If I Pay Thee Not In Gold

• Chapter 1

Xylina ignored the hum of whispered conversation that followed her as she wound her way through the crowded bodies in the bazaar. She kept her head high, pretending there was nothing more on her mind than the perfectly ordinary purchase of food. But her muscles were knotted with tension and she really would rather have been back in her home.

This task was ordinary for her, anyway, though odd or eccentric for any other woman. She sometimes wondered if she was the only Mazonite in the city who did not have at least one male slave to tend to the domestic chores. The bazaar thronged with male slaves, sent on the same errand she was performing herself. They were draped in the loose, soft, pastel tunics of household servants. The few freedmen who had permission to be in the marketplace at this hour were in black, and barefoot so that in theory they could not run very fast if they committed some crime.

The women in Xylina's immediate vicinity were leather-clad fighters in suede body-wrappings and trews, bearing combat-scars and the marks of armor and weaponry. Others were the heads of households, in their severe linen or samite tunics and breeches, the uniform of the workaday world for those who had property. For those who did not, dress was whatever the woman could conjure; in Xylina's case, a simple drape of soft mage-cloth. She had intended dark blue, but it had come out a soft sapphire. Whatever the color, it marked her as poverty-stricken; no female of substance wore mage-cloth.

Then again, there was no disgrace in being poor. That was not what the others were whispering about. She knew what they were saying, those scarred and hardened warriors who murmured to each other like gossiping kitchen-slaves; she'd heard it all before.

... coward...fool...

... soft... weakling...

... cursed...

"Mama!" cried out a child; by the shrill voice, a very young one, too young to know better than to shout in public. "Mama! Look! She has hair like a man!"

Snickers and sly, sideways looks followed that innocent exclamation-and muffled laughter from those male slaves in the bazaar who were not in the company of their mistresses. Xylina continued to hold her chin up, despite the flush she felt spreading from her ears to her cheeks until her whole face burned. There was nothing else she could do; she did have hair like some pampered male leisure-companion, long and luxuriant and well-cared-for, cascading from her head to her waist in a curtain of gold silk. It represented a tiny defiance, another mark of her difference from the rest of them. Most Mazonites cut their hair short, or even shaved their heads. A banner such as hers was an invitation to an enemy, a weapon he could use against the wearer. Only one or two Mazonites Xylina had ever seen wore their hair longer than to the shoulders, and they had been warriors of such surpassing excellence that they flaunted their skill in this manner. Let he who dared, try to touch those tresses!

One of those had been her mother, Elibet... and that was why Xylina wore her own hair this way.

She bent over a cart full of fresh vegetables, glad of a chance to hide her blushes. Someone nearby spoke, with an audible sniff of contempt.

"Dresses like a pretty little dancing-boy, too. You'd think she'd have the decency to bind those breasts." It made no difference that binding her embarrassingly full bosom made it hurt, and that nothing could be done about her slender waist and round hips.She was at fault for the way she looked, as if she had deliberately conjured up her appearance. Everything was held against her. "Girl's a disgrace" the harsh voice continued. "Gives the freedmen ideas."

Xylina's blush deepened, then faded. What was the point? It wasn't as if this were the first time.

"Well," drawled another, a voice Xylina recognized as Panterra. She dared a glance aside, and saw that Panterra wore the uniform of the Queen's army, with the insignia of an officer. She'd bullied the younger girls of the neighborhood for years, and now was presumably bullying them in the Queen's army. "At least we won't have to put up with her little airs and graces for much longer. She goes to the arena tomorrow. Xantippe's scheduled it." There was a snicker. "Should be quite a show."

Xylina felt her blood turning to ice, and her muscles knotted even tighter. She was perfectly well aware of both the date and hour of her woman-trial, for she had scheduled it herself. But to hear about it on the street only reminded her, harshly, of what it meant.

"It's about damned time!" the first woman said acidly. "The little bitch's been flouncing around the city for three years now, putting it off, while decent girls her age did their trials and began acting like responsible citizens!"

The two of them moved off deeper into the bazaar, and if Panterra made any reply, it was lost in the general crowd noise. Xylina made her meager choices, ignoring the avid-and perhaps, slyly gloating-interest of the slave minding the cart. Her stomach knotted; her depression deepened. Especially after seeing how little her coins would buy. A tiny summer squash, a handful of insect-scarred damson plums; that was all she could afford.

She moved on, grateful that the only other purchase she needed to make was a small goat-cheese and a loaf of bread. No point in lingering to look at anything; she would spend her last coin on the bread. That, and the growing threat that she would be exiled as a coward if she didn't undergo the rite, had prompted her to finally schedule her woman-trial.

She had sustained herself as long as she could, but the past year-in fact, the past several years-had not been the life of ease Panterra's friend seemed to think it was. Oh, her ability to conjure was a lot more formidable than anyone guessed, and she could produce evanescent luxuries enough to sate anyone, but they were fleeting things, vanishing within a day, and conjured food nourished no one. It was, however, one reason why she was so slim-eking out her limited resources with conjurations.

She wondered why she had bothered. Mostly, it was habit, she supposed; the habits of the day overpowering the wish to end it all when the sun went down and the gloom of night added to her own gloom. Then, one dark gray morning several months ago, she had awakened to the realization that she had just turned sixteen, and very soon now the Queen's officers would be enforcing the law against avoiding the woman-trial. Her time was running out. Within weeks she would have to fight for her life, or be exiled for cowardice.

There was nothing left to sell but the tiny house itself, her bed, and a few household items. Not even clothing or utensils, tools or furniture; all that she conjured when she woke, and in the evening it was all gone, and she had to conjure it again. The possessions her mother had left her had long since been worn out, used up, or sold a little at a time.

The buzz of conversation around her increased, as she bought her cheese and bread, and the covert stares became open. Although the afternoon was hot, Xylina's skin felt chilled by all the hostile glances. And she was no little bewildered, holding back tears, which would have been unwomanly.

She didn't know more than a tenth of these people, if that, she thought. She tried to keep her eyes fixed in some vague middle-distance, with a lump in her throat, and her heart sinking to the soles of her sandals. Why were they all staring at her? Why did they all hate her? She hadn't done anything to them-

But she knew the answer. If she hadn't done anything, her mother surely had, simply by being obstinate enough to bear her child in defiance of the curse.

Never mind that the curse-if indeed, there really was a curse-was more a matter of myth and hearsay than recorded fact. Xylina's mother had gone to the Queen’s own library of chronicles, and had been unable to find anything but a vague hint about it. Something about a barbarian shaman who immolated himself in the midst of his articles of power, rather than endure capture by Xylina's great-great-grandmother, and had hurled his curse at her from the heart of the fire. The chronicler of the time had not thought much of this "curse" except as a kind of joke, proving the superstitious nature of the barbarian men. Everyone knew curses had no strength against a Mazonite. Her very ability to wield the magics of conjuration granted the Mazonite immunity from such petty nonsense as "curses."

Xylina's mother, when she first realized she was with child, had scoffed at such superstitious drivel as a curse, and had refused to give the thing any credence. And while she lived, she had sheltered Xylina even from the knowledge that it existed.

But when Xylina's mother had been crushed by a fall of stone during an earthquake-and when the family fortunes had taken an abrupt turn for the worse, as the earthquake turned what had been productive farmland into an arid desert by turning the course of a river and stopping up a spring-and when a plague had killed most of the slaves in the month following-that was when the whispers of "curse" had surfaced again, and not even Marcus, her faithful steward and protector, could keep her from hearing them.

"...curse..."

The word rang out amid the babble, as Xylina turned towards home again; as did the reply, spoken loudly enough that she could not avoid hearing it.

"We'd better hope the curse takes only her!" said an age-harshened voice. "Or hadn't you heard the whole of it?"

"Only the part about child of the fifth generation, ill-luck touches all who touch her,'" replied the original speaker.

"Not just those who touch her-" the second said, grimly.

Xylina forgot about politeness, and simply shoved her way through the crowd to escape the hateful words. But she could not erase them from her memory, where they repeated in a pitiless refrain. She remembered the first time she had seen the words-on a sheet of paper pinned to her door one morning, paper that proved its conjured origin by dissolving into mist by noon.

I send you doom in your own seed, twisted monster of depravity. I send you a child of the fifth generation. Ill-luck touches all who touch her; those who dare to love her see their doom in her eyes. Child of the tempest, child of the whirlwind, destined for the teeth of the dragon; fate casts his dice at her feet. As death follows the child, upheaval follows in the woman's wake, and nothing is the same where she has passed.

She blinked stinging eyes, determined not to show the tiniest bit of emotion. If ever there was a reason to think she was the cause of every bit of the troubles that had dogged her heels all her life, there was the confirmation of it. Her mother had ignored the warning.

And she died, said the insidious little voice in her mind.So did Marcus. So will anyone else who cares about you. You're better off dead, you know.

She reached the sanctuary of her home-a stone building of two rooms in the poorest quarter of town, with a tiny paved court in the rear and a high wall around the whole. That wall, and the pump and trough in the courtyard, showed what it had originally been: the stable attached to her mother's larger townhouse, where they had kept her mother's horse and her own pony. Originally, the "rooms" had been two large box-stalls. Her mother's horse had been a nasty gelding, inclined to bite; hence the partitioning of the stable into two rooms with a wall between them. Later the doorway had been cut in the wall, when she and Marcus had moved into the building.

Now the townhouse lay on the other side of two walls: the original wall that had hidden the sight and smell of horses from those in the garden, and a wall that had been put in place three years ago, when the freedmen had been given permission to expand their quarter.

Xylina's mother had been dead for several years at that point, and there had been no one left but herself, Marcus, and two other slaves she'd had to sell. She had wanted to free them-but she had no choice. The value of property in this part of town plummeted as soon as house-owners learned what direction the expansion would take. Xylina had been planning to sell her mother's house anyway, but suddenly she found she would be getting much less for it than she had hoped. What had been a valuable townhouse had dropped to a tenth of its original price.

She had sold it, nevertheless. She and Marcus had needed the money from the sale of it and the other two house-slaves because Marcus had been terribly ill, the wasting disease that would take his life when she was thirteen. A consortium of freedmen had bought the house, and once they had bought all of the property they could afford, the Queen ordered the new wall erected to seal off their quarter from the rest of the town. The new wall, to confine the freedmen within their own place after curfew, then rose a full arm's-length above the rear section of the old, head-high wall that had surrounded the little stable-yard.

She and Marcus had taken what was left of their belongings to the stable. Then she had encountered unexpected kindness from a source she would have never believed. The wall was built by the freedmen themselves-and some of them, it seemed, knew Marcus. On the very day they were to move out of the townhouse, a round dozen of them had appeared from the quarter, scrubbed the stable down to the stone inside and out, contrived a little outdoor kitchen in the courtyard, and cut the doorway between the two rooms. All that was left was for the two of them to move in. The freedmen had worked in haste and silence, as if afraid they might be caught in their charity, and would not stay for thanks. Xylina had been too young to feel anything but gratitude.

For that reason, when from time to time the sound of coarse revelry drifted over the wall, Xylina chose to ignore it. This afternoon was one of those times. Hoarse male voices shouted at one another, slurred with drink. Utensils clattered, and the savory smell of rich foods wafted in on the breeze.

She winced at the clamor, but there was no point in getting upset about it. There was nothing she could do. Had she been wealthy and powerful she could have sent her own slaves into the quarter to enforce the rules of silence, or demand that the Queen do so. She was neither wealthy, nor powerful; she had more rights than a slave, but no way to enforce them.

And besides, some of those men might be the ones who had helped her.

Instead of wasting her energy in anger, she used it in conjuration. If this was to be her last night-if she died in her trial-by-combat-she was determined to enjoy it to the best of her ability.

Half the bread and cheese went into the tight wooden box that served as a pantry, to be saved for breakfast. The rest, with what was left of her barley and the squash she had bought, would be her supper.

But not alone...

She gathered her concentration and her power, and began to conjure. Magic flowed from her hands, visible and glowing in the dusk like a misty rainbow. It swirled and danced, sparkled with a joy she could not feel, until it finally solidified into whatever her will directed. As one object materialized, she moved it aside, and went on to the next. While she was conjuring, she would not, could not, think or feel. She could not feel and concentrate at the same time.

When she was done, the sliced squash had been joined by rare mushrooms, crisp baby carrots and peas, a lump of fine beef, garlic, ripe olives, and little heaps of expensive herbs, including saffron. The barley had been augmented by superb olive oil in a simple (non-conjured) pot. The best honey and creamiest butter had been conjured up into two more little pots, to spread on her bread with the damsons. The cheese had been joined by two more kinds, both costing far more than the original goat-cheese at the marketplace. By tomorrow night, these delicacies would be gone, of course-but by then, her trial would be over. And she would probably be dead....

And in any case, she was getting her nourishment from what she had purchased; the conjurations were only to give her a fleeting illusion of lost luxury.

She put the vegetables and meat to cook above her fire of conjured charcoal, set the bread on a grid of conjured wire to warm, and turned her attention to her rooms.

She would make these two rooms into a tiny palace for one night, testing her ability to conjure right up to its limit, something she had never dared do before. Why, she didn't know; perhaps because it would have reminded her too much of Elibet, who had been able to conjure almost anything. Perhaps because the Panterras of the city would have condemned her for flaunting such conjurations.

Before the sun set, scent filled the air-from the conjured oil burning in her lamps. She still had no furniture, but rather than conjure anything that required construction, she magicked up great swaths of colorful silks, and soft, puffy nondescript shapes to lounge upon. Streams of brilliant sparks and plumes of luminescent mist followed

her hands as she directed her conjuration across the ceiling and down the walls. Draping the entire outer room in festoons of red and orange and yellow, she worked until the place resembled the inside of a luxurious tent, then conjured up pads of velvety mage-cloth as thick as her thumb to serve as carpeting.

She turned her attention briefly to her food, but it was cooking nicely, so she completed her conjurations in her sleeping-room. This she draped in blues, from sapphire to midnight, and created a huge puff of material, as soft as a cloud, to sleep on. It took up most of the room.

As she completed the last of her conjurations, she felt the last of her power run out, as if it were water and she a jug. For a moment, she was exhilarated. No one she knew had this much power! What she had just done would have taxed the conjuration of anyone but the Queen herself! She had mostly limited herself to creating a length of material to drape around her soft body for clothing, a pallet to sleep on, something to augment her plain, dull food, and wood or charcoal to burn in the winter. She had, infrequently, decorated and lit her sleeping room and had of course practiced creating small objects of many lands. Yet she'd had no idea she could conjure this much at once! Her power had grown.

But immediately depression set in again. What did it matter, anyway? Conjured material wasn't good for anything permanent. By this time tomorrow it would be gone. Assuming she was still alive to care.

In this subdued state, she ate her dinner-carefully, to make each bite last-and gathered her courage for the difficult task that lay ahead of her.

For when the sun set, she had an appointment with Xantippe, the slave-keeper of the arena, to select her opponent for the fight tomorrow.

"I suppose you know you left it too long," Xantippe said rudely, as she let Xylina in through a set of double-locked doors set in the yellow stone wall of the arena itself. Xylina had swathed herself in a wrapping of dark cloth, and the dusk itself had hid her from curious eyes as she slipped from shadow to shadow. She had not wanted anyone to see her. The encounter in the bazaar had been bad enough.

Xantippe brought her down a set of torch-lit stairs, across several corridors, and finally into the slave-quarters. The arena-slaves were kept confined beneath the arena itself, in cells holding one man each. The grizzled, battle-hardened veteran of hundreds of arena-fights glanced at Xylina, who carefully controlled her expression, even though her palms were damp with nervous sweat and her stomach knotted around her illusory meal. She swallowed, hoping she wouldn't vomit with fear. "If you'd come here earlier in the year, like the other girls did, you'd have had a better choice in opponents."

Easier, Xantippe meant. While the men confined here for the womens'-trials were never inferior or diseased specimens, there was a certain amount of choice insofar as size or agility went-or rather, there was at New Year's and at Midsummer, the days when Xantippe combed the slave-markets for new stock. Now-the men left were the ones even the bravest girls feared to face, and for good reason.

Most were battle-captives, which meant that they already knew how to fight. And even though they would be facing their opponents bare-handed, that gave them a distinct advantage. They had learned how to kill; had experience in killing. For all their training, the Mazonite girls making their trials-by-combat had never had that experience.

The rest were simply formidable. Damnably formidable.

Forbidden by their keeper to speak, they sat or stood in their cells, staring back at Xylina as she paced the cold, torch-lit stone hall, examining them.

There were around a dozen of them. Fully half of them leaned against the back walls of their cells, staring sullenly at her, despising or hating her, but unwilling to chance punishment for displaying that hatred aggressively. Most of the rest sat on their bunks and stared somewhere over her head, faces blank, eyes unfocused. One or two looked away, carefully, as Xantippe glared at them.

One, however, did not stand at the back of his cell. Instead, he posed defiantly right behind the bars confining him, massive, muscular legs braced apart, fists on his hips, chin up, glaring directly at both of them. Xylina in particular.

She glanced at him, feeling a kind of electric spark leap between them-not of attraction, but of recognition. Here, perhaps, was someone who loathed her as much as she loathed herself.

Hatred struck her like a palpable force, and she stopped, forced almost against her will to return his stare.

He was huge, perhaps the largest man she had ever seen. The top of his shaggy, ill-kempt head loomed high above hers. His shoulders were broader than a prize bull's, his chest as deep and as heavily-muscled. Eyes the color of storm-clouds glowered at her from beneath coarse black hair and heavy black brows. Sweat gleamed from the curves of sharply defined muscles in his shoulders, chest, and arms. His blocky face could have been carved from granite, and the scowl-lines seemed permanently graven there. No racing-stallion possessed more powerful legs. His hands, by contrast, were not the hard, heavily calloused implements of labor she had expected, but were manicured, clean, and scrupulously cared for.

Xylina stared back at him, wondering what he saw. Certainly she didn't look like much of an opponent. Small, slim, with full breasts and long, slender legs-wheat-gold hair down to her waist-surely there was nothing in her to inspire such a look of virulent, poisonous malevolence.

And yet she could have been as hardened a warrior as Xantippe, for there was no softening in his expression. If anything, his expression grew crueler as a shadow of a smile crossed his lips.

It was not a pleasant smile-it had no sense of good humor about it. But it did promise horrors if he ever got his hands on her. She could well imagine what he had in mind. Rape would be the easiest, simplest thing that he would do to her. She returned his vicious, rage-filled gaze, transfixed, hypnotized by what she saw there.

He wanted to get his hands on her. He lusted not merely for her body, but for the vengeance he would have once he got her. And no one would stop him, if it happened in the arena. In fact, he would be freed and set loose on the border of Mazonia. This was the only time a man had a free hand to strike back without penalty at the women who enslaved him. In this case, at the person of a single girl, not yet officially a woman.

For a girl of the Mazonites had to meet a man in single combat, no holds barred, in the arena. And she had to do so after she began her courses, but before her seventeenth birthday-or face exile. He was trained to fight from the moment he was selected for the arena. She must prove that not only could she conjure, she could do so under pressure. Xylina would be allowed to use her formidable ability at conjuration as her chief weapon. She would be permitted to conjure anything she pleased to use as armor or as weaponry. But she had to do whatever she intended before her opponent reached her, and she must use whatever she conjured effectively. If she was to survive.

Her reward would be possession of the man she had conquered, if she didn't kill him, and full citizenship.

It was no secret that many girls were killed in these rites of passage. That was as the Mazonites preferred; there was no place in Mazonia for weaklings. Every woman must be prepared to protect herself, for there would be no one who would protect her, ever, unless and until she grew wealthy enough to buy bodyguards. A weak woman was a liability- even a danger-to the nation.

The fewer women there were who made the passage from girlhood to womanhood, the fewer there were to share the power and the privilege of citizenship. And the fewer to challenge the Queen to trial-by-conjuration for the right to lead.

Xylina tore her eyes away from the slave's by force of will. Xantippe was watching her with a sardonic smile on her face. Xylina tried not to show how shaken she was, but her stomach fluttered and her knees trembled.

"Like that brute, do you?" the slave-keeper said, with heavy irony. "Sound of wind and limb, I can tell you that much for sure. Would you believe his mistress had him trained as ascribe ?"

Xylina blinked in surprise, thrown off-guard by the revelation, but said nothing. Xantippe took that as an invitation to continue.

She tapped the bars of the man's cell with the end of her whip; the man inside didn't flinch, or even appear to notice. "Little Faro here used to belong to Euterpe until a few months ago. She had him educated; he was supposed to be her scribe and private secretary." Xantippe grinned maliciously. "She sent him off to the training center. Then he had the poor taste to start growing, and pretty soon he was getting a little too big for his desk. The scribe-teacher got the wind up and sent for her. Euterpe got one look at him, and just about dropped a litter of cats. She called the auctioneers, and they agreed to take him."

She laughed. "Then he got wind of the news that she was going to sell him off, as a common laborer."

She tapped the bars again, sharply this time, to get Faro's attention. He transferred his glare briefly to her.

"Poor Faro. Didn't like the notion of getting those pretty hands all calloused up in the fields, did you? Didn't care for the idea that you weren't going to that soft life after all?"

His lips writhed in a silent snarl, but he said nothing. Xantippe crowed with laughter.

"That was when he went crazy-broke up some furniture and a few heads. Euterpe couldn't get rid of him fast enough." She chuckled and shook her head. "I pity the wench who has to facehim . A rabbit would have about as much chance against a wolverine, even an experienced arena-fighter."

Xylina felt a moment of pity for the man-small wonder he hated the Mazonites! As a scribe, he would have known that eventually he would probably win his freedom. It was the custom among the Mazonites to free one slave every seven years, and the ones freed were usually those of the artisan ranks. Faro would have been able to sell his services to those who could not afford their own scribe-slaves, to his fellow freed men, and to the demons who traded with the Mazonites and the freedmen impartially, and who conducted most of the trade that passed the borders of Mazonia.

And there was no reason-other than Euterpe's fear-to demote him from such a position purely on the basis of his size. In fact, before Marcus' illness left him wasted and racked with coughing and pain, he had been as heavily muscled as any arena slave, and he had served Xylina's mother well as scribe and steward. This Faro had been deprived at a single woman's whim of a life of interest and relative ease, and assigned to a much shorter life of back-breaking labor with no prospect for eventual freedom, and all for no fault of his own.

Poor man-she thought, fleetingly. She would hate Mazonites too.

"Well, girl, time is wasting," Xantippe said, interrupting her thoughts. "Which one of these beauties are you going to pick?"

Her sardonic smile said it all-she didn't expect to Xylina to survive against any of these slaves. In fact, she expected Xylina to beg for an extension until after Midsummer, when there might be better choices.

Or she expected Xylina to prove herself to be the coward that everyone thought her, and choose exile over the trial. Xantippe had been no friend of Xylina's mother; she would be equally happy to see the daughter go down to either disgrace or death.

If the choice was no choice-

Then Xylina would make it in style, and confound everyone who had branded her a coward. Live or die, it didn't matter. She would show that she was her mother's true daughter, and as brave as any Mazonite alive.

"Him," she said, pointing, and doing her best to keep her hand from trembling. "The one you call 'Faro.'"

And with that, lest she lose control over herself, she turned and left.

She walked back to her tiny home in something of a daze, but as soon as she crossed the threshold, she collapsed across her bed, trembling. Why had she done that? she wondered. Why? The lamps burned out in the outer room, leaving her in darkness. The revelry on the other side of the wall had finally given way to exhaustion-either that, or someone with more power than she had sent someone to deal with it. That left her alone in the darkness, with her thoughts, which were as dark and heavy as the night air. As alone and forsaken as if she were the only inhabitant in the city. But then, she had been alone and forsaken for three years. Now there was no one who cared if she lived, and several who would be just as pleased to see that she died.

First her mother-Xylina hadn't been more than six when her mother died, but she remembered Elibet distinctly. A woman who laughed a great deal, with lovely flaxen hair, and whose ability at conjuring was second to no one's but the Queen s. But more than that, a loving presence when darkness brought nightmares, a steadying hand at the right moment. Readier with a smile than a frown, and with a kiss of reward than with a whipping. A golden light that colored every day, and drove away the shadows at night.

Then, all in one horrid day, when the earth itself trembled and shook, all that brightness was gone, forever. Then Marcus-

He had promised he'd help her train, when her powers came, she remembered bleakly. He had promised he'd make sure she was the best in the arena-that her trial would be the talk of Mazonia. But he left her too. Everyone left her. She killed everything she cared for. Perhaps that was the reason why she had chosen Faro- because she was better off dead.

What did she have to look forward to, anyway? The last of her money was gone. She'd spent it today, in the bazaar. She might persuade some woman to hire her as a companion and teacher for her daughters, but that would be a meager living at best. Other than that, she had no abilities that a well-trained slave could not duplicate.

So why bother to go on? Wouldn't it be better to die? At least-

At least if she were dead, she wouldn't be lonely any more.

She'd thought about killing herself any number of times before this, and for the most part, it had been only accident that had stopped her. There were no bodies of water in the city that were large enough to drown herself in that were not terribly public-which meant she would likely be stopped. There was nothing tall enough to leap from except the towers of the Queen's hall. The idea of hanging herself gave her the horrors; it must be a quick death, and not a slow one.

Not like Marcus, strangling slowly, fighting for each breath...

She had no money to purchase poison, and didn't think she knew enough about poison to try conjuring it. She could have conjured a knife-and had, a dozen times-but someone always came along before she could use it. In fact, it was as if the same curse that took everyone she loved had conspired to keep her alive against her will.

That, and pride. She couldn't bear to be thought a coward, to disgrace her mother's name. That would be-a betrayal.

But Faro was not likely to be "kind" enough to kill her immediately. She shivered, thinking of his eyes, and all the pent-up venom in his gaze. No, if she simply went through the motions, he would probably do terrible things to her before he killed her....

She had to do more than pretend to fight him, she decided bleakly. She had to humiliate him; make him so angry he forgot what he wanted to do to her, until all he wanted was to kill her. She had to shatter whatever self-control he had until he wasn't thinking anymore.

That wasn't going to be easy; if Euterpe had planned on having him become her scribe, he had to be very intelligent. She would have to keep that in mind.

Odd: for a moment there, in the cells, she had felt something more than his hate. For a moment, she had thought she felt a kind of shock of recognition.

Maybe she did feel something. In a strange way, it was almost as if they were each others fate, as if something worked to push them at each other. Each of them betrayed, in away... both of them alone. What did he fear? she wondered. She didn't think it was death.

She fell asleep in the midst of those strange speculations, exhausted by the emotional turmoil of the day, and she did not wake until the Queen's guard came to take her to the arena.