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that Margret, in fury, managed to hold her hand, although her fingers were curled into fists that trembled with her effort. But she couldn't contain movement, and within the guarded circle of heartfire and Voyani magics, she paced the thin grass off the earth. Grinding her heels into the packed dirt made her feel slightly better.
    "We
saved
you, you ungrateful—"
    "Margret!" Yollana made her name a harsh bark.
    But the Serra-Diora-damned-di'Marano said nothing at all. Strands of her hair had fallen loose with the shaking, and now trailed down the side of her delicate face; disheveled she looked… beautiful. Margret hated her. And was fascinated by her, in a furious way. There she knelt, hands in lap, on an unrolled mat that the Serra Teresa had brought into the circle for her when Margret made it perfectly clear that her seraf was
not
welcome to enter. Her precious knees never once touched dirt. She had spoken only a sentence or two—but she was like all clanswomen; as speech was so often denied them, they'd learned to hone words until they were like the thin edge of a dagger in their effect.
    On the other hand, no one knew how to wield a dagger better than a Voyani Matriarch. No one.
    The Serra Diora bowed low, her head touching her perfect, protected knees. "Yes," she said softly. "Although I do not understand how it was possible, I have some understanding of what you faced, and what you defeated; I understand my debt to you. I do not know if I will be able to pay it, and I regret… that I must refuse your request." She sat in that submissive posture, and Margret understood, again, the subterfuge of posture.
    Because there was
nothing
submissive about this woman. Oh, she was good. If Margret didn't keep an eye on her, she'd probably have the caravan wrapped around her little finger without speaking more than a dozen demure words.
    It wasn't a request
! Margret wanted to shout. But Yollana's expression had passed from forbidding to actively threatening, and Elsarre looked a bit too eager for a fight. Maria? Silent, silent, silent. But her gaze lingered a moment over Diora's bent back, and she straightened her shoulders, compressed her lips.
    Enough. The only winner in this confrontation was likely to be Diora, and Margret wasn't about to hand her her victory; let her work for it. It certainly didn't look like she'd ever had to work for anything else.
    "When, then?" Margret said, terse now because it was bloody hard not to say what she was thinking.
    In answer, Diora unfolded until her back was straight and her chin parallel with the ground. The Serra had, Margret thought, the most beautiful eyes she had ever seen. Not cold, like Maria's almost Northern eyes, but dark as Lady's night and Lady's shadow. Mystery, there. She didn't want to be beguiled. She didn't want to seem intimidated; she met those eyes and held them.
    And then she said, in a voice that she knew was hers because of the sensation of speech, the movement of air across lips, the intake of breath and the sharp punctuation of the same breath when she was done. "Tell me about Evallen of the Arkosa Voyani."
    "Have a care, Matriarch," Yollana said. Margret almost ordered her out of the circle.
    And
that
would be the act of a fool.
    "Did she give you your—burden—when she was dying?"
    She expected the Serra to look away, as Serras so often did. She expected some pretty hesitation; the Serras were so often fluttery, delicate things, who moved with enviable grace and spoke in soft, fluting voices, and never wrinkled their faces with anything as common as a
frown
.
    But this Serra, while she did not frown, did not flinch.
    The eyes
, Margret thought. For a minute, they were the dark of the Lady's Night—the Lady's desert Night; the terrible oblivion of cold.
What have you done, Serra? What have you seen
? She didn't ask. And not only because she knew better than to expose ignorance in front of an enemy or a rival.
    Part of her didn't want to know what the answer