It was the latter who interested him, specifically the lithe Northern slave they
called Seylalha who practised the arduous Dance of the Consort at this time each
day. The dance was a mortal recreation of the divine dance Azyuna had performed
before her brother, Vashanka, persuading him to make her his concubine rather
than relegate her to the traitorous ranks of their ten brothers. Seylalha would
perform that dance in less than a week at the annual commemoration of the Ten
-Slaying.
She had reached the climax of the music when he arrived, beginning the dervish
swirls that brought her calf-length honey-coloured hair out into a complete,
dazzling circle. The tattered practice rags had long-since been discarded, but
she was not yet twirling so fast that the priest could not appreciate the
firmness other thighs, the small, upturned breasts. (Azyuna’s dance must be
danced by a Northern slave or the movements became grotesque.) The slave’s face,
Molin knew, was as beautiful as her body though it was now hidden by the
swinging hair.
He watched until the music exploded in a final crescendo, then slid the spy-hole
shut with an audible click. Seylalha would see no virile man until the feast
night when she danced for the god himself.
2
The slave had been escorted to her quarters – more properly: returned to her
cell. The beefy eunuch turned the key that slid a heavy bolt into place; he
needn’t have bothered. After ten years of captivity and especially now
that she was in Sanctuary, Seylalha was not likely to risk her life in