I had seen many things in those seven months that he and I had been travelling, divining in the towns among the mountains. I had seen him celebrate, rejoicing in the Chosen festivals. I had seen him happy with his friends, smiling at their stories, their songs and dramas. I had seen him exhausted on the journeys, worn out by the people’s love of him, drained by divining. I had seen him leave a crowded room and go outside for solitude and prayer. I had seen him adored, seen him celebrated, seen him exulted. And I had seen him smile at me across a quiet fire and say that, above all other things in life, he enjoyed my company.

I watched the Chosen around him now, laughing with him, admiring him, honouring him, and I turned away, warm in my soul, and kept my joy secret.

I went to the door, opened it for fresh air, and stood leaning against the edge. Behind me was noise and jubilation and light; before me, the silent dark. I thought of Siranjaro mine, and touched the woman-stone in my pocket. For some inexplicable reason, I felt close to home.

There was a quiet movement behind me, and I realised that someone was standing there, close. Closer than was proper for a Chosen. I turned. A young man was there. He was about my age, and must have been wealthy, because his fingers holding the wine cup were jewelled, and he wore large precious stones on his clothes. The Chosen wore their wealth. The fur on his quilted scarlet coat was pure white, and rare. His hair was brown and curled, his beard a shade darker. His face was flushed from the fire, or wine. I suspected the latter.

“You wish to see me?” I asked. I called no man lord now, save the highest of all.

He looked at my face, saw that I watched his, and stared down into his wine. “I would like to talk with you,” he said. Though he stood with his back to the light, I saw that his flush deepened, and he passed his tongue across his upper lip, nervously. He took a gulp of wine and glanced again at my face. “They said that you look on men’s faces,” he remarked, and risked a smile.

“And women’s,” I said. “You men are not the only ones so honoured.”

His smile turned to a frown, though not a serious one. “It is not a sign of honour, handmaid, for a Quelled to look on the face of a Chosen. It is an offence.”

“Are you offended?”

He looked straight into my eyes, and blushed furiously. Slowly he smiled again. “No, handmaid. I am not.”