I stared at him, entranced, the scroll crushed to my breast, my voice lost. I forgot I was harsha and he was Chosen, and that I was breaking laws. If he was angry, he did not show it. Besides, he broke the law himself, staring intently at my face.

“You are harsha,” he murmured. His voice was incredibly deep, sonorous, and powerful.

I nodded, my mouth hanging open, stupidly. His eyes fascinated me.

“I heard you reading from a sacred book,” he said, crossing the carpet between us.

I swallowed nervously, and blinked up at him. His eyes, black and gold like burning firestones, smiled down on me. I smiled back. “It wasn’t really your prophet, lord,” I said. “I can’t read.”

“Oh.” He took the scroll from me, smoothed it flat, and rolled it up again. “I thought the philosophy was unfamiliar,” he murmured.

“It was mine, lord. My philosophy.”

“You do have one, do you, harsha?” he asked, frowning and smiling at the same time, tapping the scroll against his strong chin. His beard, in parts, was streaked with grey. Like Amasai, he looked into my eyes. “What is your philosophy?” he asked.

A warning buzzed urgently in my head, but I ignored it.

“I think you Chosen have it all wrong, lord,” I said. “I think your myths are wrong, your beliefs are a curse on the whole world, and your prophet is a liar.”

I looked into his face It was grave, attentive, and he nodded slightly Astounded and encouraged, I poured on him the pain and humiliation of eleven years in Siranjaro mine.

“Look!” I cried, holding out my hands. “Two arms, two hands – the same as you. I have a mind, a language, feelings, myths, dreams. We Quelled are the same as you Chosen. The only difference is the mark of the brand – the mark you forced on us. We weren’t born with it. We’re equal. Equal with you. Yet you treat us worse than your animals. You brand and enslave and kill us slowly in the mines. Your treatment of us is wrong, evil, and unendurable.” I paused, breathing hard, and suddenly realised we were not alone.

At some stage Amasai had come in. He was staring at me in disbelief, his face white with horror. Suddenly he turned to the man I had been talking to, and flung himself full-length before him.

“My high lord,” he said, his voice muffled against the floor, “high lord, I grieve most deeply my mistake. I brought the harsha here to be your handmaid, and find she is depraved. High lord, I crave your pardon. I crave …”

Whatever else he craved, I never knew. I fainted.

6

The Firelord

FREEZING WATER struck my face, and curious hands shook my shoulders, lifting me. I groaned and tried to pull away. My head ached.

“You have disgraced me!” cried a man’s voice, wild with rage and despair, and I looked up and saw Amasai bending over me. He let me go, suddenly, and I fell against the stone wall. He began pacing the floor, his fine boots leaving flattened marks on the soft mat. He swore and ran his hands through his long fair hair, then turned on me with a look that terrified.