Darkness fell but no stars emerged; the smoke hid their glow, and the shrieks of the sphinxes rose everywhere in the night, a song of nightmares, of death, and of a fallen kingdom.

ISSARI

 
ISSARI

She lay upon tasseled cushions, clad in embroidered silks, painted with henna and kohl, perfumed, pampered . . . and chained.

She was Issari Seran, a queen of Eteer, a priestess of Taal, a princess of Requiem . . . and a slave.

"Smoke some hintan!" said Irysa, a young woman with long lashes, gold-painted eyelids, and cascading black hair. "Have some, Issari. It soothes all pain, all fear."

Irysa too wore scanty silks that revealed more than they hid. She too was chained, the bronze links running from her ankle to a bolt in the floor. She took a deep puff on her hookah. Purple liquid bubbled in the glass container, and green smoke rose around the woman. She giggled and passed the mouthpiece to Issari.

The lavender smoke invaded Issari's nostrils, and she coughed and shoved the hookah away. "Don't smoke this! It makes you weak. Makes you woozy. Makes you . . . happy."

She shook her head wildly. The smoke floating through the chamber kept Issari always dizzy, always muzzy, always floating somewhere between wakefulness and dreams. Even without smoking directly from the hookah, the sweet aroma filled her with languor. How long had she been here, lingering in this dream? She did not know. Days? Moons? Years?

She blinked and gazed around her. Dozens of other concubines lounged upon cushions, at the edges of heated pools, and by low tables piled high with golden platters. The scents of wine, honeyed almonds, and sweet pies filled the air alongside the hintan smoke. The women were all young and beautiful, their faces painted, their silks revealing most of their powdered skin. Bracelets, necklaces, and rings adorned them. They were treated like queens, and yet all were chained—chained by the bronze links around their ankles, chained by the hintan that kept their minds soft.

The chamber swayed around her, the edges fuzzy. Issari blinked and shook her head wildly. She waved her hand, trying to clear the smoke. Her many bracelets chinked, beautiful things of gold and silver inlaid with topaz and sapphire. As the bracelets moved, the gemstones left trails of light. Where was she? She saw columns rising beside her. Was she in Requiem? No; these columns were not austere marble. They were carved of colorful porphyry and ringed with gold. The floor was not tiled but covered with a mosaic. It was a hall of light, of grandeur, of precious metals and precious stones.

I'm in Goshar, she realized. In the southern city-state, the place where I had sought safety for my people. I'm a prisoner. I'm—

"Have some, Issari," said another concubine, a golden-haired young woman named Tylal. The beautiful, silk-clad temptress held out a hookah's mouthpiece. "It'll make you laugh!"