Lada took some flatbread, tearing it into small pieces as she watched Huma luxuriate over her food. Several more times the little flowers brought food, refilled Huma’s wine, even wiped her mouth clean.
“You are fascinated with the girls,” Huma said. Lada snapped her attention back to the older woman. She had assumed Huma was so absorbed in her consumption of food that Lada had let her mind and gaze wander.
“Why do they veil their faces? Does your god hate even the sight of women?”
Huma laughed. “You misunderstand. Women should veil their bodies, yes. But veiling the face is a symbol of status. Only women who are so well provided for they can afford not to do menial labor may wear a veil. These girls have earned their veils. It is a mark of privilege.”
“Privilege? They are slaves!”
Huma laughed. “So am I, dearest. I was sold as a very young girl, brought to the harem as a servant as well.”
Lada scowled. “You should have fought them. You should have escaped.”
“To where? I was angry, for many years. And frightened. But there are many ways to be powerful. There is power in stillness. There is power in watching, waiting, saying the right thing at the right time to the right person. There is power in being a woman—oh yes, power in these bodies you gaze upon with derision.” Huma ran one hand down her ample breasts, over her stomach, and rested it on her hip. “When you have something someone else wants, there is always an element of power.”
“But it can be taken from you.” Lada had seen enough of men and the world to know that a woman’s body was not an object of power.
“Or it can be given in exchange for more important things. These girls, my servants, understand that. The smart ones, anyhow. They will spend years climbing, trying to get in a position where they have some measure of control. The ones who are clever will do better than the ones who are merely beautiful.”
Her gaze was so pointed, Lada felt herself blush. She dropped the pieces of ripped flatbread onto the plate in front of her. She felt awkward, ungainly, and uglier than she had ever considered herself before. It had not bothered her, most of her life, knowing that she was not beautiful, would never gain admiration for her looks alone. But Huma used her face as a weapon and a tool in a way Lada never could. Lada had never realized that simply by being attractive, she might have gained more threads of power.
Lada lifted her chin defiantly. “I can be strong without giving anything up. I saved Mehmed.”
Huma picked up a date and sucked on it. “Mmm. Yes, you did. And that was well done. But you did not think you were the only woman who has ever killed to protect him, did you?”
Lada frowned in confusion, then immediately regretted it. Huma seemed to be pulling information from everything. She was dragging her long fingers through Lada’s very soul, merely by watching her face.
Huma lay back on her pillows, lifting a hand to her forehead, her sleeve falling down to reveal the long, pale curve of her arm. “It was such a tragedy when Mehmed’s eldest brother fell ill and died so suddenly. To be struck down in his prime! And then Mehmed’s second brother and his two sons, murdered by unknown assailants. Oh, what sadness. Only one son left of an age to inherit should Murad fall in battle!” Her expression of mock sorrow shifted to something darker, angrier. “Or, should he decide to retire and simply throw his one remaining heir to the wolves. Murad has jeopardized everything I worked for.”
Lada’s mind spun. “But you cannot leave the harem! How could you have done all this?”
“Did you notice the men who work here?”
Lada shook her head.
“Exactly as it is supposed to be. My precious eunuchs, they make everyone so deeply uncomfortable. Men cannot stand to look upon them, tormented with imagining what they must have endured to become what they are. The eunuchs are slaves, just as I am, but they, too, have sacrificed. They have had something precious and irreplaceable taken from them, and in doing so, have created a place of power for themselves. They are everywhere in this country, in every important household; they are clerks, they are guards, they are mine.” Huma sat up, her movement so sudden and violent compared with her lazy, sensual motions that Lada jerked back.
“You see this”—Huma gestured to the room, the building, and finally to herself—“as a prison. But you are wrong. This is my court. This is my throne. This is my kingdom. The cost was my freedom and my body.” Her fine eyebrows raised, mouth playful, eyes hard. “So the question becomes, Daughter of the Dragon, what will you sacrifice? What will you let be taken away so that you, too, can have power?”
This was so different from what Mara had presented to Lada. Not an offering of oneself for the benefit of a bigger cause, but the offering of a portion of oneself for the pursuit of personal gain. “I—nothing, I—I,” she stammered.
“Would you sacrifice my son?”