"You have shown yourself well worthy," said Mithradates on an impatient note. "Rise and come."
Perhaps only Eodan saw her lips tighten. She beat her head on the floor. "Lord, forgive your slave. The Moon forbids me."
"Oh. Oh, indeed." Mithradates stepped back, a primitive unease on his face. "You should have told me that earlier."
"I was too bedazzled by My Lord," she said. Her regained wit bespoke some resolution taken. Eodan wondered with a chill what it had been.
"Well ... rise." Mithradates stooped for her hand and pulled her up as if she were weightless. She stood trembling before him. "A week hence, my tent will be decked with kings' robes for you," he said. "In the meantime, you shall have a tent and servants of your own, and ride in the Tetrarch's litter."
"Great King," she whispered—had Eodan not been close, he would not have heard it—"if your handmaiden should in any way be displeasing to you ... should somehow wrong Her Lord ... you will not hold it the fault of her friends? They knew nothing of me save that I waited in Sinope to do the King's will, even as they wish only to do it."
"Indeed," said Mithradates roughly. "I am no fool. And have I not raised my shield above them?" He clapped his hands. "Let the chamberlain see to her well-being. Find me a couple of Gallic girls for tonight."
Phryne went past Eodan. She threw him only the quickest of glances, but never had he seen a look more lonely. The hurried whisper drifted to him: "Do not be troubled on my account. I do what is best. Make your own way in the world."
He stared after her. The Power drained from him, he felt tired and empty. He heard Tjorr rumble answer to Mithradates: "No, Lord, I'm sure she's not one of these women who hate the touch of men, even if she has stayed maiden uncommonly late. Haw! On the contrary, Lord, the man she likes will have enough to do!"
"I thought so myself," said Mithradates. "It is a good omen, that she was kept for me alone."