling to fight off the exhaustion that seemed his constant companion these days.
    The priest laid a gentle hand on the boy’s forehead. “Asthma. He has had it since he was three months old. It has become worse in the last year. He has been like this for several days now. He doesn’t eat and throws up most of what he drinks.”
    “Is he dying?”
    “Yes, your Highness, he is dying. He will not live to see the morning.”
    Olio sighed deeply and looked at Edaytor Fanhow. “I have no choice. I cannot refuse to heal him, despite my assurance to you that I would not use the Key.”
    Edaytor looked grim. “No. I see that.”
    Olio nodded to the priest, who stepped back, then laid his right hand on the boy’s heaving chest. With his left he pulled out the Key of the Heart—shaped like a triangle with a solid heart placed in its center—from behind his shirt and grasped it firmly. “All right.”
    Edaytor laid his hands on Olio’s slender shoulders. Almost immediately, he felt magickal power surge through the prince. No matter how many times he did this with Olio, the strength of the magic surprised him, but this time he was also surprised at the speed with which it came. The Key was becoming aligned to its owner. He wondered if Olio would soon be able to do without a magicker’s assistance at all. The thought worried him.
    Olio started to slump, and Edaytor pulled him back from the cot. The prince cried out weakly, then rested against the prelate.
    “Your Highness?” the priest asked, concerned. He was newly assigned to the hospice, and had never worked with the prince before.
    Olio held his hand up. “I am all right. A little weary, that’s all.”
    “Come, sit down.” The priest and Edaytor guided him to a wooden stool. “Do you want me to get you something?”
    “No,” he answered, then almost immediately. “Yes. Wine.”
    “Your Highness—” Edaytor started, but Olio’s angry glare stopped him.
    “Just a cup, Prelate.”
    The priest returned with the wine. Olio drank it greedily and handed the cup back.
    “More, your Highness?” the priest asked.
    “No,” Edaytor said firmly. The priest glanced from the prelate to the prince and back to the prelate again. “No,” Edaytor repeated. “Thank you. I must speak with the prince. Alone.”
    The priest scurried off.
    “I wouldn’t have asked for more,” Olio said, his voice almost a whine.
    “Then I saved you the trouble of telling him yourself.”
    Olio stood up unsteadily. Edaytor reached out to him, but Olio waved him away. “I thought you trusted me.”
    Before Edaytor could reply, a little voice said: “I’m hungry.” The sick boy was sitting up in his cot. He looked thin