Elvenbane by Andre Norton

of their Clan—subject entirely to the will and whim of the ruling male, and used as trade-markers in an elaborate dance of matrimonial alliances.
    Only when a maiden demonstrated both a powerful gift (of magic, intrigue, a fine mind), and the will to use what she had ruthlessly,
then
she could escape the destiny her sex decreed for her.
    Alara trod the smooth marble and recalled those she knew of who had escaped that destiny. There were female Clan heads; V’jann Ysta er-Lord Daarn, for one, who came to power by defeating the head of V’jann in a mage-duel that had lasted three days. V’lysle Kartaj er-Lord Geyr, who inherited on the death of her brother, and then revealed that it had been
she
who had masterminded his rise in Council. V’dann Triana er-Lord Falcion, who simply outlived all the other, hedonistic heirs, defeated pretenders in conventional duels, and settled down to shorten her own lifespan by means of every vice that had killed off her relatives. V’meyn Lysha er-Lord Saker, who some suspected of the quiet assassination of the husband she had been sent to wed, as soon as the ink was dry on the marriage vows… though nothing could be proved against her.
    As many as a quarter of the Clan heads were female, and treated as absolute equals in power and Council. Alara suspected that many more were content to rule from behind the facade of a male spouse or relative.
    But for the rest, their lives were spent close-cloistered until they delivered their virginity to the appropriately selected spouse, cloistered further until the production of a suitable heir. And then they were left to their own devices, to amuse themselves however they could. Lesser members of the Clan tended to trade, production, and the manor. Wives, unless they carved themselves a position, had nothing more to do than look appropriately ornamental and produce one child. More, if they could, but one was enough. After that—some lost themselves in endless games of chance, some in pretense at art or music, others in a never-ending round of costume creation—and no few in the privacy of their quarters, in the arms of carefully selected human slaves.
    This was the part Alara was playing: a Clan daughter, attractive, virginal, with enough magic to cast minor glamories, and no ambition.
    No ambition in the fields of power, that is; to pique Rathekrel’s interest, she pretended at an ambition in art—or rather, Arte. She had styled herself not an artist, but an Artiste. Rathekrel considered himself something of a connoisseur, and the credentials she had presented had included some of “her Work.”
    As she reached the end of the hall, another set of silver-inlaid, white-lacquered doors swung open before she could touch them, and she stepped forward and paused on the lintel of the cavernous dining hall. The hall had
not
been behind those doors the last time Alara had passed them; that was a measure of Rathekrel’s strength in magic. Special corridors such as the one she had just used opened onto whatever Rathekrel chose; they were, in fact, tiny Gates that could be reset at his whim.
    Alara had read something of this in the minds of the humans that had served her, though thanks to the inhibiting collars they wore, she could get only fleeting glimpses, and then only when they actually touched her. The humans were terrified of these corridors and would never use them. As they came and went from her guest suite, Alara had made note of every “normal” passage built for their use, and where each one went. She was going to need that information for the second part of her plan.
    The dining hall was another place that terrified the humans, and with good reason.
    It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the darkness beyond the double doors. She waited on the threshold once she was able to see—
    That was odd. She thought it smelled like—a storm. And a sea-wind—
    She blinked in surprise at what lay below her.
    My, my, she thought. Lord Rathekrel