A prickle between her shoulder blades began, gradually growing almost unbearable. She could not reach to scratch her back without bending into an awkward contortion. What was causing the awful sensation? Has a bug crawled off one of the others, perhaps one of the three filthy wild creatures from the inner reaches of Gandessa? Did it now embed itself in the tender skin on my back? She almost shuddered at the idea, until she realized she had not felt anything work its way up to reach that spot.

Finally she glanced behind her to see if one of the other women had bespelled her out of malice. They knew of her royal status and had mocked her for it without mercy. But no, they all slumped, eyes to the ground, the picture of abject surrender. If one of them was working magick, she hid it well.

As she started to turn back, her gaze was drawn to a man who stood at the far side of the round platform in the middle of the square. He stood, feet apart, the picture of masculine confidence. His dark eyes riveted to her in a very measuring stare. Then he smiled, lifting one jet eyebrow with an arrogant little twitch.

Oh, he is magnificent! The thought came before she could suppress it.

She tossed her head and turned quickly away, but his image lingered as if burned into her eyes. Her people were tall. Cymryddi women frequently stood taller than men of the southern races and the Cymryddi men towering like giants, but this man was the equal of any Cymryddi warrior, even the towering Bodanan, champion of her father's famed troops.

The stranger's wide shoulders spoke of a warrior's strength, his lean waist and long muscled legs of an athlete's prowess and grace. His raven-black hair hung almost to his shoulders in rich waves and his eyes made her think of two polished chips of ebony set in the weathered ivory-amber of his face.

Her skin -- when not burned scarlet by the harsh southern sun -- was barely tinted with the faintest blush of tawny rose, scarcely darker than the snow, the fleecy white clouds. Most of the southern peoples were some shade of brown, from tan to mahogany, but the strange man was neither. His skin showed a rare golden color, almost the same hue as her father's prized golden stallion, the like of which had never been seen in Cymrydda before Ard Righ Calumcille took him as tribute.

Who was he and what did he want? She could still feel the pressure of his gaze boring into her back. What if he were a potential buyer? She shivered slightly, awed by the fanciful idea that the golden man might purchase her.

No, I'll not even think of such a thing. Surely something will save me ere that occurs.

At first, the coffle had settled in the shade of one row of the tall buildings, which edged the square on all sides, but as the sun rose, it moved to beat down upon them. Now the blazing orb shone straight down into the square. The surrounding whitewashed walls threw back the heat and light, intensifying the force of both. Moisture trickled down Jaelle'n's body beneath the thin tunic, causing the cloth to stick to her skin. Thirst burned her throat and hunger gnawed in her belly. She had never known such misery in all her eighteen summers.

Behind her one of the swarthy barbarian girls began to moan, a low keening howl like the voice of a wolf, coming from deep in her chest. One of the slavers had stayed to guard them, while the others went to arrange for the sale or seek their pleasure in the alehouses and bordellos. This one, called Churd by his fellows, now gave the howling woman a hard kick in the ribs. She doubled over, falling abruptly silent, and clutched her body as well as her chained arms would allow.

Sharp footsteps echoed on the stones, drawing closer. Jaelle'n turned to look, unable to restrain her curiosity.

The golden man approached the slaver. "Fool, what will your leader say if you damage the merchandise? Injured slaves do not bring the best prices. I had thought to purchase the lot, but if you have broken the ribs of that one, I will not take her."

The slaver sank to his knees, groveling. "Your pardon, Lord. Her wailing grated so that I erred in the degree of her punishment. I beg forgiveness, but I think she is not truly injured. She and her two sisters are given to whining and feigning hurts they do not have. They are exotic but will be difficult to train."

The golden man smiled. It was the smile of an ice-bear, a dire wolf. His mobile lips drew back from clean white teeth in a wicked taunt. "I will have no trouble. Within a moon cycle each of these women can be prime pleasure-slaves. But I will buy them only if they are healthy and free of scars. My healers will examine each of them before I bid one rajan. My house has a reputation to uphold and I will not see it sullied by flawed merchandise. Keep that in mind, scatling."

He walked on past, glancing down at each woman in the coffle as he went. He paused a moment beside Jaelle'n and again looked at her keenly. She felt his gaze but refused to look back at him. He was too arrogant, too overbearing! The very idea -- that he would purchase her and make her into a pleasure-slave in a single moon cycle.

Ha, I will claw out his eyes, knee him in his male parts, bite and scratch and snarl like a wildcat before I will be treated so!