Three days later, the door to Iriset’s cell clangs loudly as the lock is inexpertly undone, and she blinks from the shelf, exhausted and hungry and lulled into a dull, meditative slump.
Instead of her usual guard, two soldiers march in, slamming the cell door shut behind them. They stare at her: The weaponless one is so obviously feminine-forward, for the rust-red uniform jacket of the Vertex Seal’s guard does not hide her large breasts and hips, or her languid pose. The other is a woman, too, by appearance, roughly the same height, but a woman who knows how to stand like a soldier and wear a Seal guard uniform fit to her hard body.
The first woman reaches up and with a relieved sigh unwinds the full-faced Seal guard mask from her face and hair, letting massive amounts of black curls fall. “Oh,” she groans, “that weight was giving me a neck-ache.” Her voice is light but sounds like a purr.
Iriset presses back into the wall, digging her fingers hard against the stucco.
The second woman doesn’t remove her mask, which covers her head and face but for a slit over her dark brown eyes. She says, the sneer quite audible, “It will have to go back up when we leave this pit.”
“You’re the Little Cat’s daughter,” the first woman says, brushing curls away from her handsome face. Her bright eyes are rimmed with black that spreads in thick lines to her temples, obscuring the shape of her cheeks, and black glints on her ripe-looking mouth. When she smiles, her white teeth gleam. Her mirané-brown skin glows with youth and health. This is a noble woman, soft and generously built. She does not belong here.
Her companion tugs her Seal guard mask down off her face then, revealing a long nose and oval lips of Bow ancestry, but mirané-brown skin. A thick stripe of red paint masks across her eyes like blood. “We’re not here to play, Iriset mé Isidor.”
Iriset swallows, to find her voice after days of silence. When she speaks, it scratches like a sandstorm. “Who are you?”
The first woman—the soft, luscious miran—laughs. “I am your deliverer, daughter of thieves.”
“And I am her body-twin,” the other says. “Sidoné mé Dalir. Cover your eyes for the Moon-Eater’s Mistress, Amaranth mé Esmail Her Glory.”
Immediately Iriset slips onto her knees and presses her hands to the floor, lowering her head as she reins in shock. For all that her father is the Little Cat, and she prides herself her Osahar and Cloud King ancestors, she comes from no holy bloodline, while this,thisis the most holy. Amaranth is the sister of the Vertex Seal himself. And the lover of the Moon-Eater. She congresses with a god.
“Your Glory,” Iriset says, desperate to be free of the null wires so she can sense force again. With her complete faculties she’s good at reading motivation, but so hampered how will she figure out what Her Glory wants in time to negotiate in her favor?
“Yes, hiha,” Her Glory says, and Iriset hears the rustle ofcloth as Amaranth kneels and touches Iriset’s head. “I have come to make you an offer.”
Sidoné mé Dalir scoffs, but otherwise the prison cell falls silent again as Iriset thinks furiously what to say. Her Glory patiently strokes Iriset’s tangled brown hair, and Iriset is appalled at how dirty she is, how disadvantaged by her borrowed mask uselessly folded on the shelf, her bare feet and her stink.
“What offer, Your Glory?” she asks finally, when it becomes apparent she must.
“You are the daughter of the great thief known as the Little Cat, yes?”
Nodding scrapes the tip of Iriset’s nose lightly against the rough floor.
“I would have you come to the palace and be one of my handmaidens.”
A crackle of ecstatic force pops in Iriset’s ears. She blows it out in a balancing flow.
Amaranth mé Esmail laughs, throaty and slow, then leans away. “I would not, I think, have a handmaiden who refuses to look at me.”
Iriset pushes up from the floor, carefully, until she sits on her heels and folds her hands in a lying semblance of peace in her lap. She drags her gaze up Her Glory’s body, then meets Amaranth’s bright mirané-brown eyes. The spark in them belies the lazy way Her Glory carries her weight, belies the laconically lifted thick black eyebrow. It’s a spark of challenge, and Iriset likes it.
“Why me?” She expects a lying response, but it must be asked.
Behind Her Glory, Sidoné mé Dalir shifts from one hip to the other and clenches the hilt of her curved sword as if to echo the question.
Amaranth smiles over her shoulder at her body-twin, then turns the smile upon Iriset once more. “You are a novelty, daughter of thieves. And as pretty as was reported to us, though that is a bit shadowed by your time here in our least hospitable of rooms. Too bad you are no miran, but I like to surround myself with beautiful novelties, and my Moon-Eater appreciates my taste.”
It’s disconcerting—bordering on rude—how intently Her Glory studies Iriset. But Her Glory can stare if she wishes to stare, and never be accused of impoliteness. Iriset stares back, but makes herself blink timidly, for she’s not Silk, she’s only her father’s sheltered daughter. “I’m only my father’s sheltered daughter,” she says softly. “Hardly a novelty.”
The Moon-Eater’s Mistress scoffs. “You underestimate yourself. The Little Cat and his pet apostate are the talk of the Holy City. Even the highest princes of the mirané council are interested in all their associates. And wouldn’t it be interesting if you can be tamed? The child of a villain and associate of the great apostate Silk?”
Iriset hums. She lets her gaze flicker over Amaranth’s gorgeous visage.
“My dearest friend on the mirané council doesn’t think you’ll agree,” Amaranth says enticingly. “Prove her wrong. Even if you won’t like to be tamed, think of the luxury, the potential futures in store for you at my side. You could… well. Do anything eventually. When you’ve proved yourself at my side. Come with me, hiha.”
“You could command me,” Iriset says.
“I am not looking for a slave. My handmaidens are my companions. My friends. They have power.” Amaranth raises her lush eyebrows. “I am strong enough to offer trust first.”
