Three days after the party at Rowen’s, Ziva had spent the morning studying with her tutor. For a time in the afternoon, she sat with Ana and Vita, learning to paint a picture with thread on fabric. Tawna and Kara came, and spent the last of the afternoon gossiping about the party and all the men they danced with, or rather, Tawna and Ziva spent the time listening to Kara gush about all the men with whom she danced. Tigre curled in Ziva’s lap and she absently stroked his yellow and black fur.

“The Lorcan Priest, Qinten, danced with me twice. He is such a good man. Didn’t try to touch me inappropriately and is a good dancer. It doesn’t hurt that he is handsome.”

“Qinten?” Tawna and Ziva chorused.

“He is handsome,” Tawna said, “but a good man hardly describes that man. Why did you leave the party early, Ziv?”

Ziva thought about it briefly then shook her head. “I was tired.”

“No, you weren’t. I saw what happened.”

Ziva raised her eyebrows high and crossed her feet at the ankles, resettling the cat and allowing her right foot to bounce. “What makes you so sure?”

“I was there. Remember? I walked toward you with Ti’ras when Qinten approached you. You almost ran away from him. Besides, your foot is bouncing so fast, if you don’t slow it down it will bounce off your leg.”

Tigre dug his claws into Ziva’s leg and jumped off her lap, then curled up beside her chair, safely out of reach of her moving foot. Ziva looked down at her bouncing foot and laughed. “I give in. You are right. Qinten tried to talk with me, but my innards quiver when I am near him. His soul is dark. I see no good in him.” Ziva uncrossed her feet and set them firmly on the floor. Tigre stood and stretched, then lay curled with his tail wrapped around him in the sunshine near her feet.

“I saw you walk away from him. Didn’t you want to dance?” Kara teased.

“No. Nor did I want to share anything from the refreshment table. Besides, Father was ready to leave.” Ziva bent over, picked up her cat, and hugged him to her chest.

“You said that during the party. What do you mean—his soul is dark?” Tawna stared at her friend.

“I am not really certain. He … feels dark when I am near him. I can’t explain it, not even to myself. I just feel darkness when he is near.”

“But what is a soul?” Tawna’s eyes crunched together. “You speak of souls and I am lost. What are souls?”

“The part of each of us that is spiritual, eternal. I have always known about souls. And when a soul is dark, I tremble.” Ziva wrapped her arms about herself, shivering at the memory.

“I don’t understand, Ziv,” Kara pouted. “All this talk about dark souls. Are they also light?”

“Why, yes. Especially the soul of a little child. I remember when your brother was born, Kara. When I visited and saw him for the first time, I felt incredible light and brightness around him. Other souls are not nearly so bright, but I often feel the lightness, or darkness, of a soul.” Ziva’s foot had stilled while she spoke and now sat quietly beside the other. Tigre lay purring in her lap.

“And Qinten’s soul is dark?” Tawna leaned toward her friend.

“Black. He acts like a good man, I saw him at dinner. He did not join the ribald jokes directed at the girls, seeming even to disapprove of their behavior. But his soul is black as the crow sitting out there on the tree branch.”

Tawna shivered and leaned back into her chair. “He seems so nice. He spoke to father and asked to be introduced. We even danced—and he kept his hands to himself, unlike some of the others. No grasping or groping. It was a pleasure to dance without all that. And you say his soul is black?”

“It’s a show.” Ziva leaned back, her foot slipped across the other and began to bounce and Tigre leaped off her lap once more. He stalked away to find a circle of sunshine to sleep in. Ziva watched him go before going on. “He wants something and acts that way to conceal his real intentions. I fear him.”

“Well, I like him. If he asked Father, I would happily mate with him.” Kara folded her arms, turned away, and pouted.

“You would mate with him? Our servants have shared stories of his poor behavior.” Tawna stared at their friend. “You must be jesting.”

“What sort of poor behavior?” Kara turned back to face the other girls.

“He, well, he forces women to … to … to have relations with him.” Red crept up Tawna’s dusky neck.

“I don’t care. He is rich and powerful. Father says he will be the next High Priest of Lorca.”

“You are welcome to him.” Ziva set her foot on the floor to stop its rapid bounce.

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Ziva heard a door slam and horses leaving. She glanced out her window and watched Orak and Lib, his assistant, race away. Why would they do that? She shook her head and her foot began to tap.

“How did you get your father to leave early? My father would never leave that early. He has an image to portray. We must look happy at parties, even when we’re miserable.” Tawna frowned.

“I asked to leave. Orak isn’t as dependent on others’ perceptions. They know him to be independent. Otherwise, we would have had to stay.” Ziva’s foot stopped bouncing for a breath, then beat up and down as if to the beat of a rapid tune.

“We left later than you, Ziva. I complained when Bram insisted it was time to leave. I wish I could convince my father to do my will as easily as you do.” Kara fluffed her skirts and pulled her legs beneath her.

“Father made us stay until late. We were not the last to leave, for that is as bad as leaving first, but we were far behind you.” Tawna reached up to her long dark hair, began a plait, then brushed it out. “I heard Qinten growl. I suspect there was a disagreeable curse under his breath as well.”

Ziva’s eyebrows crawled like dainty caterpillars up her face. “And you wonder about his black soul?”

Tawna rubbed her arms, as though trying to warm them, even though the servants fanned them to cool the room.

“Have you looked at Qinten?” Kara said. “He is a good-looking man.”

Tawna and Ziva laughed.

“He is handsome, and he will have power one day. He will be High Priest of Lorca sooner rather than later.” Kara said with a pout.

“I don’t doubt that. Qinten is driven. He wants power. Perhaps that is why his soul is black.” Ziva sat still for many heartbeats.

“Desiring success isn’t all that bad. Bram, and even Korm and Orak, are successful. They are not bad men. They work to be the best in their business.” Kara leaned forward and set her feet on the floor.

“Desiring success and seeking to be best in your field doesn’t make your soul dark. It is the things you do or are willing to do that color it. Our fathers are good men. I have seen them all give to the poor on the street. They help when they can. I would hate to see how Qinten treated his servants on his return from the party.

“Perhaps. Perhaps not.” Kara refused to give in.

~ ~ ~

Orak sat in his office thinking. He liked having this home with space for him to work. He occasionally found it necessary to visit his markets, granaries, and slaughter houses. He also found time to tour his farms away from the city, inspecting cattle ranches and the farms growing the grains the citizens and the many priests of Nod required. He depended on the managers of each of these places to follow his orders and do what was needed to increase profits.

Today, though, his thoughts focused not on any of his many businesses, but on Ziva. She was such a beauty and so determined.

He had promised to protect her, and already Qinten had asked. For now, he could put the decision off. But he didn’t want animosity between himself and a priest of Lorca, his major customer.

The priests required many animals and much grain to offer to their god each festival day. His business would suffer if he found himself in disfavor with them, especially Lorca. But how much would it suffer? Could he survive without their purchases?

Life would be less pleasant if he were at odds with his daughter. She would not be happy. In fact, she would be hurt if he gave her to Qinten, hurt emotionally and physically. Qinten had pushed the issue. He wanted to meet with Ziva in the next week. He wanted to be her mate. Orak understood Ziva’s revulsion. Qinten was dark. He had heard of his dabbling with wives of other men and his cruelty. He did not want this for his beautiful daughter. Why did that man want his daughter? Orak shook his head. It did not matter why. Qinten wanted her.

How would he avoid the trap being set for him by Qinten? He felt the danger, poised and waiting for him. His daughter or his business? He must find a way to keep both free of Qinten’s grasping hands. If he allowed Qinten to have his daughter, Orak would lose her. If he did not, he could lose both his daughter and his business.

Orak let his head fall into his hands. How did this mess happen? He was certain deep thought would help him discover a way out.

Much later, a noise interrupted his reverie. Lib, his manager responsible for his city enterprises, entered, breathing heavily.

“I expect you are disturbing me for a good reason.” Orak lifted his head from his hands with a growl.

Lib bent over, his hands on his knees, as he regained his breath. “A fire!” he panted. “A fire in a granary.”

Orak grabbed his cloak and threw it across his shoulders as he hurried from the room. He mounted the horse that always stood waiting at the door during the day, and waited for Lib to wearily climbed into his saddle.

As they raced down the road, Lib directed him toward the commercial district. There, they found people running for the safety of doors and alleys along the streets. Their horses skidded to a stop a distance from the blaze, rearing and snorting at the smoke.

Orak and Lib jumped off, stumbling, before regaining their balance. Orak stood distracted by the smoke. This was his largest granary, filled with amaranth. Much of his supply burned within, the heat of burning grain added to the inferno.

A man appeared from the smoke offering to take the horses away to a safer place. Orak nodded and handed him the reins. Lib handed his reins to the man, then stood beside Orak, staring. Orak took in the scene, determining what he could do to help.

The men he paid to guard the granary and fight against any danger stood in bucket lines, passing buckets of water to be thrown as a cupful of moisture to be splashed on the raging blaze. Orak joined the lines, as did Lib, passing bucket after bucket toward the edges of the devouring flames, in an attempt to prevent its spread into the city.

Fire began to lick at the small shacks occupied by the poor who were employed in the nearby granaries. Many of the men Orak employed in his granary lived in these hovels. Little children, loved by these men fighting his fire, lived within those huts. The granary was lost. There was no need to lose homes if they could be saved. He directed the lines of buckets toward the small homes, hoping to save most of them.

Hours later, black smudged men fell to the ground, exhausted. The granary lay in ashes, all the amaranth lost. The men struggled to their feet to offer words of thanks to Orak, knowing he was responsible for the preservation of their small homes. He grasped each man by the forearm, though his strength was nearly gone.

Some of his wealth lay in ashes at his feet. He breathed a sigh of relief, only one granary burned. The others, and his cold meat lockers, were safely scattered in distant locations around the city. He confused his competitors, keeping none of them close together.

One bright thought in all the blackness of soot, his wealth had been reduced. Qinten may be less interested in Ziva, now. Maybe the fire was a gift in disguise?