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“Not exactly. You will be the consort to the sub-Tyrant, Ryessa’s younger sister. Offhand, I cannot remember her name.” A signal passes somewhere, and the serving boy brings forward a tray to Creslin. On the black enamel tray lies a sheet of blue velvet, and upon the velvet is a golden frame. Within the frame is the portrait of a red-haired woman, handsome despite the extraordinarily short-cut hair, the piercing green eyes, the strong, straight nose. The corners of her lips are upturned slightly with the same cynical smile as he had seen displayed by the Tyrant throughout the eight-day stay in Sarronnyn. She looks vaguely familiar, but Creslin knows he has seen no woman with red hair cut that short. “I see.”
    “You will indeed. You could not have done better, and you’re lucky that she prefers feminine men over the more traditional western man. She was intrigued after hearing of how you insisted on undertaking the field trials, and pleasantly amazed at your standing. She even applauded the… incident in the formal garden, the Temple only knows why.”
    Creslin swallows the sick feeling in his stomach as the Marshall stands. A silence radiates from her out into the great hall, a darkness sweeping from her proud, pale face and black working leathers.
    “We have an announcement.”
    She waits.
    “Our consort-to-be has been honored, highly honored. He will be leaving Westwind within the eight-day as the consort-intend of the sub-Tyrant of Sarronnyn.” A half-turn and a gesture toward Creslin follow.
    A pale smile pasted upon his face, he rises.
    “Creslin… CRESLIN… CRESLIN!” The chant builds as he stands there acknowledging it with a hand that turns the winds back, though gently, and waits for the words to fade away.
    As the sounds trail off, he sits down, wanting to wipe his damp forehead but refusing to show any weakness, other than the stiffness of his jaw caused by his clenched teeth.
    “Very nice, brother, considering you’re ready to dispatch the sub-Tyrant with your blade.”
    The breath hisses from him at Llyse’s whispered remark.
    The Marshall indicates that all should resume eating, and most do, save the handful of single guards in the front tables, who regard Creslin directly.
    He takes a sip of tea, then refills his tumbler. He has not finished the last slice of meat upon his plate, and now he has no desire to. How can he escape becoming little more than a prize stud?
    His mother has reseated herself. “It might have been nice to have had a bit more warning,” he tells her.
    “The sooner, the better… for your own protection.”
    “My protection?”
    “Your peers-those who would consider you a consort- are scarcely appreciative of one who is both skilled in arms and tumbled by the most attractive guards of Westwind.” Her laugh is throaty, the real laugh he has heard so seldom. The laughter leaves him speechless for a moment. “And, as you well know, you cannot stay here, not unless…”
    He shivers, knowing what she has suggested.
    “I really didn’t think that would meet your approval. And Ryessa’s sister is handsome, perhaps too gentle… too masculine.”
    The Tyrant’s sister? Had he met her? He takes another gulp of tea.
    “Is she as… does she look like this?” asks Llyse, studying the portrait.
    “A bit softer than that,” comments Aemris. “She’d do well to have a strong consort like Creslin. Sarronnyn’s strictly by lineage, and Ryessa already has two daughters. A strong consort like Creslin,” Aemris nods toward him as-though he could not hear the conversation, “protects her from those who would use the men’s quarters against her.”
    The Marshall looks at Creslin. “Tomorrow you need to consult with Galen to determine what you will take with you to Sarronnyn.” She smiles. “It’s for the best.” Then she stands and is gone before Creslin can respond.
    As soon as she is past the hanging tapestries, Creslin stands, nods, and departs. His steps carry