“Her husband’s men, and trusted, they walked before her, swords sheathed; they were meant not as warning but as evidence of her significance. She accepted them with an ease borne of familiarity, and in truth, she found them a comfort—but she would have to shed them before she spoke with the Voyani who waited. Her hands were steady; she drew strength from the formal posture, the rigidity of lifted chin, of elongated neck—forms that she adopted without thought, they were so necessary. This was not... her home; her home was the heart of the harem. Exposed, she retreated into the mannered dignity of a Serra. And knew, as she reached the waiting women, that it was the wrong retreat. The older of the two was no longer dark-haired; time had grayed the untidy spill of raven black, and lines had become engraved around mouth and lip. Whether these were due to frown or smile, she could not say; the woman herself betrayed no emotion, other than the mild look of irritation that seemed so common among the Voyani.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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