3 Olabar Palace

In the high tower room, the soldan-shah's First Wife Istar—who had been called Adrea, a lifetime ago—sat with her daughters, ostensibly studying verses in Urec's Log. The blue silk curtains were drawn aside, and hot Olabar sunlight gleamed on the polished marble of the open balcony.

From the milling crowds in the square far below, the penetrating voice of Sikara Fyiri wafted upward. Her words were as sharp as a gull's beak, but even gulls weren't so malicious or persistent. “Did Urec not teach us that a mirage can be as deadly as physical danger? He warned us not to trust in strangers.” Fyiri grew more strident. “Do not fail to recognize the stranger you have let into your own house and into your bed.”

Clearly a reference to the First Wife and her role in the Olabar palace. Istar kept her temper in check, pretending to be aloof. The sikaras were never so bold when Omra was present in the city.

Leaning over the cool stone table, Istar pointed to ornate letters on the page, correcting her youngest daughter's mumbled pronunciation. The three girls—Adreala, Cithara, and Istala—were disturbed from their studies by the sikara outside.

Because he spent so much of his time in Ishalem, Omra designated advisers in his absence to monitor the Uraban treasury, agriculture and trade, military preparations, the navy. As the soldan-shah's First Wife, Istar had spent many years at his side listening to complaints of injustices; now he let her handle many of his day-to-day duties at court. Since she was a mere woman, though—and a foreigner at that—many Uraban nobles, priestesses, and commoners were disturbed to see her influence. They circulated rumors that Istar was an Aidenist witch who had cast an unholy spell on the soldan-shah. Utter nonsense. She was more concerned with her daughters' education.

Twelve-year-old Adreala, the eldest, paced around the tower room, bored with the poetry in Urec's Log; she preferred stories of adventures to lyrical verse. She and her little sister, Istala—two years younger—would soon begin schooling in the main church of Olabar, entering the ranks of acolytes at the same time.

Adreala took after her mother, showing a hint of Tierran skin tone; her hair was a lighter brown than Istala's, her figure more wiry. The girl felt no great desire to become a sikara; she had dreams of doing other things in her life besides studying and preaching.

Istala was the other side of the cuar coin: olive-skinned, her hair a true blue-black, her demeanor studious. The ten-year-old loved to listen to the priestesses and their music. She perused Urec's Log on her own, wrote out prayers, and burned the paper strips in hopes that Ondun Himself would see the smoke.

The crowd roared outside, incensed by something Sikara Fyiri had said, and Istar glanced up from the thick tome. The third girl in the room, Cithara, at eleven years old, was harder and more moody than her two half-sisters. She turned away from the open balcony with a sniff. “You should not listen, Mother Istar. Sikara Fyiri spreads poison against you.”

Despite the knot in her stomach, Istar did not let herself show any distress in front of the girls. “I am proof against her poison. She can talk all she wants.” She took the girl's hand and drew her back to the table and their studies.

Cithara was the daughter of the soldan-shah's late wife Cliaparia, whom Istar had stabbed to death in broad daylight. Covered with blood, staggering through the souks, Istar had been horrified at herself, but she had felt no guilt. Cliaparia had killed her baby son… Criston… the soldan-shah's heir.

Six years ago, when Omra had rushed back from his conquest of Ishalem, the soldan-shah easily found proof of the other woman's crimes. His rage had been thunderous. He dispatched proclamations to all the soldanates absolving Istar of all blame in the killing. “I would have executed Cliaparia myself. Istar was merely meting out the soldan-shah's justice.”

Omra had wanted to exile Cliaparia's little daughter—his own daughter—though the girl was much too young to bear any responsibility. But when Istar had looked at the child, something changed inside her. She had caught a glimpse of her humanity again, much as she had upon finding the long-lost note in a bottle from her beloved Criston Vora. “You cannot punish the girl for the sins of her mother,” she had insisted.

The soldan-shah was puzzled, for Istar had more reason than anyone else to hate Cliaparia and her family. But she stood firm, and he relented. Instead of letting the girl be exiled, she raised Cithara as one of her own daughters. Though Omra still didn't understand her motives, the arrangement had worked well for the past six years. The three girls were inseparable.

Outside in the square, Fyiri continued, “Ondun will keep His back turned from us as long as we remain tainted, as long as there are those among us who hide behind masks and whose thoughts are never truly known.”

Another veiled reference to Istar. She found it ironic, actually. Masks? With her golden-brown hair, light skin, and blue eyes, Istar could never pretend to be one of them. She had never wanted to be here in the first place; she was born to be a village wife with a Tierran sailor for a husband. But Omra had taken all that from her more than eighteen years ago. Now this was her only life, and she had made the best of it.

“Don't worry, Mother,” Istala said in a quiet voice, speaking for herself and her sisters. “When we all become sikaras, we will never hate you, no matter what they try to teach us.”

With beautiful cushions piled about her, Istar sat on the dais in the throne room. Acting in the soldan-shah's stead, she waited to receive Soldan Huttan's emissary from Inner Wahilir.

Beside her, a fluted silver pot filled with hot water, fresh mint leaves, and honey was accompanied by a single eggshell ceramic cup. Istar would not waste social pleasantries on the emissary. She had met Ualfor once during a banquet with Omra, but she doubted he had even noticed her; he was a man who saw only the “important” people in a room.

As Soldan Huttan's mouthpiece, Ualfor was delivering a proposal to annex certain border lands on the edge of Yuarej soldanate, areas that Huttan claimed were ignored by Yuarej and already settled by the people of Inner Wahilir. Istar would accept the document on the soldan-shah's behalf, but she did not intend to render any decision.

Ualfor sauntered in, head held high, a clean white olba wrapped around his dark hair. He smelled of sandalwood and cloves, the scent preceding him by several steps, but when he saw Istar sitting on the dais, the emissary stopped abruptly. “I have been dispatched by Soldan Huttan to speak with the soldan-shah. I have an important petition, for his eyes alone.”

“I am his eyes here today.”

The emissary clutched a scroll, his grip so tight that he wrinkled the fabric. “I cannot trust a matter of such import to a…”

“To one of his wives?”

“When will the soldan-shah return? Tell me.”

Istar was put off by his tone and how he presumed to command her. “I do not set the soldan-shah's schedule, and neither do you. By Omra's command, I sit here in court, to receive—and decide—such matters in his absence. You may deliver your document to me, or you may go home with your task uncompleted. It matters not to me.”

The emissary turned to two of his retainers who had entered after him. He struck one on the side of the head, berating the man for making him look like an uninformed fool. Without bidding Istar farewell, Ualfor stalked out of the throne room. She could barely keep herself from chuckling in the face of such childish behavior.

That night, alone in her spacious bedchamber, Istar lit five beeswax candles and sat cross-legged on the floor beside a low table of polished mahogany. She contented herself with a solitary game of glass spheres and beads. Hearing a soft voice, she looked up to see doe-eyed Naori, Omra's other wife. “Excuse me, Lady Istar—might I speak with you?”

Istar gestured toward the table. “You're always welcome here, Naori.”

In stark contrast to the murderous Cliaparia, Naori was sweet and gracious. From the day the soldan-shah had married the girl, Istar and Naori had gotten along well. Immersed in the Uraban culture, Istar had long ago surrendered preconceptions of monogamy, as the Aidenists preached. She had never wanted to wed Omra in the first place, and in her heart—as well as in the eyes of Ondun—she was still married to Criston Vora. Naori was no threat to her, nor to her children. The younger wife had given the soldan-shah two sons, Omirr and Irec, who would be the heirs of Uraba.

Naori arranged her silk skirts so she could kneel at the low table. Istar rearranged the beads and glass spheres, setting up the game for two players, but the other woman looked deeply troubled. “Ur-Sikara Erima came to me again in the church at sunset services. While I was praying, she whispered dangerous things in my ear.”

Istar pushed the game pieces away. “What did she say?”

“She said that”—Naori swallowed hard—“she said that you and Saan are going to kill my two sons, so you can rule Uraba. The ur-sikara mocks me for trusting you.” When she shook her head, dark ringlets waved from side to side.

Istar rolled her eyes. “Why would I be so foolish? Even if I managed to put Saan on the throne, he would never be safe. He'd be assassinated within a month. We both know the Uraban people—not to mention the sikaras—would never tolerate him on the throne.” Mere logic would not comfort Naori, though. Istar forced herself to remember Cliaparia's treachery. She reached out to pat the younger woman's hand. “I have felt the pain of losing a child. I would not do that to you or my son.” She lowered her voice. “Or to our husband. I love Saan. Omra loves him. I want him safe and alive.”

Istar arranged the pieces once more and pushed the blue spheres closer to Naori, encouraging her to pick them up. The game would distract her from the ur-sikara's poisonous accusations. “We are all part of the same household. I love you, Naori, and I have helped raise your sons. Omirr will make a fine soldan-shah someday.” She meant it sincerely. “I want your sons, and mine, to grow up and prosper.”