Giordan had just decided that, since he had no interest in continuing any form of discussion with Cezar Moldavi, he was going to excuse himself with great expedience and decline to watch the swordplay entertainment he’d been promised. But before he opened his mouth to do so, the man’s sister entered the opposite part of the chamber, below the dais.

Everything in his mind whirred into silence and he found that his body, too, had stilled.

She was carrying a long, sheathed sword, with a slightly curved blade. A saber, then: a type of single-edged weapon just coming into fashion. In fencing, one most often used a straight, slender blade such as an épée, or even a blunted foil. The lethality of this blade was Giordan’s first indication that the woman wasn’t merely engaging in sport.

“My sister, Narcise,” Moldavi murmured. He gestured to their empty cups on the table, and his steward moved quickly to fill them.

Giordan realized his breathing had ground to a halt and he reminded himself that, even though a vampire couldn’t die from suffocation, one did have to breathe or become weakened.

She was lovely. Incredibly lovely.

He’d heard about her, of course. Who hadn’t? Rumor had it that Cezar Moldavi’s sister was bait, a tool, and even a bargaining chip for her brother. But Giordan, who’d met—and had—many lovely and exotic women during his travels hadn’t expected to be so thoroughly entranced, and from a distance.

From his seat on the dais, Giordan studied her, attempting to be objective. And yet, one could be objective and still describe her as the most beautiful woman one had ever seen.

She was tall for a woman, and her rich, black hair was pulled into a large, tight knot at her nape.