One of Moragon's bodyguards came forward, a slim Tingaran who wore his sword with ease and walked with a lithe grace. "I see," the slim man said. "Here," he told Amber, "stand still with your arms to your side and your legs apart. I do not do this for pleasure." He looked at Amber's escort. "You may leave, soldier."

The bodyguard's search was thorough, but brusque, lacking the intimacy that would make Amber feel violated. That would come, she thought.

He met Amber's eyes, made curious by her heaving chest, her breath coming fast and strong. "He's a melding, but he's still a man," the bodyguard said. "You've done this before."

Amber had only ever been with one man, Igor Samson, the husband she had lost. She almost cried, but she held it in. She wasn't just doing this for herself. She had to be strong.

"You can go in now," the bodyguard said.

Amber nodded. She stood for a moment before she could make her legs move. Her feet took her forward and she reached the door to the tent, pushing it to the side and entering.

Swords and armour stood on racks, lining the walls at either side. The light inside the tent was dim, but a nightlamp burned at the desk where Moragon sat, a stack of papers in front of him, frowning at one in his hands. He looked up. "Who are you?" he demanded.

Amber had seen Moragon only once before, when the new High Lord of Tingara had arrived in Halaran and followed his welcome in Ralanast with a tour of the prison camp. He was tall, at least as tall as Miro, with the muscled body of a warrior and the black eyes of a man accustomed to dealing out death. Amber remembered his former title: the Emperor's executioner. She controlled her body, preventing the shudder that tried to force its way out.

The light of the nightlamp reflected from his shaved head, and he was clad in loose garments of black with white trim, but what drew Amber's gaze was the glistening metal of his right arm. Covered with tiny runes, the metal started below his neck and moved down to his shoulder, descending to his elbow, wrist and hand. The lore of Tingara had given him a perfect new limb, stronger than the original, if the stories were true. Amber's eyes rested on the superbly-formed metal hand and fingers that matched the pink flesh of his opposite. It even had nails.

Amber realised he had asked her a question. She could do this, she told herself again. "I'm Amber, High Lord. I'm a gift from the men. A welcome of sorts."

Moragon's eyebrows went up. "Come closer," he said. "I want to see if I can put a price on you. How much did they front up, I wonder? How much am I loved?" He smiled.

Amber stepped forward, into the light of the nightlamp.