Orange torchlight; the rock and sway of
percussive song, the embrace of flute, dulcimer, cymbal, drum. The men watched, enraptured by the winding
twist of her hips, the sinuous motion of naked sensuality, following the
shimmering gold firelight over bared breasts and long, slender legs. Sadira’s tawny mane fell wild to her
shoulders, held back from her face by a headdress of beaten bronze and adorned
with great feathers of exotic birds; thin braids, wound with ribbons and small
red jewels, fell at different lengths behind her ears. As she slowly spun in place, weaving her arms
in seductive rhythm over her head, the light of the fires lighting up her
savage curves, the dark lines of the tattoos marking her hips and shoulders—markings
of her former allegiance to a fallen clan and fallen master—wound with her, a
map of her ignoble heritage, a testament to her alien origins.
The men around her cared little for the
marks, however. The foreign beauty,
famed as a lover and a soldier to their greatest enemy, now danced for them,
enchanting them and pleasing them, impressing them with the sultry talents they
might never have expected from one who had been raised in the way of swords and
combat. One who knew the woman’s story
might have recognized the distant aloofness on her face even as she arched her
body, displaying herself for her enemies, the clan of rugged highlanders that
had captured her and kept her prisoner so far from her homeland. One who had heard the tales of her might
expect the beautiful slave yet harbored a searing fury and distrust in her
heart, a plan of rebellion in her mind—that observer might even believe he
caught a glimpse of something like the subtlest hint of a sneer across her lips, the defiance of a legend
brought low.
