“Not all dangers are equal.” Her father spoke without anger, but equally devoid of regret. “And I will not risk your life when strangers stand ready to serve me.”

“And if I were instead your son?”

“A woman has no place in battle.”

So that was it. It didn’t matter what she did. Even her father saw her as something to be protected. Cherished, but also pitied for a weakness that owed more to perception than to truth.

“The Tressians don’t believe so.”

“What the Tressians believe, or do not, is of no concern to me.”

Melanna took a deep, shuddering breath. Anger never prevailed upon her father, only reason. “And how am I to earn the respect of those I must lead if they never see me in battle?”

“They will see you. But not here, and not now.” He rose and laid a hand on her shoulder. “I know you burn for this. You would not be my daughter otherwise. But now is not the time. Tradition bends unwillingly.” He sighed. “And so do I. It’s selfish, but I do not wish to see you scarred by war.”

“Afraid I’ll no longer dazzle?” she asked sourly.

He tapped her lightly on the breastbone. “War leaves its mark upon more than flesh. I don’t ask you to embrace my decision, for I know you won’t, but I require you to respect it. And when this campaign is done, and the throne secured, I will give you everything you wish. Even the scars.”

“And if you die because I’m not there to protect you?”

And it would be more than his death, devastating though that would be. His death would be the death of Melanna’s dreams. The Golden Court would never back an unblooded woman over Maggad. If her father died, the throne would go to the old warleader – as would she, were she too slow in embracing the Raven. Nothing like a marriage to cement a fickle claim. And so the line of Saran would end with a slit throat on her wedding night.

He shook his head. “What have I done to deserve a daughter who has so little faith in me? I have no plans to die, essavim.”

The curtain at the tent’s entrance swished. Melanna turned around, knowing what she’d see. No wonder Drannic had abandoned his post so readily. He’d not been dismissed, but sent to fetch her escort.

Two lunassera stood in silence before her. They were curiously alike, as were all the goddess’s handmaidens. Between the silver-traced wooden half-masks that concealed all but the eyes and the olive skin of the lower jaw – and the close-fitting white robes that covered the women head to foot – there was little room for individuality.