“And are they, handmaid?”

I hesitated. “High lord, I find it hard in your world. being harsha.”

He chuckled quietly, and I looked into his face, surprised. He was watching me. I dropped my gaze again, quickly.

“That much I understood,” he said.

He was silent for a while, and I had the unsettling sensation that his eyes were moving through my mind, reading my fears, my hopes, and all my most terrible rebellious dreams. It was to become a familiar feeling when I was with him. After a long time, when I was sure he knew every last burning secret, he said, “Why do you carry a firestone, handmaid?”

I was surprised, and guilty for being surprised. My heart raced. “It was a gift, high lord.”

“May I see it?”

I took the woman-stone out of my pocket, and held it out towards him, flat on my outstretched palm. He picked it up, and his fingers brushed mine. I waited for him to go away and wash, as the woman had when she had touched me, but he stayed where he was, relaxed and princely in his carved chair, examining my woman-stone. His hands, like Amasai’s, were clean and beautiful. But the Firelord’s hands were dark, like his face, and his fingers were delicate and fine, with long nails that shone like polished bone. He gave me back the woman-stone, and said, “When I am divining, make sure you do not carry this. It will be a distraction to me.”

“Yes, high lord.”

“And now, there are certain things you need to know. Lift your eyes when I speak to you, harsha. No – not to my face. But lift your head. I cannot abide people who feign humility.”

I looked at his left shoulder, and saw that he wore a thick black cloak over his robes, fastened on his shoulder with a large red stone.

“That is better,” he murmured. “You know a little of the way in which the Chosen regard the Quelled. There are laws which must not be violated. The basic laws you know, from your dealings with your overseers at Siranjaro mine. You understand that, to the Chosen, you are less than an animal, unclean. They believe you have no intelligence, no rights, no soul.”

“Lord, I think–”

“I am very much aware of what you think, harsha. But in your thinking, you are alone. Now every other person in your life is of the Chosen race and of the opinion that you are a lesser being. I cannot overnight alter this discrimination. It is ingrained in centuries of Chosen thought, as much a part of us as our love of fire and freedom and the strength of men. Always, for the rest of your life, you will bear the burden of that prejudice.

“You will remember the things of the Chosen that are sacred, that you must not touch: you must not touch a Chosen himself, not his skin or garments, or his bowls or cups or knives, or his food or the places where he eats or sits or lies down. Neither may you touch the women, for they, too, are sacred to you, though not so sacred as the men. You may not walk in front of a Chosen, or beside him; you may not walk in his footsteps if he leaves them in the dust. You may not look in the face of a Chosen, since his eyes are the windows of his soul, which you are not worthy to see. No Chosen will look on your face, and he will not speak with you unless it is necessary.