Nights of Silk and Sapphire

Acknowledgments

A special thanks to T. Rye, who helped me patch a lot of early cracks in my story, my editor and all the lovely folk at Ylva who helped improve and polish the story, and Cherri and Andy, for their encouragement and humor.

Chapter 1

Heat.

It beat against her like a live thing, hungrily sapping the moisture from her body, leaving her drained and weak. Her pale skin, a stranger to such harsh exposure, was blistered and burned. Fine blonde hair, once lovingly brushed and tied into elaborate braids, now tangled about her face in sweaty snarls. Her throat was dry and parched; the few sips of water the slavers allowed her each day only teased at the thirst that plagued her, the thirst that sat in the pit of her belly like a stone. Thirst like she had never imagined could exist. Manacles of rough iron bound her wrists with a rusted length of heavy chain, opening sores where they rubbed against her soft skin and serving as a constant physical reminder of her helpless bondage. Wild, stinging winds lashed her relentlessly with whips of grit and sand, making her eyes swollen and sore. She had learned to walk with her eyes cast down. There was nothing in this godforsaken desert she wanted to see.

For the first week after the attack, Dae had cursed the slavers who slaughtered the caravan she’d been traveling with. She had begged, demanded, and pleaded with them to release her for the ransom she assured them her parents would happily pay. Her efforts were wasted, however, and she had cried herself to sleep every night. Those tears were gone now. She hadn’t the energy to think, let alone feel sorry for herself. This land was strange, and to a mind accustomed to endless green pastures and placid lakes, hellishly evil. The slavers had dragged Dae and the few dozen others they had captured into this barren land, forcing them to march across the shifting sands and stretches of jagged rock. They stopped only a few hours during the hottest part of the day to rest wherever they could find shade. The captives—mostly young women and girls—were fed only enough to give them energy to move. None of them spoke of the fate that awaited them on the other side of the desert; ignorance was a blessing they had no desire to cast aside.

Dae struggled to keep pace with the others, but it was an arduous undertaking. Raised to a life of luxury and privilege, sheltered by doting parents from anything the least bit harmful, she had barely had to walk more than a mile on her own in a single stretch. Her legs felt like boiling lead had been poured into the muscles of her calves and thighs. Her feet, clad only in delicate shoes designed for beauty rather than practicality, were swollen and bloodied where the blisters had formed, cracked, and reformed. Every breath of scalding air was a trial. Yet for all her suffering, she didn’t dare complain. The ugly men who had captured her held whips and carried fearsome-looking swords, and while so far the worst they’d done was threaten, Dae had no intention of raising their ire. The memory of her escort, slaughtered as they sought to protect her, was still vivid in her mind.

Stumbling along exhausted, Dae fought to place one foot in front of the other. The sun was lower on the horizon now, and she eagerly encouraged its descent, knowing that darkness would bring some measure of respite from the dizzying heat. She found the bitter chill of night far easier to bear than the fire of day. Dae licked her dry, cracked lips, tasting the salt of her sweat, and glanced about at the shimmering heat waves that played across the land. They teased at her mind with phantasmal images of trees and oceans of cool, refreshing water. Her gaze drifted away from the taunting dreamscapes, bleary and unfocused, and it took her a long while to notice the appearance of something out of place in the bleak landscape. She blinked and squinted, realizing she wasn’t seeing another mirage.

Up ahead and to the right, perched on a sharp ridge of wind-carved stone, three dark, mounted figures stood silhouetted against the evening sky, watching the slave caravan make its way across the desert.

Chancing a glance behind her, Dae saw the slavers hadn’t yet noticed the watchers. The idea occurred to her that perhaps she could signal the distant figures for help, for rescue, but she had no idea how to accomplish this without attracting attention from her hated captors. Anyway, from the stories her maids had told her as a child, the people of the desert were more savage even than the slavers, blood thirsty barbarians who warred among themselves and delighted in torture and plunder. Yet, against her will, a small bubble of hope bloomed in her heart, and she pulled instinctively against the chain binding her hands. How much worse could her situation be, she wondered bitterly?

Biting her lip, indecisive, Dae plodded along, keeping a furtive eye on the watchers. Under her breath, she whispered to any gods who might be listening a brief prayer for some kind of savior to rescue her.

Zafirah Al’Intisar watched the small caravan with narrowed eyes. The outlanders were moving slowly, their feet doubtless weary from trekking this far into the merciless Jaharri desert. Zafirah’s great warhorse, Simhana—a beautiful white mare with solid black markings—sensed the tension in her rider and pawed anxiously at the stony ground, anticipating action and battle.

Slavers, Scion, observed the man to Zafirah’s left, running callused fingers through a wiry, dark beard that gave his face a perpetually frowning expression. Zafirah glanced at him, hearing the distaste in his voice. Rehan Al’Carin was the ruler of the Tek, one of the many tribes owing allegiance to the Scion, and Zafirah’s distant cousin. His features held the worn, sandblasted ruggedness that came from living in the unforgiving, arid wilderness. His body was tough and lean, powerful as the desert made those who could brave its savage temper. Zafirah liked the old brute, as crude and hot-tempered as he could sometimes be. She nodded and looked back at the caravan.

They choose a dangerous path, tempting the sands on foot, remarked the tall, dark-skinned woman watching from her customary place at Zafirah’s right-hand side. Falak was the leader of Zafirah’s elite scouts and chief military council, and the hunger in her sharp gray eyes made it clear she was eager to attack. She cradled the arch of a massive recurve bow crafted from layers of horn across her lap, and a quiver of arrows fletched with raven feathers bristled above her right shoulder. She studied the slave caravan a moment longer, her slender, powerful fingers plucking at the bowstring in a tense rhythm, then looked to Zafirah in hopeful expectation. What shall we do, my Scion?

One of the slaves, a young girl with pale hair and shredded clothes, slipped in the rocky sand and fell to her knees. Instantly one of the slavers was on her, dragging her to her feet and shoving her forward, gesturing with his whip in an obvious threat. Zafirah’s lips pulled into a tight line, the expression hidden by the white cotton haik that protected her face from the wind-blown sands.

These slavers were an unwanted distraction, but one Zafirah knew she could not overlook. She had come out here leading a small army of spahi—the feared desert cavalry—in order to quell a simple civil dispute. The Tek tribe had been feuding with their ancient rivals, the Sakaran, a conflict Zafirah would not normally have concerned herself with. The desert tribes were made up of fierce warriors, and such blood feuds were a source of constant quarrels and skirmishes. This time, however, the Sakaran had threatened more aggressive action, and so Zafirah had left the coastal city of El’Kasari to remind those under her authority of the risk they took by proposing war. The two tribes had balefully retreated to their respective corners like chastised children, and Zafirah had been leading her men back to El’Kasari when reports came in of these strangers.

Not that strangers were uncommon in the Jaharri desert. The barren stretch of sand lay between two nations of great wealth and abundance. While the trek was perilous, crossing the desert directly was still the fastest way to trade between east and west. Sailing around the southern coastal route was safer but added months of expensive travel time to an expedition. In the past, before the city of El’Kasari had been built, the various nomadic tribes of the desert preyed mercilessly upon these traders. For hundreds of years, however, since the Scion Peace, travelers paid a tribute to the desert people and in return were left unmolested. Zafirah’s people had grown wealthy from such payments, and most were satisfied. Most…though not all.

Scion?

Hmm? Zafirah glanced at Falak, her attention distracted by the pale-haired girl as she struggled along on weary feet.

Do we attack? The scout grinned hungrily. Slavers have no place—

Slavers or no, the business of outlanders is not our concern, Zafirah interrupted softly, provided they honor the desert and its guardians. But by the reports of your scouts, these men took water from the Kah-hari oasis without offering tribute for their passage. She frowned. These men know not the ways of our people. They were fools to enter the desert without such wisdom. She drew a flashing, curved sword from her side and spun it quickly through the air. A pity they shall not have a chance to learn from their folly.

Rehan and Falak grinned at one another as Zafirah wheeled her steed about and set off carefully back down the rocky rise to where the rest of the spahi were waiting. The people of the desert lived for battle and glory, and while this pathetic band of foreign slavers would hardly be a challenge, both were eager to enjoy the sport.

Zafirah selected two dozen riders from the army and ordered them to follow her with a gesture. The shifting sands and shimmering heat were disorienting to those unfamiliar with the desert, making it hard to judge distance or depth. Taking advantage of a shallow depression in the land, the spahi were able to ride to within a hundred yards of the slavers without being detected. When they were in position, Zafirah raised her hand and, tilting her head back, pierced the still air with a shattering, ululating war cry. The spahi answered it with calls of their own as they spurred their mounts forward. In seconds, they had fallen upon the panicked slavers, their swords painting crimson stains across the white sands.

Zafirah charged one of the terrified men. Simhana swung sideways at the last moment as she had been trained, a move which afforded the Scion the room she needed to dispatch her enemy. A single powerful stroke of her scimitar relieved the slaver of his sword, and the return stroke relieved him of his head. As Simhana wheeled about, Zafirah turned just as a second man charged her with a hoarse shout, raising a wickedly barbed spear in line for a throw. His body froze in the act, however, as three slender arrows sprouted suddenly from his chest, and after a second he fell face-first to the ground. Zafirah flicked a glance behind her, raising her sword in a salute of thanks to where Falak and her scouts were coolly notching new arrows to their bowstrings. The dark-skinned woman gave a curt nod even as she drew a bead on another target.

The fight was over in moments; the slavers could offer only pitiful resistance against the elite desert horsemen, who gave no quarter or mercy in the slaughter. In short order, the only figures left standing on the blood-soaked sands were the clustered group of terrified slave girls, who huddled together and eyed the fearsome masked figures on their prancing horses with expressions of shock and awe. Dismounting gracefully, Zafirah strode over to the cowering prisoners, immediately seeking out the young blonde she had observed from the ridge. The girl was kneeling on the ground, looking around dazedly, swooning from exhaustion and what the Scion recognized as the symptoms of exposure. Eyes the color of deep emeralds struggled to focus as Zafirah’s shadow fell over her. She blinked, recoiling a little as though expecting a beating.

Please…d-don’t hurt me… she whimpered. Then her eyelids fluttered, and she slumped forward in a dead faint.

Zafirah quickly gestured Rehan to her side. Find some horses for the girls. We shall take them with us. They can serve your tribe to earn their freedom.

But Scion, I cannot take this many into my tribe, Rehan protested. I have not the means to feed more mouths!

El’Kasari will supplement your resources if it is required, Zafirah allowed. She knew that each tribe could only maintain positions for so many servants before the burden would drain their precious water. Still, the law of the desert was clear: those who were rescued from death or slavery owed a debt that must be repaid with service to the benefactor. In a harsh and unyielding world such as this one, nothing was ever given away freely. And do not fear, Rehan, I do not expect you to take all the girls. Zafirah’s soft smile as she studied the comatose figure lying in the sand was hidden by the folds of her haik. This one, at least, will be returning with me to the city.

Rehan glanced at the wretched girl, then winked lasciviously at Zafirah. Your tastes have altered little, I see.

My tastes have not altered at all, Cousin, she said with a smirk. I am certain a home for her can be found in the seraglio. Now go, get the horses. She dismissed him with a wave of her hand.

While Rehan jogged away to locate mounts for the still-quivering girls, Zafirah knelt beside the fallen blonde and studied her more closely. The girl was young—Zafirah guessed not much past her eighteenth year—and even with the ravages of wind and sun marring her perfection, her features held a rare and unique cast of beauty. The shredded rags she wore did little to hide her curvaceous figure from Zafirah’s appreciative gaze. Reaching out with a gloved hand, Zafirah ran her fingers through the long, shimmering gold strands of hair that were currently matted with sweat and grit. Blonde hair was unknown among the desert tribes and was looked upon as a strange and foreign feature that was greatly prized. Zafirah had a well-known penchant for women of exotic appearance, and this girl was certainly too enticing a creature for her to overlook. Her smile grew wider as she nodded, pleased with her find, and with the day’s work in general.

Zafirah stood as Falak approached, the dark archer casting the girl a knowing look before she gestured toward the butchered slavers. What shall we do with them?

Detail a group of men to ride the bodies out to the Kah-hari spring, Zafirah ordered. Have them hung from the trees as a warning of what happens if the desert is not given its rightful offerings.

As you wish, my Scion. She relaxed a little and indicated the young blonde. A new plaything, perhaps? she joked.

Perhaps—Zafirah pulled aside the cotton haik and grinned rakishly at her chief scout—if she asks nicely.

Falak laughed and shook her head. Let us hope the other girls do not grow jealous. It has been some time since you added to the harem.

Do not be concerned, Falak. I am quite capable of satisfying the desires of all; I do not think one more will tax my abilities overmuch.

Falak leaned closer to study the girl for herself, giving an approving nod before throwing Zafirah a wink. With luck, the pale beauty will at least give you a chance to tempt her to your bed. These fools—she gave a contemptuous nod to the fallen slavers—were journeying from the eastern kingdom. It is a land rich in water but ignorant of passion. The girl may take some convincing.

Zafirah shrugged as though the issue were of no importance. Whether she is swayed or not matters little to me, she said. Her loveliness will be better appreciated in the palace harem than in the slave markets of the western empire. At least with me her perfection will not be marred by lashes and chains. She considered the rough iron manacles binding the girl’s wrists with disapproval, not liking the open, cruel welts they had worn into her soft flesh. Zafirah looked away to the horizon and the setting sun. We should not linger here on the open sands, she said. The girl needs proper healing, and it is at least a day’s ride back to El’Kasari. Go…attend the slain so we can be moving again.

Falak nodded, as familiar as any other Jaharri with the dangers of letting such heat sickness go untreated, and left to detail a detachment to return the bodies back to the oasis. Zafirah watched her go, then knelt beside the unconscious blonde once more.

Such a pretty flower, she whispered, running her fingers over the girl’s body as much to check for other injuries as to simply admire her perfection. She smiled, finding no whip marks or excessive bruising, and again brushed the tangled mass of pale hair away from the girl’s face. Have no fear. I will not allow the sun to wilt your petals.

Zafirah watched in silent contentment as the rest of her warriors freed the other captives. She wrapped the haik back over her face as the wind blew fiercely in the fading light. It was fortunate that the slavers had not possessed the common sense to pay tribute for their passage across these lands; Zafirah would have hated to see her newest prize slip from her grasp.

It had been a good day indeed.

Chapter 2

Dae struggled to shake off the fog that clouded her mind, cracking open her eyes and blinking several times before she was able to make out anything of her surroundings. For a moment what she saw made her think that her ordeal had been blessedly no more than a night terror and she was back in her own room at home. Richly embroidered cushions lay everywhere, and the walls of the lavishly furnished room were decorated with expensive tapestries and hangings. The air was heavy with the sweet scent of perfume—jasmine, she identified fuzzily—and cool satin sheets caressed her skin. The wonderful illusion lasted only a moment, however, before Dae felt again the terrible thirst as she tried to swallow and the burning in her cracked skin. Confused, she tried to sit up and was overcome by a wave of dizziness.

A cool hand pressed against her forehead soothingly. Easy now, little one, said a feminine voice tinged with a heavy, exotic accent. The desert did not take kindly to you. It will be some time before your full strength returns. Something rough and cold was pressed against her lips, and Dae recoiled. Drink, said the voice gently. You must replenish what the sun took from your body.

Feeling sudden moisture lap against her parched lips, Dae quickly opened her mouth and reached up to clutch at what she now recognized as a ceramic jug. She struggled to swallow as much as she could, choking and spluttering in her haste to accept the offering before it was revoked. Hands like silk eased her efforts.

Slowly, instructed the voice. Take smaller sips, or your stomach will cramp and reject the water.

Dae did as she was told, sipping slowly until the jug was taken away, her thirst only moderately slackened. Whimpering, she lay back and tried to look up at her savior.

Wh-who are you? she asked, her voice raspy.

My name is Inaya. Delicate hands caressed Dae’s face tenderly. "Tsharraafna—I am honored to make your acquaintance."

Blinking painfully, Dae finally brought the features of her benefactor into focus. Inaya looked to be not much older than herself, and she was quite possibly the most beautiful girl Dae had ever laid eyes upon. Her olive-toned features were framed by hair blacker than midnight, so dark that the highlights shimmering in it shone blue in the soft light. Her deep, liquid brown eyes held a sense of mystery and seductive promise complemented by full, sensuous lips that smiled far too easily.

Inaya was dressed in an outfit comprised as much from jewelry as it was from cloth, exposing most of her firm, dusky body while covering just enough to maintain some semblance of modesty. Dae had never in her life imagined such a scandalous wardrobe, and she couldn’t help but stare. When her gaze slipped helplessly down over Inaya’s body, she immediately noticed another oddity: a bejeweled metal stud pierced the skin of the girl’s navel, its shiny gleam contrasting against her sun-darkened skin. How barbaric! Realizing her unblinking reaction might be bordering on offensive, Dae quickly returned her attention to Inaya’s face.

Where am I? She looked around the strange, exotically decorated room in bewilderment, remembering only the dark, shadowed figure standing over her as she knelt on the blazing sands, surrounded by bloodcurdling screams. How did I get here?

You are in the harem of the Scion Zafirah Al’Intisar, in the great city of El’Kasari, Inaya explained slowly. You have been unconscious for a day and a night. From what I understand, the Scion rescued you from slavers in the desert. You were brought here by the guards, and I have seen to your recovery.

The slavers? Dae asked in confusion. What happened to them?

The Scion dispatched them for failing to pay tribute on their passage across the sands. I heard that none survived the slaughter.

Dead. Dae breathed a sigh of relief. I’m safe. Then, she suddenly recalled Inaya’s words more clearly. Wh-where did you say I was?

In the harem of the Scion Zafir—

"Harem? Her eyes flew open in stark terror. Dae had heard terrible stories of what happened in such places. Harems were said to be havens of debauchery and hedonistic sin. Panic engulfed her and she struggled to sit up, but Inaya had little trouble pressing her gently back down again. What… Why am I here?" Dae asked.

The Scion was extremely taken with you, Inaya explained. I can understand why. Your beauty is of rare quality. You are to remain here as a servant.

But I…I want to go home! Dae pleaded.

The Scion rescued you. According to our laws, since she saved your life, it is her right to take control of your destiny. If she wishes you to stay here, then it shall be so. There can be no argument against it.

Dae felt a fresh surge of depression and loss well up inside her. Are you a slave here as well?

Not exactly. Inaya smiled softly. I am one of the harem girls, a pleasure-servant of the Scion.

It took Dae several moments to process that information, and when she did, her jaw dropped in horror. You’re a…a whore?

Inaya’s expression stiffened instantly. No, she corrected a little coldly. A pleasure-servant is very different to a whore. I provide for the desires of the Scion, whatever they may be, and I do so willingly and with great pride and joy! It is an honor that I should be chosen for such a position in the palace. She gave Dae a hard look. You would do well to remember that, since it is a position, and an honor, that you yourself now hold.

Dae shrank back from Inaya’s displeasure. I-I’m sorry, she stammered quickly, not wanting to alienate someone who was being so nice to her. I just… This is all so strange to me. I don’t understand.

Understanding will come with time. Inaya’s features softened quickly. It seemed almost as though the stern expression had difficulty holding its place on the beautiful girl’s face. She reached into a bowl that rested on a small table nearby and retrieved a moist towel. Here, she said, placing the cloth on Dae’s burned face. This will help soothe your skin.

Dae accepted the ministrations shyly, still trying to come to terms with the sudden and inexplicable changes in her life. So…you’re expected to… She hesitated. To…bed with this Scion?

You can put it that way if you like, Inaya said, her tone of voice suggesting she found Dae’s innocent phrasing amusing. It is not so bad as you might be imagining.

Dae shivered fearfully despite the consolations. I’ve never…done such things before, she admitted quietly.

Inaya nodded. I had guessed as much.

What’s he like?

He? Inaya looked confused. "He who?"

Well…the Scion, of course. Is he gentle?

Inaya laughed lightly, a pleasant lilting laugh that sounded almost childlike. Oh, my child, have you not listened? Scion Zafirah is no man. She is a woman!

What? Dae sat up in surprise, confused by this revelation she had somehow missed. But I thought you said—

I did indeed, Inaya agreed cheerfully, watching the expression on Dae’s face with interest. Zafirah is an extremely talented and generous lover, a woman of great passions.

Dae shrank back in horror. "You mean you…you sleep with…another woman?"

There is precious little sleep involved, I assure you! Inaya laughed. Of course I take pleasure with other women. It is a common practice among the Jaharri people. She tilted her head to the side curiously. I have heard that such things are forbidden in your land, that to even speak of them is not permitted. Is this true?

Of course it’s true! Dae’s nose wrinkled in fearful distaste. It’s an unnatural and disgusting perversion!

Inaya stopped her gentle ministrations and lifted a delicately plucked eyebrow haughtily. You are very quick to condemn an act of which you have neither knowledge nor experience, she scolded quietly. Perhaps when you come to understand the beauty that can be found within such a taking of pleasure, you will not be so harsh in your judgment.

I-I didn’t mean—

Yes, you did, Inaya interrupted. But have no fear, child, I am not offended. It is natural for you to carry with you the same intolerances and foolish propriety that I have heard are so common among the people of your land.

Dae considered this new information and felt renewed despair and terror. I could never do such a thing, she whispered almost to herself. "I couldn’t ever do…that…with a woman!"

Inaya smiled mysteriously and gave Dae a reassuring pat on the shoulder, her fingers caressing lightly. Do not concern yourself. The Scion has no need to force her attentions on the unwilling. There are more than enough women who will go to her most joyfully. If you do not wish to take pleasure with her, she will not take you against your will.

Are you certain? Dae’s features lit up with a tremulous hope.

Of course. Zafirah would never wish to taint the beauty of such an act with force. There can be no pleasure for her if her partner does not take equal joy as she herself.

Then why would she keep me in the harem?

Inaya shrugged. It is her wish, she said simply. You should consider yourself most fortunate, child. The position of pleasure-servant is held in high regard within the palace. We have respect and honor from others, and we are provided a life of great freedom and luxury. We want for nothing—water, fruit, entertainment… We are permitted to indulge in whatever activity we so desire. When you have properly recovered from your ordeal, I will introduce you to the other girls and take you to see the rest of the seraglio. The gardens and pools are quite lovely, I promise, and a rare sight you will find nowhere else in the desert lands. For now, lie back and relax. You must allow your body to heal itself, so be calm in the knowledge that you are safe. I am sure the Scion will wish to see you when you are well again.

Feeling exhaustion rise suddenly to reclaim her, Dae did as Inaya suggested, lying back into the silken caress of cool sheets and pillows, letting the soothing ministrations of her new friend ease away her pains. In a few moments, her eyes had drifted shut and she fell into a healing sleep.

Wetting the face towel in the bowl beside her, Inaya smiled softly to herself and enjoyed the task of providing for the sleeping girl. The other inhabitants of the harem were all intensely curious about the Scion’s latest find, and Inaya knew they were envious that she had received the privilege of tending to the needs of the foreigner. Gently letting her fingers comb through the last few tangles that remained in the silken locks, Inaya hummed a soft, lilting melody to herself, watching the lines of tension ease from Dae’s face. She was already looking forward to getting to know the refreshingly innocent and naïve girl better in the coming weeks.

Over the next few weeks, Dae slowly regained her strength and equilibrium as she recovered from her harsh experience in the desert. Her blistered and cracked skin soon flaked off and was then soothed with scented healing oils until it was healthy once more. Calluses had formed around her wrists where the rough iron manacles had bitten into her skin, and she knew these final marks of bondage would be a long time fading. Eating strange but delicious fruits and drinking water sweetened with wine soon gave her back her strength. But as Dae’s health returned, the initial surge of relief she had felt at being rescued from a life of slavery gave way to despondence at the new fate the Gods had set before her. Dae had never been away from the embrace of her parents for more than a few days, and her sense of loss was overwhelming. Many mornings, her pillows were stained with tears of grief and homesickness.

Inaya remained by her side almost constantly during this time, always ready to serve. The desert girl did all she could to help Dae adjust to her new life, easing her fears and melancholy with empathy and understanding. She was extremely considerate of her charge’s well-being, slowly drawing Dae away from depression with her happy chatter. During her visits, she spent a lot of time explaining the way of life in the palace harem. Dae wondered why her new friend seemed so eager to serve her, but she accepted being waited on easily; it was something she had grown used to at home, and the attention was reassuring. Sometimes Inaya spoke of the Scion, but Dae was determined not to think about anything involving the woman who, in her opinion, must surely be a savage and lustful demon to indulge in such terrible sins as were hinted at by the darkly enchanting girl.

During this time, Dae was provided with a new wardrobe made from fine silks, exotic and brightly colored. Inaya also brought her new jewellery—gifts of welcome, she said, from the other pleasure-servants Dae had yet to meet. The worth of the jewels must have been considerable—they sparkled brilliantly with diamonds, emeralds, and other precious stones—but when Dae protested this generosity, Inaya insisted she accept them. She also overrode any objection regarding the new clothing that was offered.

Although Inaya assured her painfully self-conscious ward that her outfit was the most modest and reserved one she could find, Dae was still embarrassed by how much of her body it revealed. Her entire stomach was left bare, and the embroidered green silk that covered her firm, ample breasts seemed designed to enhance her cleavage rather than conceal it. Loose gossamer pants shimmered about her legs in almost transparent waves, and gold bracelets and chains adorned her lithe figure. With her hair brushed by the ever-attentive Inaya till it shone in the lamplight and her eyelids dusted with a faint indigo powder, Dae barely recognized herself in the mirror’s reflection. She fidgeted often, uncomfortable with what seemed an immodest display of flesh.

Dae did not venture from the room during her recovery, and Inaya informed her that the chamber would be her own private quarters from now on. As her depression faded, Dae’s curiosity about her new home grew, and eventually Inaya agreed to show her the rest of the seraglio where the other girls usually spent their time.

Following her new friend—guiltily mesmerized by the way Inaya’s hips swayed enticingly beneath the thin beaded chains that hung about her waist and how the motion constantly revealed vast planes of smooth olive skin—Dae found herself walking down a long, expansive corridor with rooms evenly spaced on either side. There were no doors, she noted, and looking into the rooms, she found each to be similar in design to her own. From that, Dae concluded these were the quarters of the other harem girls.

Um…how many other slav—Um, I mean, ‘pleasure-servants’ does the Scion have? she asked Inaya.

Not including you and me, there are twenty-two other girls in the harem, Inaya said over her shoulder. Of course, the Scion sometimes takes a lover from outside the seraglio…and those she takes to her bed are honored to be chosen. We… she gestured to the other rooms, are those more dedicated to her service. Though every girl in the seraglio came here by a different path, we are all special…each of us chosen by Zafirah as more than a simple tryst. We are her companions as well as her lovers.

Oh. Dae tried hard not to dwell on the terrible images her imagination conjured of what the poor girls must endure. Does she only ever take other women as lovers?

Inaya nodded, her earrings jangling musically as she did so. "She has no desire to