Rydstrom had been all inviting heat.

"You should go, brother. I have a challenging day tomorrow. I'll need to be on top of my game to be the first to break the iron will of Rydstrom."

"I'm glad that you've ceased underestimating him."

When she could feel his cold breaths on her neck, she whirled around, hastening to her chamber's drink service. She poured sweet wine-only for herself-then held up her goblet to Omort. "Brother, do be a dear and poison me."

Every month, Omort gave her and Lanthe the mor­sus, literally the "stinging bite poison." The power of the morsus was that it didn't cause pain upon ingestion but upon withdrawal.

Weaning from the poison was supposed to be so excruciating that she and Lanthe were considered per­petually "condemned." Without an antidote, the pain would be so great they'd eventually die from it.

The morsus kept them from leaving Omort and from rebelling. For the most part.

He exhaled as if she were putting him out, then rotated the thick ring on his forefinger. As he snapped open the jeweled covering of his poison cache, she stared at the ring. It held so much significance for her. It was the source of life, the enforcer of her obedience.

And the ring told her when Omort lied, as he'd unconsciously rotate it.

When he poured the black granules into her wine, a hiss sounded and smoke tendrils seeped upward. But once it settled, it would be odorless and tasteless to those who weren't trained to detect it.

Ages ago, he'd slipped the morsus into their wine before they'd learned to identify potions by smell and taste-and before they'd learned to create their own to counter him.

Sabine nonchalantly held up the goblet. "Slainte." She drained the contents. "Now, I really need to get some sleep. Remember, Omort, I'm doing this for us. And I know you want us to succeed."

"Very well, Sabine." With a last lingering gaze, he finally exited, but not before she heard him murmur, "Soon."