For some reason, Suroth’s mouth tightened. "Not the Swan, Alwhin, you blind fool!" she hissed, half under her breath, though her accent made understanding difficult. The frozen smile returned in an instant.

The serving woman rose from her place at the wall again, running out to the middle of the floor in an odd way, on tiptoe, with her arms swept back. Slowly, atop the flaring golden sun, symbol of the Children of the Light, she began a sort of stylized dance. Her arms unfolded to the sides like wings, then folded back. Twisting, she slid her left foot out, lowering herself over the bending knee, both arms outstretched as if appealing, until arms and body and right leg made a straight, slanted line. Her sheer white robe made the whole thing scandalous. Morgase felt her cheeks growing hot as the dance, if it could be called that, continued.

"Thera is new and not well trained yet," Suroth murmured. "The Poses are most often done with ten or twenty da’covaletogether, men and women chosen for the clean beauty of their lines, but sometimes it is pleasant to view only one. It is very pleasant to own beautiful things, is it not?"

Morgase frowned. How could anyone own a person? Suroth had spoken earlier about "making someone property." She knew the Old Tongue, and the word da’covalewas not familiar to her, but thinking it out she came up with "Person Who Is Owned." It was disgusting. Horrendous! "Incredible," she said dryly. "Perhaps I should leave you to enjoy the... dance."

"In one moment," Suroth said, smiling at the posturing Thera. Morgase avoided looking. "All have choices to make, as I said. The old King of Tarabon chose to rebel, and died. The old Panarch was captured, yet refused the Oath. Each of us has a place where we belong, unless raised by the Empress, but those who reject their proper place can also be cast down, even to the depths. Thera has a certain grace. Strangely, Alwhin shows great promise in teaching, so I expect that before many years, Thera will learn the skill in the Poses to go with her grace." That smile swiveled toward Morgase, that glittering gaze.

A very significant gaze, but why? Something to do with the dancer? Her name, mentioned so often, as if to highlight it. But what...? Morgase’s head whipped around, and she stared at the woman, up on her toes and slowly pivoting in one spot with her hands flat together and arms stretched up as high as they would go. "I don’t believe it," she gasped. "I won’t!"

"Thera," Suroth said, "what was your name before you became my property? What title did you hold?"

Thera froze in her up-stretched posture, quivering, shooting a look half panic, half terror at sharp-faced Alwhin, a look of pure terror at Suroth. "Thera was called Amathera, if it pleases the High Lady," she said breathily. "Thera was the Panarch of Tarabon, if it pleases the High Lady."

The cup dropped from Morgase’s hand, smashing to bits on the floor, spraying the black kaf. It had to be a lie. She had never met Amathera, but she had heard a description, once. No. Many women of the right age could have large dark eyes and a petulant mouth. Pura had never been Aes Sedai, and this woman...

"Pose!" Alwhin snapped, and Thera flowed on without so much as one more glance at Suroth or anyone. Whoever she was, clearly the foremost thought in her head now was an urgent desire not to make a mistake. Morgase concentrated on not vomiting.

Suroth stepped very close, face cold as midwinter. "All confront choices," she said quietly. Her voice could have marked steel. "Some of my prisoners say that you spent time in the White Tower. By law, no marath’damanemay escape the leash, but I pledge to you that you, who named me to my eyes and called lie on my word, you will not face thatfate." The emphasis made quite clear that her pledge covered no other possible fate. The smile that never reached her eyes returned. "I hope that you will choose to swear the oath, Morgase, and rule Andor in the name of the Empress, may she live forever." For the first time, Morgase was absolutely certain the woman lied. "I will speak to you again tomorrow, or perhaps the next day, if I have time."

Turning away, Suroth glided past the lone dancer to the high-backed chair. As she sat, spreading her robe gracefully, Alwhin barked again. She did not seem to have any other voice. "All! Poses of the Swan!" The young men and women kneeling against the wall leaped forward to join Thera, joining her movements exactly in a line before Suroth’s chair. Only the lopar’sgaze still acknowledged Morgase’s existence. She did not believe she had ever been dismissed so thoroughly in her life. Gathering her dignity with her skirts, she left.

She did not go far alone of course. Those red-and-black armored soldiers stood in the anteroom like statues with red-and-black tasseled spears, faces impassive in their lacquered helmets, hard eyes seeming to stare from behind the mandibles of monstrous insects. One, not much taller than she, fell in at her shoulder without a word and escorted her back to her rooms, where two Taraboners with swords flanked her door, these in steel breastplates, but still painted in horizontal stripes. They bowed low, hands on their knees, and she thought it was for her until her escort spoke for the first time.

"Honor met," he said in a harsh, dry voice, and the Taraboners straightened, never glancing at her until he said, "Watch her well. She has not given the Oath." Dark eyes flickered toward her above steel veils, but their short bows of assent were for the Seanchan.

She tried not to hurry inside, but once the door was closed behind her, she leaned against it attempting to settle her whirling thoughts. Seanchan and damane, Empresses and oaths and people owned. Lini and Breane stood in the middle of the room looking at her.

"What did you learn?" Lini asked patiently, in much the tone in which she had questioned the child Morgase about a book read.

"Nightmares and madness," Morgase sighed. Suddenly she stood up straight, looking around the room anxiously. "Whereas —? Where are the men?"

Breane answered the unasked question in a dryly mocking tone. "Tallanvor went to see what he could find out." Her fists planted themselves on her hips, and her face became deadly serious. "Lamgwin went with him, and Master Gill. What did youfind out? Who are these... Seanchan?" She said the name awkwardly, frowning around it. "We heard that much for ourselves." She affected not to notice Lini’s biting stare. "What are we to do now, Morgase?"

Morgase brushed between the women, crossing to the nearest window. Not as narrow as those in the audience chamber, it looked down twenty feet or more to the stone paving of the courtyard. A dispirited column of bareheaded, disheveled men, some with blood-stained bandages, shambled across the courtyard under the watchful gaze of Taraboners carrying spears. Several Seanchan stood atop a nearby tower, peering into the distance between the crenellations. One wore a helmet decorated with three slender plumes. A woman appeared in a window across the court, the lightning-embroidered red panel plain on her breast, frowning down at the Whitecloak prisoners. Those stumbling men looked stunned, unable to believe what had happened.

What were they to do? A decision Morgase dreaded. It seemed that she had not made so much as a decision on fruit for breakfast in months without it leading to disaster. A choice, Suroth had said. Aid these Seanchan in taking Andor, or... One last service she could do for Andor. The tail end of the column appeared, followed by more Taraboners, who were joined by their countrymen they passed. A twenty-foot fall, and Suroth lost her lever. Maybe it was the coward’s way out, but she had already proved herself that. Still, the Queen of Andor should not die so.