"Andre Norton - Elvenblade 01 - Elvenbane" - читать интересную книгу автора (Norton Andre)

That meant pale gold hair worn loose, or garlanded with artificial flowers made of gemstones;
creamy rose-and-white complexions; wide, childlike blue eyes; sylph-slim figures. Serina went counter,
wildly counter, to that standard. Her hair was a fiery red; her eyes so dark a violet as to be nearly black,
and seething with carefully controlled emotion. Her mother called her figure "generous," but that was an
understatement, and said nothing about the slim waist, kept that way by years of dancing lessons, the hips
that could distract even hardened gladiators from their practice, and the high, proud breasts that did more
than distract them, to the point that her father had forbidden her the practice ground since she was
thirteen.
Serina smiled at her reflection, and examined the smile with careful detachment. It would do. She
kept the smile, and continued to examine her own handiwork, tossing tiny brushes down on the floor
beside her when she was finished with them. The drudges would clean it all up as soon as she was gone.
While the other girls being groomed as concubines bleached their hair, dusted their cheeks with
powder, and starved themselves to fit into the delicate skirts and tunics Rowenie Ordone favored, Serina
flaunted her differences and learned to enhance them. She found rinses that made her hair even more
lustrous and vivid, and painted her lids with purple and violet to bring out the color of her eyes, and
brushed rose across her cheekbones. She kept up her dancing lessons and exercised in secret, adding
tone and strength to her limbs. And she sought out the teachers of the bed-secrets, and begged extra
lessons. Sooner or later Lord Dyran would tire of pale and ethereal, of coy and delicate, of dainty and
timid. The Lord was not noted for steadfastness. And when he tired of the cool Zephyr, Serina was
determined to catch him with Flame.
She corrected a smudge of deep violet above her eye with a careful fingertip and stood up,
smoothing the soft panels of her wine-velvet gown. Let Rowenie keep to her pale pastel silks, all flutters
and lace. They made almost anyone else look like a pale-pink lettuce, or an overblown cabbage rose. It
would not be much longer before the Lord demanded spice instead of sugar.
Serina edged the stool in front of her dressing table back with a careful foot, so as not to tear or
crease her gown. There wasn't much room in this little cubicle; just her bed, stowage beneath it for
undergarments, a hanging rack for gowns, and her dressing table, mirror, and little stool. But it was more
room than she'd had with her mother; just a little closet hardly large enough for her bed. And she
intended to have more, soon.
She left her little cubicle, keeping to a graceful, swaying walk as though the Lord himself were
watching her. After all, who was to say that he was not? The elven lords were all-powerful, and it might
well be that the Lord would choose to spy on the unguarded moments of his harem. Her father claimed
he did so with the gladiators.
She glanced at the tall, green-glass water clock in the center of the indoor courtyard as she pushed
aside the curtain to her cubicle to show that she was gone. Sunlight streamed in through the frosted dome
of the skylight above; by the level in the glass delphin's tail, there was plenty of time before the Lord
made his daily visit to his concubines. In fact, most of the curtains still hung across the doors of the little
swans' cubicles, showing that the younger concubines were either still asleep or disinclined to leave.
Serina was a "little swan," a girl in her first six months of office. In fact, she had only begun her post as
concubine a week ago. Most girls did not survive the initial six months; most were ignored, and after a
mere six weeks were sent down to the breeders, to become the living rewards to the Lord's most
successful gladiators.
Serina's own mother was one such; and she had been lucky. Jared Daeth was the most successful
ever of Lord Dyran's hundreds of single-combat fighters. He had won so many duels for the Lord that he
had stopped counting, and only the odds makers kept track. Ambra had been his reward on his
retirement, still unbeaten, to become a trainer, he had taken to her, and she to him, and the Lord had
indulgently agreed to allow them to pair permanently.
Most of the girls rejected by the harem-master were given to any successful fighter who wanted a
woman, and few of those men were as gentle and kind to their women as Jared. Serina had seen some of
them the morning after; bruised and sometimes bloodied, weeping—and on one, never-discussed