“You are assuming romance, my love,” she said. “The Prophecy has never specified that the participants have to be willing. They must simply wed. And after…”

Olaf picked up the thread and his consort’s intimate tone. “After, we insure that Xander has no heir to take the throne.”

“And that there are no survivors of the royal family. Control of the Crown will finally be in the hands of those most fit to lead.”

“Yes, my queen.” Olaf’s grin matched her own, and The Which struggled not to take his hands. Twice he leaned forward as if to give in to his enthusiasm, and twice The Which tilted her head to receive his lips. Finally, Olaf half-glanced at the nearby guards, and his ardor visibly cooled.

“I have faith in your vision,” the chancellor said succinctly. “Let’s hope that your Indiran is the one.” He looked to the enigmatic Tree. His lips parted as if to say something else, but nothing came out. Olaf raised a hand and pressed it against his mouth thoughtfully as if to further silence himself.

The Which could not interpret the vulnerability of his expression, but she could not help but think that her pragmatic and imperious lover appeared to be…praying. She waited for something more, but Olaf turned quickly and walked away. The way he held his shoulders, the rigidity of his spine, and the stiffness of his gait—all indicators that he was struggling mightily to maintain his composure. But against what emotion, she could not be sure. Then he leapt nimbly aboard his birdun and took flight without looking back.

Olaf’s abrupt departure left The Which slightly unsettled. Doubt crept into the space in her heart that had previously been filled with conviction. Never before had she desired. Now, she desired intensely, for so much and with so much longing.

Had the mere act of wanting clouded her clarity? Had she deluded herself into thinking that her will and the will of the universe were one and the same?

If the Indiran failed, what then? More of the same. A future for her planet harshly dictated by a merciless war and an incompetent king. And what of her? Would she be destined to persevere in the lonely life of a magi seer, consigned to bitterly administer the lives and destinies of others?

That was all well and good for the three remaining Four Tellers. They were men and, more so, they were recluses. They would be perfectly satisfied to dither away their time in chaste and isolated contemplation.

The Which was a woman, the inferences of which were rarely acknowledged by her peers. Only Olaf saw her beating heart, the vibrant blood that ignited more than cerebral imaginings. What would become of the two of them?

The Which knew that they could not continue their affair indefinitely. In the censored, insidious culture of Xander, they were bound to be caught and accused of collusion. They had not even consummated their love.

No, she reasoned resentfully. Xander the Firm would never allow so influential a coupling.