“Now you will listen to me, O pampered cat of a mixed litter,” Shammara said in the same quiet, icy tones. “Your opinion of my son is your own affair, though it could scarcely be lower than mine of you. Your lower-class, harping complaints and petty tyranny show a lack of intelligence and breeding which I trust you’ll correct. Whether you love him or not, whether you honor him as a husband, is your concern and I will not interfere. But I’ve worked long and hard to arrange this marriage, and it will come about. You will wed my son and the union will be consummated, and thus will our two nations be allied. After the wedding night you can sleep with the asses in the stables if that’s your desire, but you will become queen and you will sit beside Haroun on the throne.”
Princess Oma was whimpe
