From the
loop swung a tiny golden padlock, but in the lock stood an even tinier
key, signifying that she was a higher caste than her husband or consort,
that her fettering was by choice and not command.
She stopped directly before me and raised her arm in formal greeting
like a man. The chain made a tinkling sound in the hushed square as her
other hand was pulled up tight against the silken loop at her waist. She
stood surveying me for some moments, and finally I raised my head and
returned her gaze. I don't know why I had expected her to have hair like
spun black glass and eyes that burned with a red reflection of the
burning star.
This woman's eyes were darker than the poison-berries of the salt
cliffs, and her mouth was a cut berry that looked just as dangerous. She
was young, the slimness of her shoulders and the narrow steel-chained
wrists told me how very young she was, but her face had seen weather and
storms, and her dark eyes had weathered worse psychic storms than that.
She did not flinch at the sight of my scars, and met my gaze without
dropping her eyes.
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