Sounds entered his sleep: the slow crackling of the fire in the hearth, the tiny clink of glass from the kitchen, the sibilant voices of the servants nearby. They twined in and out of his unchained mind, weaving visions of their own in passing. The clink of glass was the sound of a diamond tumbling from Queen Nadiushka's crown. The voices became the whispers of the Rshani courtiers and their women as they stared, their pale blue eyes filled with curiosity and malice. The crackle of the fire became less random, more measured, the tramp of boots, a march, an army...

Scarlet awoke in a bed of silk, surrounded by veils of gauzy material draped over the bed's massive wooden frame. The heavy velvet bed-curtains had been drawn back, leaving only the inner veils. A crystal lamp like a large, hollowed sapphire burned low in the room beyond, casting deep blue shadows in the corners. Scarlet sat up, pushing the covers away as he tilted his head, listening.

He was a slight young man, a Hilurin by birth, and bearing the beauty of that race, with his silken black hair, his jet-black eyes, and his pale skin. His mouth was a dusky rose, pursed sleepily, and his eyes were heavy and drowsy. Another mark Scarlet bore that set him apart from the race of giants he now found himself surrounded by: he was marked for luck, born with only four fingers on his left hand, a sign of Deva's favor.

Scarlet slid naked from the bed. His feet sank into soft carpeting as he padded soundlessly to the casement and pushed aside the heavy woolen draperies to look down at the ward far below. Unlike the common room of this suite, the bedroom afforded a view of the inner ward of the Nauhinir Palace, and he could see a double column of many soldiers marching from an arch to the north, crossing the ward as they made for the outer gate that Scarlet had glimpsed last night. It was snowing lightly over the icy landscape, and all was shrouded in that blue twilight that Scarlet still mistook for evening. He was in Rshan na Ostre, the Land of Night.

Look at them all, he thought. Where can they be going in this weather? Surely not to war?

At the head of the column, riding a black horse and carrying a long blue banner that glittered with silver, was a magnificent woman. The Rshani warrior wore heavy armor beneath a blue cloak, and her pale hair was unbound and trailed behind her like a flag. She wheeled her horse around and looked up at the castle, seeming to stare right at him. Scarlet gasped and watched, spellbound, as the woman looked long and searchingly at the casement, and then finally, seeming not to find what she sought, turned and spurred her horse to the head of the column.

Scarlet found he could breathe again, and he exhaled slowly as the stream of horses and soldiers continued to flow out of the palace. A sound behind him made him jump and scamper back for the bed. Just in time, too, for Nenos, Liall's aged and kindly servant, was in the doorway: competent, polite, and oblivious to nudity. Scarlet's face burned with embarrassment. Of course, Nenos had heard them last night. Liall, in particular, was not shy at all about making noise during loveplay.

Or showing off his body, Scarlet thought resentfully, remembering how Liall had climbed naked from the bath in front of all those handsome servants. Now Nenos stood gazing at Scarlet with a knowing expression, smiling slightly and bowing before he departed, probably to bring che, which was custom here as well as in Scarlet's own country of Byzantur.

Scarlet flopped back on the bed and stretched, remembering last night and Liall's hands on him and his mouth and gods, where was a word for it? He had heard stories, but who could have told him that Liall would make him feel so lost inside his own skin? In bed with Liall, Scarlet had felt himself becoming transparent, and he had finally reasoned out why some called it taking. Even with the bed empty and his eyes open, Scarlet could still feel Liall with him. The man had settled inside him like a seed, and for a mad moment, Scarlet wondered seriously if there was room enough in his spirit for someone like Liall: a man who had so much presence that people moved out of his way even when they believed him a pauper. When Liall spoke, lesser men went silent. When he entered a room, he took it over.

Scarlet feared what that meant for him. He valued his freedom. Could he share so much of himself with anyone? Would Liall feel confined in the space Scarlet could allow him, or, like the conqueror the man was born to be, would Liall forever be taking more of Scarlet than he knew how to give? As close as they had become, Scarlet was not one of Liall's people. He was not royal like Liall's family, nor clever like the silken ladies and men of the court, nor educated, nor even very big.

Will I be enough for him?