She looked at me kindly but said nothing.
“Enough of this,” Teraeth said. “It’s a long trip back to Zherias. Find the Captain and ask him if he keeps a weather witch. I’d like to know when we’ll arrive.”
This was what I’d been waiting for, what I’d been dreading. An order from my new master, directly contradicting a previous gaesh order from Captain Juval. I already knew the answer to Teraeth’s question: yes, Juval had a weather witch. But talking about her, and talking about Juval, would disobey the orders he had given me when he had me gaeshed. As soon as I returned from my errand, Teraeth would demand an answer. If I gave him that answer, the gaesh would kill me for disobeying Juval’s earlier command.
But if I didn’t give Teraeth an answer, the gaesh would still kill me, this time for disobeying Teraeth.
The edges of pain surged inside me as I hesitated too long.
I figured it had been a short, weird life. Maybe Thaena would laugh when I told her about it past the Second Veil. “The gaesh won’t—”
“Go!”
I gritted my teeth as the pain washed through me. My only chance of survival was if I could somehow communicate the problem quickly enough for Teraeth to countermand Juval’s order, or get him to change his own. Maybe. If Taja still liked me. “Juval’s—orders—”
The old woman stood. “Teraeth, quickly!”
“Juval—gaeshed—” The commands rolled over me with smashing waves, drowned me in my own blood. The gaesh tore into my body, roared its way through my veins, ate me away from the inside, burned, seared.
I collapsed on the floor, convulsing.
8: THE ANGEL’S BARGAIN
(Talon’s story)
Morea fretted over the best place to present herself in the Garden Room. On this couch? No, too easily seen. That one? Yes, that one was better. Morea removed the ribbon-covered sallí cloak, draped it over a chair, and splashed water to freshen herself. She ran a hand over her braids and reapplied her perfume, rubbing scented oil over her body until her skin gleamed. She hurried to her chosen couch and lay down, acting ever so weary.
It wasn’t entirely an act.
A few minutes later, the harper’s son walked into the solarium with a mug in his hand. Morea knew he couldn’t be Surdyeh’s actual get. Surdyeh might be an extraordinary musician, but he was recognizably common, and his son—well, his son was no farmer’s brood.
The teenager stopped and stared when he spotted her. Morea almost smiled. She wondered how any brothel child could have stayed so innocent that they could still be aroused by simple flesh. All children of the seraglio she had ever known were jaded beyond measure, hardened to any normal sensual allure.
“Here’s your drink, Miss Morea.” Kihrin handed the cider to her.
Morea looked up at him. An angel, surely. He had dark skin somehow more golden than the olive hue of most Quuros. The black hair made his skin look paler than it really was, while his skin made his blue eyes shine like Kirpis sapphires. Those blue eyes … Morea clicked her tongue and smiled, sitting up on the couch and taking the offered drink. “Not Miss, surely. Just Morea. Madam Ola calls you Angel?”
The young man snickered. “Ola calls me a lot of things. Please, call me Kihrin.”
“I’d think you were from Kirpis, except for the hair.” She reached out to touch it. “Like raven feathers.” She leaned back against the cushions to look at him again. “But you’re not from Kirpis, are you?”
He laughed, blushing. “No. I was born here.”
Her face wrinkled in confusion. “But you don’t look Quuros at all.”
“Ah.” He squirmed. “My mother was Doltari.”
“What?”
“Doltar’s a country to the south, far south, way past the Manol Jungle. It’s cold there. They have blue eyes and light hair. Like me.”
She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “I know where Doltar is.” She reached out to touch his hair once more. He dyed his hair. She could see that now. “A lot of slaves are shipped north from Doltar. But you don’t look Doltari.”
He frowned. “Really?”
“All the Doltari slaves I’ve known have been stocky people, wide and large, built for labor. Big noses, thin lips. You’re slender. Your nose, your lips—just the opposite of a Doltari.” She tried to imagine him with brown hair, tried to imagine him dressed in blue. She found it easy, and even though the room was stifling warm, she shivered.
“Are you cold?” the young man asked.
Morea smiled. “No. Sit with me.”
Kihrin cleared his throat, looking embarrassed. “I shouldn’t. It’s, uh … there’s a rule.”
“I have heard how Madam Ola speaks of you. Surely she lets you spend time with whoever you like?”
The blush graduated to a red flush. “It’s not Ola’s rule. It’s my rule. I don’t force myself on the women here. I don’t think it would be right.”
“It’s not force if I want you here.” She patted the cushion next to her. “Sit with me. Let me brush that beautiful hair. Please?”
“I—” He moved over to the bench. “I suppose a few minutes wouldn’t hurt.”
“It’s a crime to see such lovely hair so neglected. Why do you wrap your agolé around your neck like that? You’ll strangle yourself.” Morea unwound the long cloth, letting it fall to the couch. She reached for a brush another slave had left behind and pulled it through Kihrin’s hair, untangling the knots. Unfastened, his hair reached past his shoulders. The black dye hadn’t been kind. She found spots of gold where he’d missed a strand, or patches of violet where the dye had faded. When she finished brushing out his hair, she began massaging his scalp, gently kneading with skilled fingers. She leaned close as she massaged, pressing her breasts against his back. His breathing quickened. Morea smiled.
Kihrin sounded uncertain. “I always thought my hair looked strange.”
“Golden? People would kill for such hair. You must not work here.”
“You know I do. What was that at practice?”
“No. I mean you don’t—you’re not a velvet boy. I’ve known musicians who did the same duty as the dancers.”
Kihrin frowned and turned his head away. “We rent one of the rooms in the back. Ola gives us a good rate because we play for the dancers, but that’s it.”
“With your looks, you could make a lot of metal.”
“No offense, but I prefer to make my metal a different way.”
Morea felt the skin on his back shiver as she ran her fingers over his shoulder. “Are you Ogenra then?”
The mood broke. Kihrin turned to stare at her. “I told you I’m Doltari. Why would you think I’m one of the royal bastards?”
She tried to make her response idle, tried to make it seem like she didn’t really care. “Blue eyes are one of the divine marks. The only other person I’ve ever seen with blue eyes, with eyes as blue as yours, was royalty, one of the god-touched. You remind me of him, so I assumed you must be related.”
His voice turned icy. “I told you I’m not Ogenra.”
“But—”
“Please drop it.”
“Are you so sure? Because—”
“I’m not.”