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"You'll never be beautiful, Leralia. There's too much of your blood-mother in you." It was Kasea, her father's first-wife who'd said that, when Leralia was still young and untrained enough to indulge in occasional fits of vanity.

Faced, for the first time, with man who was to be her husband, Leralia thought again of those words. Too much of her blood-mother to ever be beautiful: hair too curly, face too square, breasts too small. But there was value to blood beyond beauty, value enough that she now sat in a room with a wealthy man who would take her as his first-wife. As her mother had been, until her death had given that position to Kasea.

The man, Joesen, lowered his wine and did not look up as Leralia leaned in to refill it. He had not looked at her overmuch since his arrival. But when he'd brought her hand to his lips, he had smiled, and the smile had not been cruel or forced. It had made her think him still young, that smile. Her father didn't smile. Her named-brothers, only rarely. Had he not yet spilled blood, this man that would be her husband? She thought almost to warn him at that smile, as her father was not over fond of happy men. But Kasea stood in the room also and she would not allow or forgive such a blatant misstep. So Leralia had nodded, welcomed him, and stepped aside.

"Boy, you're over-eager." Well into his fifth cup of wine, her father was at his ease, not smiling but chuckling grimly as he rebuked Joesen. "She is not some little ill-bred trophy, my daughter. And I am not a farmer with only corn to my name. You can not take her for a handful of horses, boy. Think of the named-sons she'll send me. Would you trade your blood for water?"

Leralia winced as her father reached over and slapped Joesen on the back. That Joesen would accept her for so little was insulting to the house, but the way the man rocked under the playful blow was almost as bad. Her father was sneering now; an expression that promised more than mere rebuke and Leralia felt her throat grow dry and closed. If ever there was a moment to wish for Kasea's graceful interference, this was it. But her father's first-wife merely lifted an eyebrow at her desperate glance and continued to observe, silent as Winter's kiss.

Joesen was laughing, a laugh easy as his smile. She hated him then, just for a minute, in the way she hated the trophy heads that hung on the walls. She hated all her father's victims. It was easier, that way. But this man, this man who had kissed her hand and smiled, he was to be her responsibility. She had learned from Kasea what a girl without beauty had. She had learned to be graceful, still, and soft voiced. Now, watching, she wondered if she was being taught a new lesson. Because watching, as she had been taught to do, was not going to be enough.

"Father?" She kept her voice low and sweet, free of the anxiety that threatened to silence her. She had never before spoken so entirely out of turn. Both men stopped then, and she accepted their gazes with her own eyes lowered. "Sir, I am grateful for your regard. You honor me and the named-sons I will send you. But my blood is not gold."

Her father cuffed her roughly as the interruption deserved, but she saw him mouth her words as he did it. Even drunk, he knew the taste of his own favorite phrase, words he used to describe their stallions, the best studs in Dres-Tier. Blood of gold. It did not reach him quickly, but by the time she'd returned to her place, her ears ringing still, he was laughing with real mirth.

"Let me take but half dozen horses, you said. Allow me to select a few mounts, you said." He shook his head, looking from Joesen to Leralia and back again. "As if I'd let you steal my finest bloodlines just to further my own. Clever, boy, acting as if you were only looking for a few fine riding beasts."

And Joesen, Summer bless him, was not such an idiot that he did not sense the change in the air. "Five stallions, then, and no fewer than three mares."

"Two stallions. And I'll allow you take a half dozen geldings for the mounts you said you wanted."

As the dickering began, Leralia felt her breathing steady. Kasea was watching her with an expression carefully schooled to show no approval or disdain. But she nodded, and in that slight motion, Leralia saw she had passed some test. Learned, perhaps, that a woman's grace, if all she had, was nothing when compared against her husband's need.

"There's too much of your blood-mother in you." Kasea had said. Too much to be beautiful. But her blood-mother had given everything, even life, bringing a daughter into the world. She'd done her duty by her husband and died of it. And in this first small sacrifice, Leralia, too, had shown she was prepared to do what was required. A happy realization, for any woman to know she was capable of being a good wife. Funny, how it weighed like a stone in her stomach, stung sharper than her father's open hand. Joesen's cup was empty. Leralia poured the wine and marveled at her hands, which didn't shake at all.