“This is a bath?” Oria gazed at the steaming basin of water—no deeper than the first knuckle of her forefinger and the size of her hand—with some dismay. The pot Baeltya used for tea held more fluid.
The young serving girl with the morning-flower blue eyes twisted her fingers together. “I beg your pardon, my lady, but… yes. The water restrictions—”
“Surely don’t apply here,” another serving woman interrupted. “Let us bring out one of the queen mother’s tubs and fill it. That’s what Lady Natly—”
“No.” Oria held up a hand, and not only because she didn’t want to hear what Natly did or didn’t do. That was all she needed to improve her reputation among the Destrye, to prove herself a wastrel as well as the enemy who’d deprived them of their water reserves in the first place. She needed to stop being so thoughtless.
“You’re not thoughtless. This is all new to you.”
“And you are too generous with me.”
“Because I love you. I suggest rolling in hot sand—that cleans my hide nicely.”
“Leaving your scales dry and peeling. You’ll be in need of oil.”
“I am itchy,” her Familiar admitted, and she felt another pang for having neglected him.
Time to take more control of her situation. Her hand still in the air, the serving women eyeing her with breath held and faces anxious, she studied their glossy curls, shining with volume and vitality. Surely the palace ladies had ways of washing their hair, if only to keep the vermin out. The very thought of insects breeding in her hair made her skin crawl as if a Trom had touched her.
“I would pick them out for you.”
“Ah…Thanks. How about we save that for a last resort?” Out loud, she asked, “How do you all cleanse your hair?”
The ladies exchanged nervous glances. “Us? Or the noble women?” the blue-eyed girl ventured.
“Both. Either, since it seems there’s a difference.”
The girl gestured to the bowl. “The noble ladies use a cloth and bowl, as such.”
“Even to wash their hair?”
She giggled, more nervous than anything. “We do that in spring, traveling to the lakes when they’ve thawed. Or some women of the outer buildings have been gathering snow and melting it.”
“In winter we use powders to soak up the excess oils,” another put in, eyeing Oria’s hair with some doubt. Even with it knotted up again, she could feel it heavy with the sweats of sleep and sickness. The wiry and curly hair of the Destrye women clearly withstood far more oils than her mass of fine, straight strands. They had no mirrors, it seemed—she recalled Lonen’s fascination with hers back in Bára—so she could only imagine how awful she must look. It made no sense to dress her up to dine in the fine clothes and furs being industriously sewn for her, when the person inside the pretty garments stank with filth. How she longed for the steaming baths of Bára.
“Perhaps I should cut my hair short, like Salaya,” she suggested, nearly taking a step back when they exclaimed in horror.
“Begging your pardon, my lady,” the blue-eyed girl said. “Lady Salaya’s hair is shorn out of mourning for her husband’s death. If you were to do such a thing…”
Ah. It would appear that she considered Lonen dead. Even though the popular opinion seemed to be that they weren’t truly husband and wife. It would be nice if the Destrye would make up their minds about that.
“If you don’t do the bowl and cloth method, what do you do?”
“The aswae in Arill’s Temple,” blue eyes replied, ignoring the others, including the senior servant who tried to shush her. “But it’s public and all the common women go there. The more refined ladies bathe in private.”
“How does it work—what is an aswae?”
“It’s a wooden room with benches. And they build up the fire very hot. We rub oil on our hair and skin, then scrape it off again. The sweat from our bodies makes it quite cleansing.”
“Sounds delightful.”
“You would like that.” But she agreed that the prospect of being warm enough to sweat was enticing indeed. “All right. Will you take me there?”
The other serving women looked aghast and fell to muttering among themselves, but blue-eyes nodded, her chin firm. “I will. And I’ll tend you myself. Let me find you something to wear.”
While Oria waited, she wandered about the chambers, sipping her tea and eavesdropping on the Destrye women as they conversed. From what she could pick out, several seemed to find Oria’s proposed visit to the aswae quite scandalous while others shrugged it off.
The helpful serving girl returned with a plain gown of thick material. “It’s not a lady’s dress,” she explained, “but decent for a trip to the aswae, if you don’t mind.” Oria did not mind a bit. The outing had begun to feel like an adventure—and a welcome respite from the crowding of her sanctuary. Wearing the gown, an additional cloak and her fur slippers, she held up a hand to Chuffta, who glided down from his perch on the ceiling beam, to land on her shoulder. He looped his tail around her throat, more out of affection than anything else, as the thick cloak gave him excellent purchase, and delicately poked his nose at her hair.
“I don’t see any vermin,” he commented.
Before she could frame a tart reply, the serving girl, eyes wide and shocked, blurted out, “You don’t mean to bring your pet!”
Several women fell silent, some shooting glares at the girl, as if to admonish her for impertinence, the others avidly interested. “Yes,” Oria replied, finding it easy to remain serene on this one. “Chuffta needs cleansing and oiling, too. And he loves the heat.”
“All right,” the girl replied, shrugging for the vagaries of crazy noble ladies. “It’s not like they’d dare criticize you, anyway.”
Not to her face, that was.
The girl led the way out the door and into a corridor. Like all the rooms Oria had seen thus far, the hall was built entirely of wood, long strips of it fitted together along the long sides, arching up from a flat floor, then bending overhead to form a point. The colors shifted in a subtle spectrum from dark to light and back again, like a rainbow of brown. Oria trailed her fingers along it, the texture not like wood or bark at all, but smooth as sueded silk. They must do something to it, to make it feel so fine. Smaller pieces in various shapes and colors made up the flooring, the swirling pattern giving her a curious sense of swaying branches.
Destrye guards that had been outside the doors now followed after, not speaking to her but also not commenting to each other as the serving women might have. Alby had no doubt gone with Lonen, as he always did.
“What is your name?” she asked the girl. None of the serving women had offered their names, although she wasn’t sure if they observed some sort of protocol, believed she wouldn’t be interested, or had some other reason.
“Pilaryh,” she replied without hesitation.
“Why didn’t you offer your name earlier?”
“We weren’t sure of your customs. Báran ways are strange.” She cast a glance at Oria, the blue of her thickly lashed eyes a vivid contrast with her golden skin and burnished dark curls. They were very nearly the same height, which made Pilaryh short for a Destrye.
“Báran custom is that you should call me Oria,” she said. No matter that wasn’t strictly true. She tired of hearing the deliberate omission of honorifics. Not that she blamed the serving women. They all found themselves in a snarl.
Pilaryh led them over a sort of bridge that Oria vaguely recalled from Lonen’s rescue of her from the healing ward at the temple. Tacked-down hides covered large holes cut at regular intervals in the walls. One had come loose, flapping in a chill breeze, so Oria paused, lifting the corner.
“That should be fixed,” Pilaryh noted. “In the summer the Bridge of Seofe is open to the warm breezes and the view is quite nice. But this time of year it’s too cold.”
“May I look anyway?”
Pilaryh cocked her head, giving her a funny look. “I’m pretty sure you get to do whatever you want, my… Oria.” She gestured to the guards. “Remove this hide so the sorceress may look out.”
One man stepped up and made short work of it, standing back and holding the hide while Oria stood in the open frame, the chill pouring in. On her shoulder, Chuffta lifted his nose, scenting the breeze. He’d been in and out, taking in the sights, telling her some of what he’d seen, but he had a peculiar perspective at times. And though she loved the cloistered warmth of Lonen’s chambers, she’d greatly missed the vistas she’d lived with all her life.
Now it seemed she stood high among branches. Naked of leaves, they twined like black snakes against a gray sky, rattling against each other with thin-boned murmurs. On one side of the bridge, a graceful construction of wood surrounded the largest tree she’d ever seen. It wove in and out, echoing the lines of the branches and limbs. Arill’s Temple. At the other end, where they’d come from, an uglier structure squatted. Made of heavy wood, it looked like the fortress the palace was. The warrior counterpart to the elegant, airy goddess.
All along its walls, below the bridge, at the base of the temple and radiating out in every direction, more wooden buildings sprawled. These were not made with any design or the most basic nod to decoration. None seemed to be square. Even the simpler cubes weren’t perfectly aligned, and they often branched into triangular wings or sprouted narrow passages. They piled on top of each other, the ceiling of one the apparent floor of another.
A haphazard series of catwalks and ladders allowed people to move among them, which they did. Children with dark curling hair ran shrieking up and down the passages, sometimes leaping from one level to the next, making Oria catch her breath in dismay. They seemed to be partly helping, partly getting into trouble among the adults who worked on the topmost roofs, which sported slanting boards that shunted snow into troughs. The people looked to be gathering it up and giving to others to carry away. To be melted, no doubt, as Pilaryh had mentioned.
Snow and ice. She’d imagined it more beautiful than this. Not grimy and packed down. It didn’t look like anything one would want to drink.
“It’s prettier when it’s fresh. It snowed several days ago and not since. When it’s fresh, it looks like sand, drifting and smooth.” Chuffta showed her an image of it.
The conglomeration of the Destrye city rose and fell in waves. She could see it as not unlike sand dunes, with a ridge at the distant edge, the buildings there high enough she couldn’t see past them, though here and there, breaks between revealed some sort of a deep pit beyond.
“What is that?” She pointed, edging aside for Pilaryh to see.
“The moat.” Pilaryh darted her a glance. “You know—full of sharp spikes, to stop the golems.”
Ah. Oria stepped back, allowing the guard to reattach the hide, almost sorry that she’d looked. She had not imagined the exuberant, free-ranging Destrye living so crowded together, in such unlovely conditions. What had she expected, though?
“I think they did not always live this way, that may be why you expected otherwise.”
That could be, though she hesitated to ask Pilaryh about it. That was how the city looked—like the place a hunted and terrified people might hunker down in to fend off an implacable enemy. Not planned.
The temple itself further confirmed that supposition, with its lovely, arching halls and attention to beauty. Everywhere she looked, some detail adorned the least nook. Leaf and branch designs trailed along lintels. Fruits and sheaves of grain decorated wall panels. Tapestries in vivid colors showed vast meadows and forests of with animals of all types. Branches and twigs from the tree that formed the core of the temple poked through seamlessly, a few still sporting fiery leaves. Here and there, dried leaves scuttled across the wooden floors in the wind of their passage, and Oria recalled how one had fallen onto her in a lazy spiral when she’d first awakened. How the head healer, Talya, had taken it up and set it in a bin.
Picking up one of the dry leaves, she examined it. Larger than her head, it looked unlike the smaller leaves of the trees in her rooftop garden. Rather than a central spine, this one had veins that rayed out like the fingers of a hand to pointed edges. It contained no color—not living green nor the dying oranges. Instead it had gone beige, nearly the color of the dirty snow outside, thinner than the most delicate glass vessel the master forgers of Bára could produce, and it gave off a scent like Baeltya’s tea. She brushed her fingers over the sandy surface, producing a sound like she’d touched the finest of scrolls.
“My lady?” Pilaryh asked, a puzzled line between her thick brows.
“It’s beautiful,” Oria said, a kind of an explanation.
“It’s a leaf.”
And thus ordinary to a woman who grew up surrounded by these massive trees. They were the counterpoint to that squalid jumble of huts. Holding the leaf, closing her eyes, it seemed Oria could almost sense it out there—a sort of holy silence where the forest breathed softer than sand whisking against glass. A verdant, ancient magic, the quiet unheard heartbeat behind the yammering tangle of wild magic.
She inhaled, taking it in, savoring. It didn’t flood her, not like the chaos of the wild magic, nor did it surge in great waves like the sgath below Bára. It infiltrated, another kind of satiation, quenching a deep thirst. Swallowing the unexpected gift, she held it in her heart and belly, keeping it safe.
“Oria?”
Oria opened her eyes to find Pilaryh and the two guardsmen all watching her with suspicion and concern. One guard fingered the hilt of his sword.
“You were standing there meditating for a while. I think you confused them.”
“Did you feel it—the forest song?” Abruptly she recalled that delirious moment in the water at the oasis when she’d listened to the enchanting sound of the stars brushing against each other as they danced across the sky. She’d forgotten it mostly, as one did with dreams, checking them off mentally as not real and therefore not worth remembering. But now…
“Would you… like to keep the leaf?” Pilaryh asked gently, the way one would mollify a temperamental child. Or a crazy sorceress.
“Can I?” She did want to keep it. Perhaps work with it to reach for that holy sensation again.
“Well, sure.” Pilaryh held out a hand for it. “We normally throw them away.” She gestured to a bin in the corner, brimming with leaves that had been crushed as someone tamped them down to make more room. “You can have as many as you like. Or do you want to keep this leaf, in particular?”
Oh well, they already thought she was crazy.
“I know I do.”
“Which makes you so very clever.” She added aloud, “I’d like to keep this one.”
Pilaryh stepped to the wall and rang a little brass bell. It made a sound, too, like the stars. Why was everything suddenly reminding her of strange things?
“You’re waking up. Now that your body and mind are healing, your natural abilities are resurrecting, searching out the magic to sustain them.”
“How could you possibly know that?” She mentally rolled her eyes at Chuffta.
“I am wise in many things,” he replied in a smug tone. “Heed my words and you shall go far, sorceress.”
“I think maybe your mind needs healing.” The laughter bubbling up inside felt good. Light, fizzy, and cleansing. Soon she’d be clean all over. Maybe there was hope, as Lonen in his infernally stubborn way always insisted.
A young girl, not old enough to have had her first visit from Sgatha, ran up to Pilaryh, nodded at the instructions and held up her palms reverently for the leaf. Black curls in ringlets spiraled down her back, thickly fringed lashes surrounded crystal clear gray eyes that were enormous with wonder as she stared at Chuffta on Oria’s shoulder. Without a word—and without taking her gaze off the derkesthai—she accepted the leaf, bowed and walked back toward the bridge to the palace, moving as carefully as if she carried a precious vessel.
“I would have introduced her to Chuffta,” Oria said as they resumed walking.
Pilaryh cast an oblique glance at the Familiar, who snaked his head around the knot of Oria’s hair to study her. Probably with a mock fierce glare, knowing him. “It wouldn’t … hurt the child?”
“No.” Oria nearly laughed, then thought better of it. And of Lonen’s warnings. “Not if I command him not to.”
“I hear and obey, worthy mistress.” Chuffta managed a dead-on imitation of one of the more obsequious Báran council members.
“Ooh, I like that. Grovel more and maybe you’ll earn your dinner.”
Chuffta tightened his tail around her throat, only for a moment, but a more subtle move than his usual trick of pulling her hair.
They’d descended far enough that she supposed they must be underground. The light had dimmed and the air smelled moister, earthier. The branches that occasionally surfaced in the corridor ceiling and walls could actually be roots. If roots grew as big around as a Destrye warrior’s body. Which, she supposed, they’d have to do, to support those enormous trees.
At a set of wooden doors, banded with gleaming metal, the guards paused and took up stations. Pilaryh knocked on one, and it opened, just enough for Oria to slip through. Pilaryh gestured her in. The heat hit her immediately and she blinked at the relative brightness of the room after the dim corridor. They seemed to be in a sort of antechamber. Shelves lined the walls, divided into cubbies, some with shoes and bundles of clothes. A metal brazier in the middle of the room glowed with hot coals, smelling of herbs that cleared her nose and soothed her mind.
“I like it here!”
Oria put a restraining hand on Chuffta’s taloned foot. “Not yet. Stay with me and let’s learn the rules.”
“I was just going to look,” he muttered, but he stayed put as Pilaryh barred the door behind them. A stooped older woman craned her neck to peer at Oria, then back at Pilaryh, asking something quietly. Pilaryh replied at some length and the keeper shrugged and nodded. How had that explanation gone? Here’s the king’s foreign mistress claiming to be queen. She’s probably insane, but she’s also a sorceress, has a dangerous pet and doesn’t know any better. So just play along.
In any case, play along the woman did. She waved Oria to a corner, pointing a crooked finger at Chuffta, then to a bench there, and he obligingly half-glided to the perch. The woman undid Oria’s cloak, shaking her head when Oria tried to help, fixing her with a menacing glare from one tawny eye, an unusual shade among Destrye. The other eye appeared to be injured—or missing—the white lines of old scars making a starburst around it. She undressed Oria, deftly folding her clothes and setting them in a cubby, along with her furry slippers. Pilaryh had disappeared into some other corner.
The crone demonstrated that Oria should hold her arms out from her sides, so she did, a little self-conscious at being naked in front of the strange woman. But when the attendant brought over a bowl of golden fluid that had been warming on a shelf under the brazier, dipped her hands in it, Oria stopped her. “Please, don’t touch me.”
The woman frowned at her and said something. “No,” Oria replied. “I’ll do it.” She reached for it, but the attendant held the bowl away, studying her with that one startling black eye. She nodded to herself, set the bowl back to warm and shuffled off. Returning, she held up her hands, showing Oria she wore hand covers made of leather. She dipped her leather-covered hand in the oil, and stretched it toward Oria. A test then. Holding her breath, Oria held out an arm, bracing for the impact, but the oil smoothed on thick and warm—with no intrusion from the old woman’s thoughts or emotions.
She released the breath in relief, then nodded and shared a smile with the woman. Then she lost all caring except for how wonderful it felt.
If the fruit juice had felt like it quenched a core-deep thirst, the oil sated an encompassing one. At first it seemed odd to smear oil over skin that already felt unforgivably filthy, but it sank into her pores with a delightful simmer. With hands surprisingly gentle and deft despite her knotted fingers, the old woman massaged the oil into every inch of Oria’s skin, even over her face and between her legs. Instead of feeling intrusive, however, the massage made her feel cared for, loved even.
“Me too?” Chuffta asked, and for a moment she thought he meant being loved, but he held out his wings hopefully. Oria pointed at the bowl, then to her Familiar, making as if to dip her fingers into the oil. The woman snatched it away, however. Before Oria could apologize to Chuffta, the attendant tottered over to him, filled her hands with the oil and began smearing it over his scaly white hide, as if she did it all the time. The woman noted Oria’s surprise, winked at her with the good eye, then pointed her chin at a metal teapot simmering on a low flame inside a screened box.
Oria almost demurred, feeling quite full of healing teas, but the crone called out something in Destrye. A naked Pilaryh appeared, her hair now knotted up too, her robust body gleaming with oil. She hastened to pour a cup for Oria, then herself. “It helps bring up the sweat.” She smiled over the rim, as natural as if they weren’t drinking tea in the nude.
The old woman was working oil into Chuffta’s wing membranes with deft grace, and the derkesthai had his eyes half closed in utter pleasure, his thoughts a murmur of delighted commentary. “Will your pet want some tea, too?” Pilaryh asked, all politeness.
“I don’t think he sweats,” Oria replied gravely.
“Derkesthai glow,” Chuffta noted in such a prim tone that she nearly snorted tea. “But tell Pilaryh thank you for the consideration. And Rachyl that she has a wonderful touch.”
“You caught her name?”
“Mmm.”
“Would you thank the attendant for us?” Oria asked Pilaryh, deciding discretion might be better.
“Rachyl will continue to serve you both. At the end, you can gift her to show your appreciation.”
Oh wonderful. Oria had nothing to give. Perhaps she could have Lonen send something. Finished with Chuffta, Rachyl took Oria’s hand again and held out the other for Chuffta. He didn’t usually go to strangers, but he hopped up onto her wrist, carefully wrapping his talons around the old bones so as not to pierce her skin, raising his tail for balance. She grinned at him, then at Oria, a smile missing several teeth, and said something.
“What did she say?”
Pilaryh shook her head. “Something in her tongue. Arill only knows.”
“She’s not Destrye?”
“Not even a bit, but she’s been here forever. This way for the aswae.”
Pilaryh opened another door and Oria, Rachyl leading her by the hand still, entered yet another room. Both hotter and dimmer, this one seemed to be lit only by bloodred coals gleaming in metal grates positioned around the room. About a dozen women, all naked, lounged around on benches.
All of them stared at Oria.
Pilaryh seemed not to notice, finding an empty tier of three benches attached to the wall. “Start at the top. If you feel too hot, move down to a lower one. But try to resist. Just keep sweating.”
At least lying down, Oria felt less conspicuous. Chuffta arranged himself perilously close to a brazier of coals, belly up and wings spread to their fullest extent, sighing happily. Oria tried to emulate his ease, stretching herself on the topmost bench. She was already sweating profusely, her perspiration mixing with the oil and sliding across her skin. It felt like the hottest afternoon in Bára, without the sun. There, however, they’d never deliberately tried to be hot. Everything had been about cooling—the ices, juices, fruits, shades, and fans.
In this, too, then, the Destrye were opposite. But as the heat penetrated her bones, she felt warm for the first time in what seemed like ages. Rachyl had been tending other women, moving about in the shadows. Oria hadn’t really been watching. She returned to Oria, gesturing her to stand again. Working swiftly, she took what looked like a wooden knife, scraping it over Oria’s skin, then wiping the dull blade and tossing the refuse onto the coals where it hissed, sending up a smoke that smelled of dark spices and a roasted scent she only then identified. Human skin. Oh joy.
“Humans don’t smell so bad once you get used to them,” Chuffta’s snotty comment lost something in the blur of contentment.
Other attendants worked, too, or some women tended each other, some scraping as Rachyl did for her; others rubbing on oil and massaging. Sure enough, once Rachyl finished scraping every crevice on Oria’s body, including behind her ears and the bottoms of her feet, she slathered on more oil and waved for her to lie down again. Rachyl set to work performing the same service for Chuffta, who predictably loved every moment. Oria had long oiled his hide to keep it supple in the desert heat, but it had never occurred to her to scrape it this way. Maybe she could get one of those wooden knives and learn to do that for him.
“Or we could just come here. Every. Day.”
She chuckled at that, but tended to agree. The aswae felt wonderful. After a while, Rachyl returned, this time with a cup of fresh water. Oria sipped it as Rachyl scraped her, no longer minding the smell of old skin burning on the coals. She imagined it as all the filth she’d accumulated and it seemed fitting to burn it. Old pains and sorrows, burnt and turned to smoke.
This time, Rachyl took her empty cup and had Oria sit on a lower bench. She took Oria’s long hair down and, tugging Oria’s head back, poured hot oil through it. The sensation melted through her, leaving utter lassitude behind. This time, when she lay down, her hair once again reknotted, she fell into a deep sleep, free of dreams.
When Rachyl woke her, fewer women occupied the chamber. During the time they’d been in there, women had occasionally left through a second door, and Rachyl, after a final scraping, took her and Chuffta out that door. This room was brighter and almost startlingly cool. Women chatted in louder tones, sliding her glances and conferring as they rubbed themselves and each other down with rough-looking cloths. Rachyl took up a metal flask with a curious attachment and sprayed Oria with a liquid so cool and stinging that her nipples instantly hardened and she squealed—making several of the women laugh.
“It’s always startling the first time,” Pilaryh said, appearing at her elbow, dark nipples tight with a similar response. “It’s like… I don’t know the Common Tongue word, like wine, only different. It closes up the pores again.”
Rachyl cackled, said something in her tongue which, now that Oria paid more attention, was clearly not Destyre, and sprayed her back, following with the cloth that was rough indeed. Then she applied a lighter oil that smelled of the same spices but absorbed into the skin. Oria herself rubbed down Chuffta, skipping the alcohol spray as it probably wasn’t good for him, but using some of the same finishing oil.
Finally, Rachyl sat Oria on a bench with a high back that had divots to rest her neck in. Rachyl unknotted Oria’s hair and combed it out, the wooden teeth gliding easily through the thick oil. Oria cracked open her lids at the murmurs, to discover a ring of Destrye women watching. They spoke amongst each other, Pilaryh with them.
She caught Oria watching. “No one has seen hair like yours, like fire,” she explained. “They want me to ask, if it won’t cause offense. Are all Báran women colored so—or only the sorceresses?”
As her hair had to be nearly black with dirt and oil, she couldn’t imagine how they could even tell. “Our hair tends to be much lighter than yours, but not always my color,” she replied, closing her eyes and resigning herself to the interrogation. “Ask whatever you like. If I don’t want to answer, I won’t.”
“Your skin, is everyone so fair?”
“Pretty much, yes.” Rachyl poured some kind of grit into her hair, massaging it into her scalp. It actually felt good, in an odd way. Stimulating and refreshing after the lulling oils.
“Your nipples are pink,” Pilaryh pointed out, and Oria cracked an eye open again.
“Yours are brown,” she replied, resisting the urge to cover her breasts. Pilaryh translated for the ladies, who started giggling, cupping their breasts and showing each other. All of them were more endowed than Oria, much in keeping with their larger frames and robust musculature. They had wider hips and voluptuous thighs. One was heavily pregnant, her breasts large and belly swollen. Oria felt like a wraith compared to them. Wan.
“It’s easy for us to understand now,” Pilaryh said, a wistful sound in her voice, “why King Lonen is so obsessed with you. You are the most beautiful woman any of us have ever seen. Perhaps you are the most beautiful woman in the entire world.”
Oria nearly choked on that, though maybe that was the powder Rachyl seemed to be dusting through her hair, then brushing out into clouds. “Surely not,” she replied. “I’m nothing special. I’m just exotic to you. I would love to have hips and breasts like all of you do.” These women looked built to bear children easily and often. Even if Oria could find a way to get with Lonen’s child, it seemed impossible that her body could swell to carry such a burden.
Rachyl misted some of the spray onto her hair, then gestured for her to sit up again, draping Oria’s hair over her shoulder in a long fall. Impossibly it gleamed brighter than ever, nearly glowing with a healthy sheen. Oria smoothed it, giving Pilaryh a grateful smile. “It worked!”
Pilaryh nodded knowingly. “King Lonen will be most pleased.” She patted her own flat belly. “And soon you will swell with his heirs, perhaps even starting one tonight, lovely as you look.”
If only it were so simple.