The Tale of Oriel by Cynthia Voigt Page B

darkness. Shadows moved behind Nikol and over his face. Nikol held his cloak close around him. He kept his hands hidden under the cloak.
    â€œListen.”
    The seventh Damall pitched his voice low. There was none to hear, but a low voice promised deep secrets. If Nikol thought of murder, he would wait to hear the words such a voice promised.
    â€œThis is where the treasure is hidden.”
    Nikol, who had not spoken for ten days, opened his mouth. “You name me eighth?”
    â€œHe won’t live the night. The Great Damall’s rule says there must be two to know the hiding place.”
    â€œBut never more than two,” Nikol said, low-voiced.
    The seventh Damall said nothing.
    â€œWill you kill him yourself?”
    â€œWhy should I do what this illness does for me?” the seventh Damall asked. “Listen to me, now. At the southernmost corner, you count west five stones, then north eight. No, not now, Nikol, don’t! If you disturb the fowl all will be wakened, and guess our business. Say it back to me.”
    â€œSouthernmost corner,” Nikol repeated, staring into the candle’s flame. “North five. West eight.”
    â€œWrong.” The seventh Damall shivered and the candle flickered. “You said it backwards. Concentrate, Nikol. Listen.”
    Nikol clenched his teeth in irritation.
    â€œYou have to know it exactly.”
    â€œShow me.”
    â€œTo show you is to show all, if I show you now. And you know what would happen then.”
    Nikol knew. Or, as the seventh Damall guessed the situation—Nikol didn’t know exactly, but he knew it would have to do with blood and death, possibly his blood and his death, and he knew the story of the fifth Damall, he knew the effects of greed. “I’m listening,” Nikol said.
    â€œSouthernmost corner. West five stones. North eight,” the seventh Damall said, patience in his voice like honey in a comb. It suited him that Nikol should be irritated, and impatient. It suited him that Nikol should feel events moving more rapidly than his understanding of them.
    â€œSay it,” the seventh Damall ordered.
    Nikol repeated the words correctly, staring into the flame. Facing Nikol, whose hands were hidden under his cloak, whose face was hidden under moving shadows, the seventh Damall felt fear coil and loosen at his belly. But he didn’t let Nikol see that, not even in his eyes.
    â€œDig up the eighth stone, and also those that encircle it.”
    Nikol couldn’t help but ask. “The beryls are there?”
    â€œThat is the treasure’s hiding place.”
    â€œAnd the rest of the Great Damall’s wealth? The gold pieces and silver?”
    â€œThere are three boxes, one beneath the other,” the seventh Damall told him.
    â€œHow many?” Nikol whispered. “How much?”
    â€œI’ve been away too long,” the seventh Damall said. “He’ll notice. Don’t forget.”
    â€œSouthernmost. West five. North eight. All stones that encircle. I can remember that.”
    â€œYou won’t speak until he is dead and underwater,” the seventh Damall asked.
    â€œI might,” Nikol said. “Or I might not.”
    The seventh Damall knew the dangers he ran. But if he knew his man, Nikol would first feed himself on satisfaction at being named heir, and at the foolishness of the seventh Damall in trusting him, and especially at the promise of the power and wealth of the Damall being his. It would be a time before Nikol understood that if you are eighth Damall after a younger seventh, you have been played a trick. But for a little time, Nikol would be no danger.
    The other boys were no danger. They cared only that at the end of things they stand behind and under the care of the Damall—whoever that might be. The seventh Damall trusted none of them, trusted no one, none but Griff.
    When he slipped back into the firelit hall, with Nikol at his heels,