Just when she thought that the widow had abandoned her, Huspeth appeared, walking down the trail. She handed Evelina two small containers made of baked clay, stoppered with cheesecloth tied neatly around the top.

“This”—the woman pointed to one of the clay vials—”is the liquor for him. I’m thinking you know how it works?”

Evelina smiled. She had never made use of absinthe herself— she was accustomed to fending lovers off, not working to seduce them. Her father had been known to resort to the use of the green aphrodisiac on occasion, either drinking it himself to heighten his own pleasure or slipping it into the drink of some unsuspecting girl.

“And this is for you,” Huspeth continued. “To help with the baby. Drink it now, so that it has a chance to work.”

Evelina sniffed at it. She didn’t detect anything wrong about it, and so she lifted it to her lips and drank. The taste was sweet; it had been laced with honey. She felt it slide down her, warm and soothing.

“You must lie with him tonight,” Huspeth emphasized. “And no guarantees.”

Evelina understood. She took the clay vial containing the aphrodisiac and tucked it into her bosom.

Turning on her heel, the woman walked back through the garden. “Mind you don’t trample my plants,” Huspeth added, tossing the warning over her shoulder.

Smiling to herself in anticipation of the evening’s pleasures, Evelina went off to a secluded spot on the river bank to take her bath. She did not know that Jorge was discreetly following her and was watching her from the trees, and that was a pity, for the knowledge would have heightened her enjoyment of her bath immensely.

19

GRALD ROAMED ABOUT THE CAVERNOUS HALL OF THE ABBEY, WAITING for news, his scowling face and clenched fists a terror to the Blessed, who—when they were forced to speak to him—cringed and blanched at the spark of fury in his eyes.

The monks had lost Ven, and Grald had made it plain that unless the Dragon’s Son was found, some of them would pay for their folly with their lives.

At last one monk came striding across the grassy field that surrounded the Abbey, walking with the long and purposeful gait of one who bears important news. By the expression on his face, when he threw back his cowl, the news was rather good than otherwise.

Seeing who it was, Grald immediately dismissed the other monks to speak to this one in private.

He was the monk of the bridge, the monk Draconas had encountered, whose eyes were not as mad as the eyes of most. He was, in fact, not a monk at all, but a high-ranking officer in the Army of the Dragons and one of Grald’s most trusted agents.