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His bed waited for him, invitingly, but he feared all he had to look forward to was another, very restless night.
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    Dearra made her way up the circular, stone passageway that wound round and round until she came to the top level, where a single, wooden door gave way to her bed chamber. Her room was large, round, and like Dearra herself, filled with contradictions.
    The walls were hard stone and cold. Even in summer, the bare stone emitted a cool chill if one reached out a palm and touched it. To remedy this, beautiful tapestries, put there to offer some protection from the drafts of winter, hung on the walls. Each one depicted a scene from the history of Maj. Some ancient, some more recent, like stories written in needle and thread, they adorned almost every inch of the room. Though unlikely to admit it to anyone who asked, the story of Cyrus was her favorite, which is why this tapestry was prominently displayed above her bed. She could imagine the handsome Cyrus in all his glory on the field of battle, his hair brushing the tops of his shoulders, his sword singing and whistling through the air as it struck down the fearsome Breken. The stone fireplace, worked into the curved wall across from her bed, crackled merrily, and cast dancing shadows about the room. Someone had thoughtfully slipped up here to ensure Dearra would have at least what little comfort the fire could offer. A mantle of gnarn wood held the greatest treasures from her childhood: a little wooden dagger, a blue hair ribbon that was her mother’s favorite, and a painting of her mother and father on their joining day. Beside the fireplace, on the left, was a chair carved with flowers, topped with cushions of the deepest blue. The carpenter who made it had said the color matched Dearra’s eyes perfectly, and after his wife had dyed the fabric, he knew it had to be used on this chair alone. The comment had made her blush at the time, but it was a very pretty little chair, and she loved it. To the right of the fireplace sat another chair. It was heavy and practical, hard backed, and with no cushions or carvings. It was here that she tossed her clothes as she undressed for the evening. First, she removed the soft, leather pants, which offered scant protection from the stinging slaps of the wooden practice blades. Next, a soft shirt woven from lamb’s wool, then a stiff leather vest, meant to keep her unruly curves under control while she worked, stockings, and a pair of high, leather boots that hugged her legs and ended just below the knee. Lastly, she undid the serviceable leather tie that held her braid, and as she slid her fingers through the tight knots in her hair, she felt it begin to fan about her. She brought the brush up, and pulled it through the long strands. For the thousandth time, she thought how much easier it would be if she’d just cut the stuff off and went about shorter haired, as the men did. Oh, but how her father loved her hair, and she loved her father, and so it stayed.
    She slipped her sleeping gown over her head. It was white and long, and brushed the floor as she walked. It was soft and frilly, with little bits of ribbon at the sleeves and around the gently fitted waist. It had a scooped neckline that seemed to accentuate her dreaded curves, but as there would be little to battle in her sleep, Dearra let herself enjoy the distinctly feminine garment.
    Dearra leaned over a candle that added its own gentle shadows to the room, and puffed a quick breath to extinguish the flame. She climbed into the bed, certain sleep would be a long time coming, as all the thoughts of the day insisted on chasing each other round and round in her head, and mixed emotions of dread, fascination, and excitement warred with one another for her attention. She pulled back the heavy coverlet that topped her bed and slid beneath the cool crisp linens, sure she would lie awake for hours, but sleep claimed her almost immediately. Dearra’s soft breathing was