"Witch? No, I am no witch." Shedah bared her toothless gums in a mockery of a grin. "I am Shaman of the Goldtusk tribe, once the sanctuary of Queen Anai, that diseased reptile, and Laira, the little maggot." She stroked Issari's cheek, her fingernails sharp. "Your mother and sister. I have traveled for long days to this land, moving down the shadowy paths unknown to those of simple minds. I bring news of them, oh princess of distant lands."

Raem snarled and grabbed the old woman's wrist, tugging her away from Issari. "Keep your filthy hands to yourself." He stepped back into the palace, dragging the crone with him. "Guards! Guards, where—"

When they stepped into the chamber, both king and princess gasped. The guards lay on the floor, fast asleep, lips fluttering as they snored.

Shedah cackled and spat upon one. "Weak worms. How did you folk ever build a kingdom of stone and metal? You are guarded by weak boys, their cheeks smoother than my backside." The crone snorted. "Come north across the sea, oh king, and you will see the strength of true warriors."

Raem's face flushed. He slid his khopesh from his belt and raised the curved blade. Issari had to race forward and stop him.

"Father! Wait. She knows Mother. She knows Laira."

Looking back at the shaman, Issari trembled. Could it be? Could this crone be speaking truth? Issari's eyes stung and her knees shook.

My mother . . . my sister . . .

Issari could not remember them, for they had fled too long ago. Father had smashed all paintings, statues, and engravings depicting Queen Anai and Princess Laira, but Issari had always dreamed of seeing them again. If this shaman had news, there was hope.

"What do you know?" she said, turning toward Shedah. "Tell us. Tell us everything."

Shedah licked her lips. "My sweet child, your mother is dead. Burned at the stake. I watched her burn and I spat upon her charred corpse."

Issari stared, unable to breathe, and her eyes stung.

Mother . . . no . . .

Issari had been only a babe when Mother fled this city. She could not remember the woman, but she dreamed about her every night. In her dreams, Mother looked like her—her black hair braided, her eyes green and soft, her face kind. All her life that whisper, that warm vision, had comforted Issari, for she knew that even if Mother was far away, she still lived. She still cared for her daughter.

Dead. Burned.

Tears gathered in Issari's eyes.

"You are lying!" she shouted at the crone.

Shedah reached into her pouch and produced a silver amulet. It bore an engraving of Taal—a man with his head lowered, his arms hanging at his sides, his palms facing outward—a sigil of purity and humility.