The crone cackled—Shedah was her name, Issari remembered. "Your amulet cannot work on me, sweetling. I have no demon blood. Old I am, and ugly I must appear to you. Yes, you are young and fresh and delectable." She licked her lips, reached into her bucket, and plucked out a squirming leech. "Yet I am no barbarous brute. I crave not your high breasts, your soft skin, or the warmth between your thighs. I seek a greater prize—the blood of a princess for my potions."

Issari entered the room, shoulders squared, trying to ignore the pounding of her heart. She grabbed the old woman's arm. "I will escort you downstairs to the chamber my father gave you."

"Oh, feisty, are we, young thing?" Shedah would not budge. Her squat form seemed as immovable as Issari's canopy bed of carved olive wood. "Your sister was feisty too, but we broke her spirit soon enough. I am over two hundred years old, did you know? The blood of princesses feeds me, keeps me alive, keeps me fresh. Your sister fed me for years. She came to love the leech, for when she bled, I did not beat her. It was a relief for her pain." Shedah's eyes narrowed. "You too can choose—pain or blood."

Though Issari trembled, she managed to raise her chin and speak clearly. "If you try to leech me, it will be your blood that spills."

Across her bedchamber, Issari could see signs of the crone's presence. A glob of spit bubbled on the floor. The chamber pot was full and foul. Drool covered some of Issari's stone figurines, mostly the ones representing Nahar, the shapely goddess of fertility. The witch seemed to have slept in Issari's bed; the sheets—soft silk embroidered with birds—were unkempt and damp. Issari had promised her father to remain in her chamber, safe from the demons that even now shrieked outside the windows. How long had the witch lingered here, and would she report Issari's absence to the king?

Shedah stepped closer, raising the leech in one hand. Her other hand reached toward Issari, her fingernails like claws about to strike.

"Your father himself promised me your blood," Shedah said. "That was the price of my tidings. He flies now to bring Laira home. Once the harlot is here, she can bleed too. For now . . . you will have to feed me alone." She spat. "Your sister is a small, weak little maggot, her blood thin; I have perhaps drained her too often. But you are ripe. You are strong and fresh."

Issari paled to think of Shedah beating her sister, draining her blood, and mixing it in her potions. She turned to leave. She would summon her guards. They were perhaps her father's men, but they were loyal to her too.

"I will have you tossed into the dungeon for your impudence!" she said and headed toward the doorway.