She had stood waiting in a tent then too. She had spent days in that tent, the sounds of her mother's trial—screaming, shouting, cursing—rising outside. That day eleven years ago, she had emerged into the daylight to see her mother burned at the stake, to see life change into a fever dream of hunger, abuse, and hope for dragons. Now she waited in a tent again, and again when she emerged, her life would change, and the Laira she had known would be gone, replaced with somebody new.

She lifted the bronze handheld mirror and examined her reflection. So many times, Chieftain Zerra would force her to look at her reflection, to see the creature he had turned her into—a waif with a crooked chin, slanted mouth, sheared hair, and cheeks gaunt with hunger and neglect. Her chin was still crooked, her mouth still slanted, but she no longer saw a starving wretch. Her cheeks were fuller, her hair longer, her green eyes brighter. A headdress of silver and topaz adorned her, and she wore a fine cloak of wool woven with golden threads. Beneath it, her tribe's women had painted totem charms upon her body—paw prints upon her belly, rivers that coiled around her breasts, and golden tusks upon her thighs. The symbols would make her fertile, the women had said, and they would make Chieftain Oritan desire her. Today she would be his.

She closed her eyes, shuddering to remember the only other man who had lain with her. She had given herself to Chieftain Zerra in return for a roc to ride, and the memory still made her wince. Would Oritan too take her roughly, hurting her innards, drooling upon her, digging his fingernails down her back? Or would he be gentle like some women whispered their husbands could be? Laira did not know, but whatever happened, she swore to bear it. For her people. For Requiem.

The tent flap opened. Lokania, a gatherer of berries of the Goldtusk tribe, stood at the entrance. She held a jeweled bowl of ram's blood, signifying the purity of matrimony. The young woman had long golden hair and blue eyes. Fifteen years old, she was slim of body and quick of fingers; she had woven Laira's garment herself. Since Laira had become chieftain, Lokania had served her—preparing her meals, tending to her hair and garments, and running her errands in the tribe. Today Lokania's eyes were bright, her mouth solemn.

"It is time, my chieftain. He awaits."

Laira took a deep breath. She laid down her mirror and stepped closer to Lokania. The girl kissed her fingertips, then placed them against Laira's neck, an old blessing.

"You will please him in his bed, my chieftain." The young woman lowered her eyes and blushed. "He is very strong."

Laira touched the girl's hair. "Walk with me, Lokania. Walk with me to the tusks."