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  The only cloud on her cautious happiness was that Lorryn was still recovering from his illness, and had not come to visit her. Normally he would find an excuse to stop by her garden at least once during the day, and more often if he planned to include her in a surreptitious excursion. Indeed, the word from the slaves was that he had not even left his suite since before the fete. There was no hint that his case was more serious than she had been told, only that he had exhausted himself more completely than anyone had initially thought

  She would really have been worried sick about him if there had been any indication that something was wrong with him. As it was, she missed him; not only because she truly loved and admired him, but for his conversation. The slaves were hardly up to much clever repartee, and he was the only person besides Myre who didn't treat her as if she had the same mental capacity as a child. Even her mother spoke to her as if she were always as dazed and absentminded as she had been over the past few days.

  Still, he shouldn't have been sick for this long; attacks had never laid him low for more than a day before. She fretted over him as she walked in her garden, and stared in the direction of his suite. What had he done to himself? Was this why her mother was upset, and covering her concern with false cheer?

  She went to bed on the evening of the third day following the fete in a state of anxiety herself, when repeated messages to him brought only the reply that he was a little ill, but would be all right eventually. Eventually? Just how long could eventually be? She even forgot most of her worries for herself in worries over her brother.

  But the morning of the fourth day brought an end to Her peace of mind, in the form of a message from Lord Tylar.

  It arrived with her breakfast, an elegantly written note, folded and inserted beneath her plate—Lord Tylar never delivered messages in person if he could avoid it. She picked it up, and unfolded it, expecting the worst.

  You will come to Lady Viridina's bower at the hour of the Skylark to discuss a matter of some importance. That was all it said, but that was enough to completely shatter her illusions of peace.

  She stared at the note, her hand shaking only a little, and carefully put it down, her appetite quite gone. Discuss? Oh no, that was hardly what would happen—given that the note was in her father's handwriting and with his personal sigil impressed into the paper. No, Lord Tylar had orders for her, and her mother was the one, as bound by his will as any of his slaves, who would deliver them. Having Lady Viridina deliver these orders only proved that they were going to be unpleasant He always had his wife handle domestic orders that were going to bring trouble. He felt it was her job to ensure his domestic peace, even if it was his orders that were about to destroy that peace.

  Her stomach churned and knotted, as she tried to guess just what the matter of some importance was. Had he finally noticed that there were no suitors clamoring for her? Had he gotten back reports from some of his underlings that showed she had spent more time with the tame animals than with any male? She would not have put it past him to have set spies on her, or questioned his associates about her movements.

  Unreasoning dread blossomed in her heart, an evil flower of darkness and foreboding. Was he going to order a whole new round of lessons for her, designed to mold her into something more desirable than she was—or—

  And one of her nightmares of the first night returned to make her unreasonable dread only too reasonable.

  There was something worse, much worse, that he could do to her—or have done. The nightmares she had been enduring had been about a possibility mat she had not even considered, had not even remembered, until her own evil dreams brought it back to her.

  If he was not happy with her, and saw no possibility of voluntary improvement, there was one other step he might take. It was drastic, but he was ruthless enough to take it, if he could find a mage powerful enough to oblige him. She had dismissed the possibility because she could not imagine him ever devoting that much of his profit and resources to her. But if he was angry enough, economic considerations might vanish before the prospect of having his will thwarted by his ill-mannered, unsatisfactory daughter.

  He could have me Changed.

  The Change was something only whispered about in the bowers. No maiden of Rena's acquaintance had actually known a girl who had been Changed, but everyone had a cousin or a friend who did. If a maiden just was not satisfactory to her father—or, more rarely, a wife was not satisfactory to her husband, and the husband could get her father to agree to the Change—there was a remedy. Great elven mages had created beasts like the alicorns in the past, after all, creating them out of common beasts of the fields. And hadn't she herself changed the drab sparrows and pigeons into charming companions? Changing a maiden—making her more beautiful, more graceful—was just a bit more subtle than creating an alicorn.

  Especially if one is not terribly worried about damaging her, so long as it doesn't show. A maiden would never have to gallop across a battlefield, after all, and if, afterwards, she was just a bit delicate, a bit sickly, so long as she could bring forth one heir, that was really all that mattered. Once the heir had been produced, another wife could be found—or done without, as the case might be.

  A maiden was taken away, so the whispers went, and when she returned, she would no longer be merely attractive, she would be a beauty, a living work of art. She would be incapable of a clumsy movement, of a missung note, of a social mistake. She would always be graceful and gracious. She would never lose her temper, never weep, never complain.

  but show the same smiling face of peace and contentment wherever she went, in public or in private, to her peers or to her slaves. She would obey her father's or her husband's every wish, willingly and immediately. She would become the perfect wife, the perfect lady, in every possible way.

  The trouble was, the Change worked in the mind as well as the body, and maidens who underwent the Change were rumored to lose some vital spark of themselves. They had no ambitions, no interest outside their own bowers, and no creativity. If given a work to play or a piece of embroidery already designed and ready to sew, they would go about playing the piece or embroidering the design with mechanical perfection. But they could not design a piece of embroidery for themselves, or compose their own music, even if they had been superb artists or musicians before the Change.

  Nor was that all. Their pleasures turned to simpler things; they lost interest in anything that was an intellectual challenge. They generally stopped reading or writing, left the household accounts to underlings, often left anything vaguely creative in the hands of their slaves, and saw no reason to leave their own bowers except at the insistence of their husbands. Their lives became centered on three things: their appearance, pleasing their husbands, and childbearing. They became obsessive about jewels and gowns, often changing four and five times in a day, they would throw themselves off a cliff if that would make their lords happy, and they longed for nothing more than to bear as many children as they could, and as quickly.

  In short, they were as controlled as the human concubines, and just as compliant. It was no accident that while the Change was worked on a maiden's body, her ruler saw to it that it was worked on her mind as well. Why alter the body only, when with an exercise of magic, discontent, improper ambitions, and inconvenient interests could be wiped away as cleanly as if they had never existed in the first place? One could completely remold a maiden or a wife to suit one's own needs.

  How convenient for their lords.

  She'd had that nightmare about being Changed, enduring the pain of the Change itself and the horror of feeling her mind, her self, drain away, and had done her best to forget the dream and how vivid it had been. Now it came back to her with redoubled clarity, as if it had been, not a dream, but a premonition.

  Her hands and heart went cold as ice.

  She fought her fear down. No, Lord Tylar wouldn't have her Changed, surely! It was very difficult, and very expensive, either in terms of strict recompense or i
n terms of the demands the mage would later make on the customer. Only the greatest of mages dared to meddle in such ways, and the greater a mage, the more power and prestige he already had. Surely there was nothing Lord Tylar could offer that would tempt one of the High Lords to help him in such an undertaking!

  But her body would not respond to her desperate reasoning. Her body and her heart were afraid, deeply, deathly afraid. Her throat closed so tightly that she could not even swallow; her face felt like a mask of wood, stiff and unmoving, and her mouth went dry.

  Her breath came in short, frightened gasps, as if she were a rabbit at the end of a chase; her heart pounded as she again reached for the piece of paper. She reread the note, searching for a clue and finding nothing. But—there was no indication that he was going to have her Changed, and surely he'd have let something slip if that was his intention. Wouldn't he have told her to dismiss her slaves, or insisted she not speak to Lorryn? For that matter, if he intended to have her Changed, why send her to her mother to be told about it in the first place? Why not simply have a pair of burly guards come and take her away without any warning? By letting her know in advance that he had planned something for her, he actually increased the chance that she would cause a scene when she learned what it was.

  Perhaps, she told herself frantically, it was something simpler—an ordinary scolding for not living up to the standards her father had set for her, for not carrying out the orders he had given her.

  Gradually her breath eased. That made more sense; that was logical. Lord Tylar always took the easiest route to anything, and he always left the scoldings to Lady Viridina. Her throat opened a little, as she forced calm on herself.

  Yes, that must be it. Lady Viridina was going to deliver a lecture on duty and how she had failed in that duty. Then, perhaps, would come another round of the lessons she had foreseen; unpleasant and time-consuming, but not a disaster, just something to be endured until Lord Tylar forgot about her again. And he would forget about her, especially if she kept herself out of sight, as long as there were no choice matrimonial prospects in view. She was no real drain on his resources, and she was ornamental enough in a plain, quiet way. She occupied Lorryn, and kept him from getting into trouble by doing so. She could even be trusted to oversee some of the household on the occasions when he needed his wife at his side.

  Surely that is all that this note means. If it were something that would be as expensive for him as having me Changed, wouldn't he want to deliver the orders in person, and see to it that I was conveyed away with a minimum of fuss and damage? Wouldn't he want to oversee every tiny detail, from telling me what was to happen, to seeing the end result for himself? He would be here to make certain he got his money's worth.

  So she tried to convince herself, although her heart was not so easy to calm. It was hard to get her fear down to even a manageable level. It took every bit of will to rise from her uneaten breakfast and pretend that she was calm and collected. She ordered her dress with extra care, her voice so subdued with dread that it was hardly more than a whisper. She allowed the slaves to tend to everything; she was afraid that her hands would begin to tremble, so that even the simplest task would be impossible. In a haze of fear and depression, she took herself to her mother's bower at the appointed hour—which was directly after the breakfast that she could not force herself to eat. At least she would not have to wait to hear her fate…

  She walked down hallways in a state of tension that made every tiny detail stand out. Her mother's bower was not entered by a conventional door, but through one of the magical curtains of sheeting energy that also protected the harem from intrusion. A slave was there to meet her, and steered her away from the sitting room to another part of the bower entirely, and Lady Viridina received her daughter in her own study, though the room bore very little resemblance to Lord Tylar's study. This was a stark room, small, with only a desk and two chairs of the simplest design; the floor, walls, and ceiling were a uniform cream, the desk and chairs a slightly darker shade of the same color. Viridina was reading something as Rena came in; she gestured to the single empty chair without speaking, and Rena took it, obediently, without a word of her own. She sat there, stiffly upright, with her hands folded in her lap, her whole body so taut with tension that she felt as if she vibrated with every heartbeat.

  Finally Lady Viridina put the paper down, and looked up at her daughter, her face and eyes completely inscrutable. My Lord Tylar wishes me to tell you that he is very pleased with you, she said—words so surprising that it was only by force of will that Rena kept her mouth from dropping open with shock.

  He's pleased with me? With me? How? Why? What did I do? What does he think I did?

  It seems that you spent a great deal of time with V'keln Gildor er-Lord Kyndreth at the fete, her mother continued, and waited for an answer.

  Rena nodded, numbly. Was that all it was? Just that she was kind to a bumbling idiot? A handsome bumbling idiot, granted, but then there were no such things as uncomely elves—

  —except maybe me.

  The House of Kyndreth is an ancient and powerful House, Lady Viridina continued. Not quite as powerful as that of Hernalth, but older. There is a great deal to be said for their lineage, and Lord Lyon is accounted a power in the Council. His favor is eagerly sought after.

  Again Rena nodded, unable to imagine where this was going. Had Gildor's father been grateful that she had spent any time at all with his son—grateful enough to have complimented her to Lord Tylar? Perhaps even grateful enough to be willing to support Lord Tylar in the Council?

  Well, you seem to have impressed Lord Gildor in many ways, her mother said, without so much as a lifted eyebrow. And it is difficult to impress Lord Gildor enough to cause him to remember any experience for more than a few hours. Or so it is said, according to your lord father.

  There was no hint of irony in her mother's voice, and nothing in her expression to suggest humor. Rena hardly knew what to think. She certainly had not expected either candor or irony from either Lady Viridina or her father.

  Lady Viridina regarded her with a penetrating gaze, as if looking for any hint that Rena found her comment amusing. At any rate, you did impress the er-Lord, and as a consequence, you have impressed his father, which is much more important.

  Again she waited for a reply.

  Yes, my lady, Rena managed to say. Naturally, it would be more important to impress Lord Lyon. Poor Gildor—must be very difficult to deal with for his own lord father. He seems a— she sought for a word to describe him that would have at least a hint of flattery amid the terrible truth that the young er-Lord was a fool —an amiable young lord, and he certainly seems eager to please his lord father. As is only right, of course. But I would say that he has very little ambition.

  Or wit. Or intelligence.

  Her mother nodded, and now she smiled, thinly. Good. You understand the situation, then. V'denn Lyon Lord Kyndreth made your father an offer for your hand last night, on behalf of his son. Naturally, Lord Tylar has accepted on your behalf. He is very pleased; what is more. Lord Lyon seems to believe that this acceptance puts him in your lord father's debt.

  She took the words as if they were blows to her face and body, and with nearly the same shock.

  Offer? For me-from Gildor? Accepted?

  Shock turned to horror, and Rena was paralyzed, quite unable to speak, move, or even think past the reality of her mother's words. She had been sold away, all in an instant, without any warning—given to—to—

  Gildor! A—an idiot who can't even remember what he did a few hours ago! A dolt completely controlled by his father! A booby who—who has barely more sense than a child still in the nursery, whose only interest is hunting, and who hasn't a single clever thought in his head! A fool who is cruel without even knowing that he has hurt someone!

  She was too stunned even to tremble, and evidently her mother took her silence as a sign of agreement. She smiled, more with relief than with pleasure. I am pleas
ed to see that you are properly grateful to your lord father and to Lord Gildor. Your good sense does you credit, and is a testimony to your training. She stood, and handed Rena another folded piece of paper, this one sealed with Lord Tylar's formal seal. The formalities must be observed, of course, and with someone of Lord Gildor's lineage, that is more important than usual. Everything must be done properly, with the appropriate care, on our part. Go to your quarters, and have your slaves gown you for a formal dinner, she ordered, as Rena stood in automatic response to her mother's movement. You will be leaving by means of the Portals to go straight to Lord Lyon and Lord Gildor yourself, bearing the acceptance, as is right and proper. Your escort will come to take you there in an hour.

  That was clearly a dismissal, and Rena walked blindly out of the study, out of her mother's bower, and down the hallway to her own suite, still wrapped in a cocoon of stunned numbness.

  * * *

  The next few hours were a blur, lost in a haze of shock. She kept thinking that this was just another nightmare, that in a moment she would awaken in her own bed. This wasn't what was supposed to happen! It was like some horrible twist on a romantic tale, wherein the High Lord falls in love with the daughter of one of his underlings and petitions to wed her. Why, oh why had Lord Gildor chosen her train to tread on? Why couldn't he have blundered into someone else's unwanted daughter?

  She must have given her slaves orders, and they must have been sensible, for the next thing she knew, she was gowned, coiffed, and bejeweled, and standing next to her escort in front of the Portal. Someone must have seen to it that she had the most flattering of her formal gowns brought out—perhaps one of the slaves had taken pity on her. This time there were no cosmetics, her hair had been done in simple braids twined with strands of pearls and fastened at her neck in a complicated knot, and her dress was of heavy pink silk, with a high neck and long sleeves that swept the floor. A belt of pearls held it close in at her waist, and more pearls circled her throat. She faded into the walls of her chamber, but at least she didn't look like a clown.