Part Two
South of the Charva River, the land of Mandria grew soft and tame. Rolling meadows held fat, sleek livestock. Crops grew tall and straight in their rows, showing the plentiful harvests to come. Villages were sometimes small, but seldom were they as grubby or as poor as those in upper Mandria. More often, Dain and his companions came to towns with public squares and houses built of stone or brick. Sometimes, even the streets were paved with cobblestones, and there was not a pig to be seen rooting at doorsteps.
The roads between towns became smoother and wider as Dain traveled south. Tall, lush grass grew on either side of the road, filled with fluttering red-winged birds, bustling rodents, and humming insects. Nonkind had never come to this land. To feel free of the constant need to watch and fear... It was marvelous to find no taint anywhere in this land of plenty where occasional road bandits caused the only problems. Twice bandits started to ambush them on the road, and both times they galloped away as soon as they saw who they were attacking. “Guess we got nothing they want, eh?” Sir Terent asked. “Naught but a sword down their gullet,” Sir Polquin growled. The master of arms was still pained by the wound in his leg, and grouchier than usual as a result. Sweat running down his round face, he glanced over at Dain. “Your pardon, m’lord. Have you a waterskin to spare?”
Dain handed over his waterskin without hesitation.
Sir Polquin looked embarrassed, but thanked him. “It’s this fever in my leg. I’m sorry.”
“Apology is not needed,” Dain told him kindly. “There is water enough for all.” Sulein edged closer on his donkey. “If you would allow me to lance the wound tonight, it would ease you greatly.”
“Nay,” Sir Polquin said hastily, handing the waterskin back to Dain. “I’m well enough. There’ll be no hot knives stuck in my leg, thank you, no.” He wheeled his horse over to the other side of the creaking, swaying wagon. One of the kine pulling it lowed at him.
Sulein, wearing his strange flat hat and sweating in the heat, tilted his head to peer up at Dain. “The man’s leg is infected. It needs attending.” “He fears you,” Dain said, keeping his gaze on the dusty horizon. A town lay ahead. Dain could see its spires, their banners fluttering brightly in the sunshine. “He will heal well enough, in time.”
“Time,” Sulein muttered. “I could save him time. I could save him pain, and that limp he is likely to keep. He is a stubborn fool.”
“He does not believe in your methods,” Dain said sharply. “Leave him be.”
“You could order him to accept my treatment,” Sulein said. Dain swung his gray eyes around to lock with Sulein’s dark ones. “But I will not.”
Silence hung between them a moment. Frustration narrowed Sulein’s eyes, but he dropped the argument.
The physician had given way to Dain most of the time since they’d resumed their grim journey. Dain could tell himself it was because of his new rank, but he did not believe it. Sulein would never be someone he could entirely trust. An ulterior purpose lay always behind the physician’s actions. For now, he clearly wanted to remain close to Dain. Therefore, he acquiesced to Dain’s decisions, but Dain wondered how long such compliance would last. He knew that the physician still believed him the lost heir to Nether’s throne. There was no way to prove such a claim, even if Dain intended to try—which he did not. Perhaps eventually Sulein would realize how futile restoration would be. Perhaps then he would go to someone else’s court, and leave Dain in peace. In the meantime, the physician remained with them. And despite Dain’s dislike of the man, he had many uses and talents to offer.
Now, as Sulein started to rein his donkey aside, Dain frowned. “When we are past this town, physician, perhaps you would give me another lesson.” Sulein’s face brightened as though he’d been handed a gift. He bowed low over the neck of his donkey. “I would be honored.”
Only a few days ago, Dain had been busy avoiding lessons whenever he could. It seemed strange now to be the one insisting that he keep up his studies. But Dain’s life had changed with the death of Lord Odfrey. He knew he had much to learn, and that he had only a short amount of time in which to learn it in order to avoid acting like a totally ignorant bumpkin if and when he gained an audience with the king.
That night, they camped on the bank of a clear, rushing stream, beneath the swaying fronds of graceful water trees. A crimson flower grew on the bank near the water’s edge, and its fragrance was heady in the long hours of dusk. Dain lay near the water, his long body sprawled on the grass, while he listened to the song of insects and the swaying rustle of the trees. The night air was sultry. He’d removed his tunic to be cooler, and intended to wash himself in the stream later to ease his aching muscles.
Sir Terent had put him through a rigorous weapons drill shortly before supper. Sir Polquin, perched on a fallen log with his wounded leg stuck out stiffly in front of him, had rapped out corrections and instructions until Dain was dripping with sweat and reeling with fatigue.
“Getting better, m’lord,” Sir Terent said with an encouraging slap on Dain’s shoulder. “That last exchange was worthy of any knight.” Dain grinned at the praise, but in truth he was too tired to much care. As soon as he choked down his ration of cold meat and dry bread, he forced himself to stay awake through another reading lesson with Sulein. The physician also praised him for his improvement, but Dain did not want to admit that he was peering through the physician’s mind for some of the words and their meanings. It was cheating, in a way, but Dain was desperate to acquire knowledge as fast as he could.
Now, reclining on his elbow in the grass, he toyed idly with a scroll of mathematics. He intended to study the figures by firelight, after he’d rested a short time longer. Sometimes Sulein told him he’d studied enough for one day and would give him no scrolls. But Dain always had the contents of Lord Odfrey’s document case to pore over while the others slept. He had read through nearly everything the case contained. He did not understand it all yet, especially the legal matters. The phrasings were often archaic and confusing, but he had learned that Thirst lands had been granted to Lord Odfrey’s ancestor by the Sterescials, half-mortal representatives of the gods in the ancient days. This same ancestor had been given Truthseeker, the sword of god-steel now locked away in the secrecy of the Thirst vaults. Centuries later, when upper Mandria was joined to lower under one king, the rulers of Thirst became chevards and swore loyalty to the sovereign, but it was more an alliance than fealty. This explained why Thirst, so remote from court, received more requests than orders from the king.
Presently Dain was studying mathematics so he could master the complex finances of Thirst Hold. Dain had always thought lords were men who lived at their ease and did what they wanted, but that was far from true. Sometimes he wished himself back in the Dark Forest of Nold, apprenticed to Jorb the swordmaker. Then, his only worry had been how to keep the dwarf from yelling at him for shoddy work. Now, he felt that he must measure up to Lord Odfrey’s even higher expectations. Guilt often rode on his shoulder, and he told himself he should have studied harder while the chevard was alive.
“More study?” Sir Terent asked him.
Startled from his thoughts, Dain sat up with a jerk. His sore muscles gave him a twinge, and he winced slightly.
The knight gave him a gap-toothed grin. “Stay at your ease, m’lord. It’s only a moment of your time that I crave.”
Dain gestured, and Sir Terent squatted on the ground near him.
“What is it?” Dain asked him.
The burly knight began to draw aimlessly on the ground with a stick. “Orders for tomorrow, m’lord.”
Dain’s brows pulled together. “What makes tomorrow different from today or yesterday?”
Sir Terent looked at him strangely. “Well...”
“Are we low on rations or—”
“We’ll be in Savroix-en-Charva on the morrow.”
“Oh.” Dain’s face flamed. He felt a fool. “I didn’t realize we were that close.” “Didn’t you?” Sir Terent looked surprised. “With all the people on the road, and the towns as big as they are?”
Dain didn’t want to admit he’d hardly paid attention. He said nothing. The knight coughed into his hand. “Well, now. ‘Tis no surprise, considering this land is strange to you. But we’re maybe a half-day’s journey short now, maybe less if the road ain’t too crowded. I was wondering if we should—” A shout in the distance interrupted him.
Dain rose to his feet, his keen ears hearing the faraway babble of distraught voices. A donkey brayed out of sight in the trees, and he put his hand on his dagger.
Their camp was well off the road, but they had fires lit and had taken no special care to be concealed.
“Help!” shouted the voice. “Help us please!”
Dain started forward, but Sir Terent put a meaty hand on his shoulder to hold him back.
“Let me deal with this, m’lord.”
He hurried away, but Sir Polquin limped up to block his path. “Terent, you fool!” he said sharply, brandishing his drawn sword. “Stay with his lordship, as is your place.”
It was Sir Terent’s turn to grow red-faced. Growling to himself, he wheeled about and came back to Dain.
By this time, Lyias and Thum were standing, round-eyed with curiosity. Sulein even appeared, hatless and garbed in his linen subrobe. “What is this?” he asked, his accent thick in astonishment. “What comes upon us?”
No one answered him. Dain saw a figure stumbling into the clearing from the trees. Frowning, Dain went to him, Sir Terent close on his heels. Already Dain could see that this was no enemy, but instead a man in servant attire. With bleeding head and torn sleeves, he carried a stout club in his hand. At the sight of Sir Polquin and Dain closing in on him, he dropped to his knees in supplication.
“Please, help us!” he cried, and doubled over as though in pain. Sir Polquin reached him first, then Dain came up and pushed the gruff master of arms aside.
As soon as he touched the servant’s torn and dirty shoulder, Dain felt a jolt of memories and recollections, including raw terror, sunlight flashing on weapons, and the shouts of violent men.
Flinching back, Dain took his hand away and did not touch the man again. “Be easy within yourself,” he said in compassion. “You have found friends.” “Help,” the man said, moaning. “Help us.”
“Aye, we will. What has happened to you? What battle were you in?” Gasping for breath, the man tried to straighten and pointed behind him. “My master follows. He’s hurt. Robbers!”
Dain turned to Sir Polquin. “Give him water and let Sulein attend him. Sir Terent, Thum, let us go give what help we can.”
“Wait,” Sir Terent said in protest. “It could be a trap, to lure us into the forest.”
His caution was well-meant, but Dain shook his head. “It’s no trap.” He strode off, leaving the others to follow.
At the edge of the clearing, he plunged into darkness. The moon overhead was a useless sliver. The woods themselves were not thick, but the light of the campfires did not penetrate far. Dain drew on his keen hearing and sense of smell to guide him.
But Sir Terent blundered into a bush behind Dain and cursed. “Damne! I can’t see a thing. Dain lad—uh, m’lord! Slow down.”
Dain grinned to himself, but by then his ears had picked up voices ahead. They hushed, but by their scent he knew at once that they were Mandrians all, including some women wearing costly perfumes.
Dain hesitated long enough to let Sir Terent catch up with him, then pushed ahead through a stand of gnarly scrub and came to the travelers he sought. They were huddled together against a stand of hackberries, barely seen shapes and shadows in the night. Dain smelled two donkeys and a fear-lathered horse. Someone wept softly in the darkness. Someone else moaned in pain. The scent of blood was no longer fresh, but it was pungent enough in Dain’s nostrils to make him frown. They were afraid still, these folk, although time had passed since their ambush. They had traveled perhaps half a league since then, judging by the amount of road dust he could smell in their clothing.
“Good folk, fear no longer,” he said.
“Hark!” a voice cried out. “We are set upon again!”
With sounds of panic, they rose from their hiding place, but before they could run, he stepped forward.
“Calm yourselves,” he said in Mandrian, his voice sounding clear and crisp in the night. “We are friends. We mean you no harm.”
“Thod be thanked,” replied a man. His shadowy shape pushed itself forward, hampered by a female who clung, weeping, to his arm. “Elnine, hush now.” Divesting himself of her, he walked over to Dain. Close up, he smelled of herbs and sweaty cloth and leather. “We were attacked by bandits on the road. My men at arms are dead or badly wounded. Have three women to protect, plus the servants who have not deserted me. Saw your fire and would seek refuge with you, sir.”
“Of course,” Dain said. “My companions and I are traveling with a physician of considerable skill. Come now, and let us help you. Are these bandits still in pursuit?”
“No,” the man replied with scorn. “Took our horses and wagons—” “My new gowns!” wailed one of the women, a young one with a lilting voice. “My jewels!” sobbed another.
“Hush, both of you,” scolded a third, much older woman. “Vanity has no place in these circumstances.”
“But, Selia, there can be no vanity in any circumstances if our things are stolen from us.”
Despite his sympathy for their situation, Dain couldn’t help but grin in the darkness. Quickly, he, Sir Terent, and Thum pitched in to shoulder the scant boxes and possessions, assist the wounded, and herd the entire group back to their camp by the stream.
In the firelight, the newcomers looked bedraggled indeed. The old man’s clothing was torn and coated liberally with dirt and bits of leaves. He wore a broad-brimmed traveling hat of woven straw. Part of the brim had been broken. His neatly trimmed gray beard was streaked with blood from a now-dried cut on his face. Despite his dishevelment, it was apparent he was no commoner. His bearing and stance were that of a lord, and he carried a finely made thin-sword and a matched pair of daggers. Dain took care to show him respect. “Would you care to sit down here, sir, and rest yourself?” “No,” the old man said sharply. His eyes snapped bright and angry within the seams of his aged face. He might have been an old man, but he was far from infirm. That he had been set upon by common thieves clearly enraged him, but that his own men had failed to protect him and his possessions angered him even more.
“Infamy,” he muttered over and over. He paced about with his hands clasped at his back. “Morde a day, the raw impertinence of these blackguards! Should have ridden forth with a full company of knights at my back instead of these fools. Shall write to my steward at once—the pompous fool—and discharge him for his stupid suggestions of economy.”
“In the morning we’ll help bury your dead,” Dain offered, but the old man brushed this aside with a gesture.
“No need, thank you,” he said gruffly. “Left two men behind to clear our dead off the road. They’ll come on when they’ve finished. Blast and damne, if that isn’t woe enough, but there’s more. My champion is dead. Legre was the best—” “Legre!” Sir Terent blurted out before he could stop himself. Dain glanced up at his protector, who turned red and bowed in apology at the interruption.
The old man was looking at Sir Terent with plain disapproval. “As I was saying, Legre was the best of all the knights in this realm. A true champion. Now he is felled by the freakish arrow of a heathen bandit come down from the north. Don’t know what that fool Muncel of Nether is doing, but he should at least be able to manage his own affairs of state. In my day we beheaded any bandits that were caught plaguing travelers. Kept them in a state of mortal terror, and they soon found other roads to lurk on than the ones running across my land.” He went on at considerable length, complaining about bandits and many other things. Sir Terent stood there goggle-eyed and kept mouthing “Legre” as though struck with wonder. Dain knew nothing about this so-called champion, but no doubt Legre’s absence from the tourney would change the odds in favor of the other contenders, Sir Terent included.
In the end, it was the women who distracted the old man from his tirade. They fussed and exclaimed and wailed over the contents of their few small boxes. They proved to be the old man’s two daughters, Elnine and Roxina, both heavily veiled to their eyes and introduced perfunctorily by their father. Selia, their stout, grim duenna, was not veiled, but her face was so ugly and fierce that Dain wished she were.
Thum turned his back to them and shuddered. “She has a face that would sour milk,” he whispered.
Dain’s mouth twitched, and he barely restrained a laugh. Mirth was not suitable when these folk were in such dire straits. He gave quiet orders to Lyias to serve them what food there was to spare. One of the servants, looking pale and shaken to his core, stumbled off to the stream and came back with two pails of water.
“We can offer you nothing stronger,” Dain said when the water pail was offered round. “We have no ale or mead ourselves.”
By now, the old man had taken time to look over Dain’s small camp, his single wagon pulled by the pair of strong kine, Sulein’s humble donkey, and the plain mail of the two knights themselves. As the women were persuaded to sit on a blanket spread across the ground near the wagon and Sulein bent over the pair of wounded guards, the old man swept his gaze back to Dain. “You command these two knights?” he asked Dain bluntly.
Dain met his gaze. “Aye, I do.”
The old man’s gaze raked over Thum without much interest and came back to Dain. “Well, the three of you will be useful to us. Three trained knights plus my guardsmen who remain unwounded should be adequate to protect us the rest of the way. With my own protector dead, I cannot rest easy without better men about me than I have now.”
Dain frowned, displeased by this old fellow’s assumption that he was some hirelance. “I am not a knight,” he said sharply.
The old man’s perceptive eyes looked him over. “You’re big enough. By Thod, you’ll soon be old enough, if you aren’t already. You walk like a swordsman. And the muscles in those shoulders of yours are impressive enough. Aren’t you in training?”
“Aye,” Dain said, embarrassed at being evaluated like a piece of horseflesh. “I am.”
“Well, then. You’ll do.”
“Will I?” Dain retorted. Behind him, Sir Terent coughed in warning, but Dain paid him no heed. “I am not for hire, sir. Nor are these knights.” “Look as though you are. Oh, yes, I know the ploy. You protest in hopes of getting better wages from me. Think because I’ve lost my horse and most of my men that I’m desperate and will pay any price. Well, I won’t and that’s an end to it. Ten—” “We are not hirelances!” Dain broke in sharply to silence him. The old man sniffed. “The lot of you make a pathetic ragtag. Can be nothing else.”
“You are mistaken.”
“Am I?” The old man looked haughty and annoyed now. Probably he wasn’t used to being challenged by anyone, Dain thought. “If you’re aught else, then what name do you go by?” “I am Dain of Thirst.”
The old man blinked. “Thirst! That’s Odfrey’s hold.”
“No longer,” Dain said with an involuntary catch in his throat. He gestured at the black cloth which had replaced the banner flying from their wagon. “Lord Odfrey is dead.”
The old man’s eyes flared wide in shock. He stood stiff and still for a moment, then frowned and drew a Circle on his breast. “Thod’s mercy! How? When?” “Nonkind attacked us at the Charva,” Dain said. His terse explanation seemed to be enough, for the old man nodded.
“And this is all that remains of your company?” he asked. “Wasn’t he supposed to
be escorting the prince—”
“Prince Gavril is safe,” Dain broke in flatly.
“Tomias be thanked.”
Dain frowned but held his tongue. Tomias had shown no mercy to Lord Odfrey, Sir Roye, or the other dead men. They’d been true believers, for all the good it had done them. Dain could not bring himself to feel thankful to the saint for saving Gavril at their expense.
“I’m Clune,” the old man announced in a more civil tone. “Thank you for your kindness and hospitality, Dain of Thirst.”
Dain inclined his head graciously. “It is my honor to give it, Lord Clune.” One of the maidens tittered behind her veil and whispered to her sister. The old man frowned slightly, and Dain wondered what he’d done wrong. Beside him, Thum hissed in warning, but it was Sir Terent who bent to Dain’s ear and murmured, “Clune is a duc, m’lord. Call him yer grace, and bow. He outranks you.”
Dain’s face grew hot with embarrassment. Still, he knew his mistake was an honest one. He forced himself to meet the old man’s keen eyes. “I ask your grace’s pardon.” He was suddenly aware of his accent as he spoke Mandrian, and self-conscious about his bare chest and torn leggings. “You journey with sad business,” the old duc said grimly. “Of course, you’re traveling to Savroix to inform the king of what’s happened to his former protector.”
Dain blinked, impressed in spite of himself. He hadn’t known Lord Odfrey had once been the king’s protector. That was a high honor indeed. No wonder Odfrey had been so favored by the king. Yet, while thinking of the many things he had never learned about his adoptive father, and of all the things they would never discuss together, Dain felt his grief freshen. He struggled to return his mind to the conversation at hand. Bowing to Clune, he said, “I intend to seek audience with the king immediately.”
The duc nodded. “That’s as it should be. Well, sorry for your circumstances. Appear to be as dreadful as my own. Sad state of the world when we meet trouble while traveling within our own realm. Damne, but I’m weary.” Clune took off his straw hat and rubbed his brow. His face had turned pale. Dain escorted the old man over to his daughters, but they were interrupted by the sound of something large crackling and crashing through the brush. Dain put his hand on his dagger, and Sir Terent drew his sword, but it proved to be Clune’s two surviving guardsmen, struggling to pull an unwieldy wagon through the forest into the clearing.
Elnine and Roxina jumped to their feet and clapped in delight. “Oh, Father, look!” Elnine of the dark blue veil exclaimed. “They have saved some of our things after all.”
“Stalwart fellows, both of them,” said Roxina. She was more buxom than her sister, and wore a plain gown with crimson lining in its sleeves. “Let us reward them well.”
To their credit, the guards ignored this foolish prattle and faced their master respectfully. “It be the provisions wagon, yer grace. Looted, but there be still a few sacks of food so we won’t starve ere we get there.” Dain stepped forward and gestured toward the parked wagon from Thirst. “Over yon is the flattest part of the bank. Take your wagon there, next to ours. Your donkeys and horse can be hobbled among the trees with our animals. The duc and his family will stay here in the center of camp. You men can sleep over that way, between the camp and the road. It is a terrible business, burying the dead in the darkness of night. Go that way to the stream and refresh yourselves, then come to our fire and share our food.”
The guardsmen bowed to Dain in thanks and hurried to do as he ordered. Clune’s tight mouth twitched into what was almost a smile. “You set us here and there in a clever defense strategy, young Dain of Thirst. Do you expect attack in the dead of night?”
The gibe was a gentle one, but under the circumstances Dain found it offensive. “It’s my habit,” he said shortly. “Considering that you’ve survived one attack today, you might appreciate whatever protection we can offer.” Clune’s brows rose, and Thum gripped Dain’s elbow. “Dain!” he whispered in horror. “Take care.”
But Dain refused to back down. He bowed to the old man and started to turn away, but Clune was not yet finished with him.
“Odfrey trained you well,” the duke said in gruff compliment. “It is exactly what he himself would have said to me. Are you his bastard son?” Dain stiffened, and his head lifted proudly. “No, your grace. I am not.” Clune looked very surprised. “Forgive me. I meant you no disrespect, young Dain.”
“I take none,” Dain replied, but his voice was stiff. “I am his adopted heir.” Clune put his withered lips together as though he might whistle, but he made no sound. “Well, well,” he said under his breath. “So that’s the lay of it, eh? Odfrey, what have you set in motion?”
It did not seem to be a question he wanted answered. Dain moved restlessly, ready to go, but Clune gripped him without warning. With a sharp tug that hurt, he lifted a hank of the black hair that concealed Dain’s ears. “Thought so!” he said in triumph. “You have eldin blood, all right!”
Annoyance swept Dain. It was all he could do not to knock the old man’s hand aside. But standing there rigidly, he kept his dignity. “Aye, your grace. I am eld and would have said so, had you asked.”
“Not fully blooded, but those eyes give you away.” Clune released him and stepped back, nodding to himself. “Must have enspelled Odfrey, to make him take such a risk. These are different times we live in today. The Odfrey of old would have done such a reckless thing, but not the Odfrey of late.” Clune’s fierce old eyes bored into Dain. “What do the eld folk want with a Mandrian hold? Tell me that! What spell did you put on Odfrey to addle his wits this way? You’ll have the uplands in rebellion next.”
Dain’s face was burning. By now, he regretted ever showing this old man hospitality. “No,” he said fiercely. “I am no spellcaster.” “Easy to say now, when the man is dead and cannot speak for himself. You’ve no claim, boy. No claim at all. The king won’t grant you audience.” Dain opened his mouth to hotly contest this pronouncement, then realized he needn’t waste his breath arguing with the duc. None of this was Clune’s business.
“The king will see me,” Dain said with confidence.
Snorting, the duc glanced at Sir Terent. “You there. Have you any knowledge of court to share with this young knave?”
Sir Terent bowed, looking very red-faced. “I am no courtier, your grace.” “Obviously.” The duc glanced around the camp while his daughters looked on, tittering behind their hands. “Fools, all.”
His voice was cutting. Dain’s hands curled into fists at his side, but he said nothing.
“You won’t see the king,” the duc said, returning his gaze to Dain. “Because you bring news of poor Odfrey, it’s likely you’ll see the chamberlain or perhaps even a minister of state. But the king won’t give you more than one minute of his time.”
“A minute is long enough,” Dain said through his teeth. “More than long enough.
I have a petition of adoption—”
“The king won’t grant it.”
“Why not?”
But Dain already knew before the answer flickered in Clune’s eyes. A trace of the old humiliation passed through Dain, but he ignored it. He was no longer the starving, frightened boy who had crouched in the marshland reeds, fearing humans and their cruelties. Standing tall, conscious of the others looking on and listening to this confrontation, he faced Clune squarely. “I carry no shame for what I am,” he said in a quiet voice.
The duc’s mouth curled downward in disapproval. “You’ll find Verence’s court no friendly place for your kind,” he said harshly. “Oh, you’ll be a novelty at first. They prate of tolerance there within the palace walls. But try to claim Thirst for your own, and you’ll find a number of new enemies ready to stop you. If you don’t know why, I’m not going to enlighten you.” Dain frowned. “Thank you for your advice,” he said with cold sarcasm. “But I need no counsel.”
“Dain!” Sir Terent whispered in warning.
Dain ignored him. He was tired of this arrogant old man and his criticism. “If you’re too stupid to accept good advice when it’s offered to you, then you’re hardly worth Odfrey’s trust in you. Plainly you’ve the judgment of a gnat.”
Dain glared at him, but the duc gave him no chance to reply. “Aware that you’ve been hospitable and helpful,” Clune said. “Grateful for it, and so I offer you the truth. Whatever old ways of tolerance are still practiced in the uplands, you won’t find them down here. Might as well go home now. Aye, go home, boy, before Cardinal Noncire calls you a heretic.” “Dain is not a heretic!” Thum said hotly in Dain’s defense. “Your grace has no right to say so.”
Clune stared at Thum in a way that made the youth turn bright red beneath his freckles and stammer to a halt.
Looking aghast over his outburst, Thum bowed. “I beg your grace’s pardon.” “So you should,” Clune said coldly. “No doubt grief clouds your mind and makes your tongue unruly. Otherwise, you would not dare speak to me in such a way.” Thum’s face grew pale. He bowed again and would have perhaps apologized further, but Dain gripped his arm to silence him.
“Your grace is injured and tired,” Dain said with more courtesy than he felt.
“Our provisions are yours to share.”
Clune’s men were coming back from the stream. He looked away from Dain with an absent nod. “With food of our own, no need to avail ourselves of your provisions,” he said. “Go back to your own business. No further need of you.” The abrupt dismissal annoyed Dain, but it was a relief as well. Bowing stiffly, Dain remembered enough of his manners to say, “May Thod guard your grace’s rest this night.”
The duc nodded in bare acknowledgment and did not return the courtesy. Seething, Dain spun on his heel and strode away. Thum and Sir Terent hurried after him, but Dain was barely conscious of their presence. He was angry and humiliated. It did no good to tell himself that the Duc du Clune was a shallow-minded, prejudiced old goat. In his heart Dain knew the man’s warning was sound, whether he wanted to hear it or not.
No, Dain realized with dread, it was not going to be easy to enter the court of Savroix. Not for someone like himself, no matter how many warrants and petitions he carried.
Alexeika awakened slowly, painfully. She first became aware of the throbbing agony in her back, something terrible she didn’t want to awaken to. But the pain pulled her forward, and then her mind cleared so suddenly there was no way to flee back into oblivion. She opened her eyes and found herself lying on the dirt. Her face was just inches from the wooden bars of her cage. Tears blurred her vision momentarily, but she blinked them away. Since her captivity by the Grethori three weeks ago, she had refused to let herself cry. Tears were for the weak. Tears were for those who didn’t survive.
Alexeika had every intention of surviving.
She pulled her hands beneath her to push herself up, but the cuts on her back opened and pain flared so intensely she gave a little cry and closed her eyes. She lay there, still and frozen, waiting for the fire raging in her back to subside.
When at last it did, she opened her eyes again. She felt weak and sick to her stomach, but she intended to get up. She had to, not only to defy her cruel captors who had whipped her yet again last night for trying to escape, but also to show them how strong she was. The Grethori lived by a savage code that despised weakness. Only the strong survived in their roving bands. Anyone injured or sickly was eventually killed rather than nursed back to health. Gasping for breath, she reached out and curled her left hand around a wooden bar. Gripping it with all her might, she strained until she managed to push herself onto her knees. The pain was relentless, and flies swarmed around her, but she held on and refused to faint.
Finally she shifted her weight and sat on the ground. For a long while she could do nothing except draw in shallow, hissing breaths to keep from screaming. But at last the pain faded again, and she was able to look around. It was early morning. The sun shone brightly on the top of the mountain where this Grethori tribe had pitched its tents. Woven in garish hues of crimson, purple, yellow, and cerise, some with geometric stripes and designs creating eye-crossing patterns, the tents were simple structures consisting of a pole frame over which tent cloths were thrown and then lashed in place with leather cords.
Despite the sunshine, Alexeika found herself shivering. The air felt cold on her naked skin. Her fingers looked almost blue, and the sun did not reach her cage where it had been wedged beneath an outcropping of glade-stone. When she’d been captured many days ago and brought unconscious into the Grethori camp, her clothes had been the first thing taken from her. She’d awakened, her head pounding horribly from the blow she’d taken in battle, and found herself spread-eagled on the ground with a circle of men surrounding her in silence. Her heart had nearly stopped in fear.
But they had not touched her. Holoc, the chieftain with the tiny skulls tied to the ends of his red hair braids, had claimed her for his battle prize and displayed her like this to all in the camp before letting the slaves garb her in a striped robe and stake her by a tether in front of his tent. The other women prisoners were not as lucky. Stripped naked and confined to a pen of wooden stakes, their cries and pleas for mercy went ignored. All day, Alexeika hunkered on the ground in a small knot, averting her gaze from those who came to stare, until a pair of scarred leather boots planted themselves before her.
“Woman-man demon,” the voice said.
Slowly, trying to hide her fear, she forced herself to look up. It was Holoc the chieftain. He wore a sleeveless jerkin of vixlet fur, its russet tips glinting in the sunlight. His bare muscular arms were bronzed and smooth. His dark red hair, plaited in dozens of long, tiny braids, hung thick and full to his shoulders. His face was young and cruel, with a thin gash of a mouth and a nose that jutted out beneath stony, merciless eyes. Around his waist was belted Severgard, her father’s sword.
She wished her dagger had found his heart instead of his shoulder. Infuriated by his very presence, she rose to her feet, standing as tall as the tether would let her, and faced him. Her dark hair hung in a wild, dust-streaked tangle down her back. The robe she wore stank of horse sweat and fire smoke. Its coarse weaving scratched her skin. The stony ground hurt her bare feet. But she let none of her fear or discomfort show as she faced him as a general’s daughter should. Her chin lifted and she squared her shoulders. She had fought him in battle once. She vowed she would do it again if she ever got the chance. His dark eyes stared back at her, implacable and unreadable. One of the tribesmen took a prisoner from the pen and pushed her out of sight behind the tents. When she began screaming, Alexeika flinched. “Have you no mercy?” she demanded, unable to keep quiet. Although she hated to beg this savage for anything, she knew she must try to spare her friends. “Stop your men. Stop them! In the name of the gods, have some pity.” He frowned slightly, but said nothing. Either he didn’t understand her or he didn’t care.
Frustrated, she tried to take a step toward him, but quick as thought he moved, striking her in the chest with the heel of his hand.
The blow hurt so much it stunned her. Before she knew it, she had toppled backward and found herself sitting on the ground. She couldn’t get her breath at first and wheezed for several moments before she finally recovered. “Quiet tongue,” he told her, his voice gruff and harsh. “Slave now. No speak.” Alexeika scrambled to her feet. “I am not your slave!” she shouted. “These are my people, not yours—” He whipped out his dagger and pressed the point to her throat. Alexeika stopped her protest abruptly and froze in place. All she could feel was that sharp point at her throat, and her own vulnerability. She could not breathe, and her heart thudded heavily inside her chest.
He glared at her. “No speak. You slave now. I keep.” Her gaze shifted involuntarily to where his people stood gathered around, watching impassively. The woman who’d been taken away screamed again and began to weep with harsh, choking sobs. Hatred swelled inside Alexeika. Forgetting all caution, she swatted aside Holoc’s dagger.
“Where are the children?” she asked. “What have you done with them?”
Holoc looked puzzled.
“The children!” she shouted. “The little ones!”
“Sold,” he said with satisfaction.
She stared at him with horror. “All of them?”
He grinned, showing teeth filed to points.
Shuddering, she asked, “And the men? Uzfan and Boral and—” “Men no use,” he said with a shrug. “Dead now.”
“Dead.”
She whispered it, feeling as though a stone had fallen inside her. Her knees lost their strength, and she sank to the ground at Holoc’s feet. He planted one of them on her shoulder, pushing her down.
Her fear came back, and she tried to shove his foot away, but he only stamped it harder against her shoulder. She cursed him, desperate not to let him see her fear.
Holoc laughed then, and a look of pride flashed in his dark eyes. “My woman-man demon. Good fighter. Maker of power. You are mine.” “Never!” she yelled, panting.
He moved his foot, releasing her, and walked away.
That had been the first day. That night, she remained tethered outside his tent like a dog and was given no food or water. Across the camp, the other women huddled together in their pen. Alexeika’s heart went out to them, but there was nothing she could do except worry the leather rope which held her captive. By dawn, she managed to free herself. She went straight to the other prisoners to free them, but an elderly woman with bare arms and leathery skin rose from the shadows with a screech and beat Alexeika back with a stick. The noise the old crone made brought the entire camp awake. Alexeika fought and flailed, but she was quickly surrounded and dragged away by several men, then flung at Holoc’s feet.
He stood there in the shadowy gloom, silent and implacable. Alexeika lay at his feet, afraid yet filled with defiance, longing for a weapon. Holoc gestured silently, and the Grethori women came to strip off her robe. Torches were lit, and Alexeika cringed in an effort to hide her nakedness. She had never felt so humiliated. Then the women twisted her arms behind her back and forced her over to a tree. There in the torchlight, she was lashed to the trunk so tightly she could move nothing except her head. The bark scratched her skin, and from the corner of her eye she saw Holoc shake out a whip. “No,” she whispered in horror.
A toothless, wrinkled, hideous old woman sprang at her from the other side, shouting words she did not understand and shaking yellow, evil-smelling dust over her.
Sneezing, Alexeika did not even know the first lash was coming until it cracked across her back. The pain went beyond her comprehension. She heard herself screaming, and could not stop until the second lash struck her. Then her breath seemed to vanish. She choked, and by the time she’d managed to suck in air, the third lash came.
It went on and on, each blow seeming to last an eternity. She thought she would die, but she did not. At the tenth, Holoc coiled his whip and returned to his tent. The women cut her down. She could not walk. Half-conscious and whimpering from the pain, she was half-dragged, half-carried to the cage under the outcropping of rock and put inside it.
That was her first whipping.
When she recovered enough to walk, and then to run, she escaped again. This time she did not try to release her fellow prisoners. She went instead to the horses, where one of the camp sentries caught her.
Her second whipping was short, for two lashes were all it took to have her sobbing and pleading for Holoc to stop.
Much to her surprise, he did. Again, the women put her in the cage. This time they starved her for three days, not even giving her water. She sat there, her stomach aching and her thirst ravaging her almost to the point of madness. She watched the men saddle their shaggy, half-wild ponies and ride away. She watched the women weaving cloth and tanning hides. The slaves, silent and rail-thin, worked to chop wood and fetch kettles of water. They prepared the food, cleaned, fetched, and carried. Now and then a few children, as leathery-dark and savage as their elders, came by Alexeika’s cage to stare at her. Sometimes they threw stones at her bars to see if she’d flinch.
She sat there in silence, ignoring them, staying deep inside her mind to keep from crumbling. She was in agony. Her pain, thirst, and hunger made her so weak and hopeless she did not know how to go on.
Had anyone come to her cage at that time, she would have groveled on her belly for a bark cup of water. She would have done anything they asked. Her weakness horrified her, and she prayed to Thod and her father both for the strength to go on.
Later that day, the ancient women, the mamsas, untied the other captive women and led them to the center of the camp. Alexeika barely recognized them now. Their bare skin was burned by the sun. Their hair hung in filthy tangles over their eyes. Apathy slackened their faces as they were forced to sit in a circle. The mamsas, toothless and fierce, surrounded them, and then the sheda came out of her tent.
This was the hideous creature who had thrown yellow dust over Alexeika during her first whipping. Today, the sheda hobbled slowly across the camp on crippled feet. Her spine hunched low, bending her nearly double. Her long, snow-white hair was plaited like a man’s, and her eyes shone black and alert in her withered face. Leaning on a carved staff tied with tiny skulls and bells that tinkled softly, she shuffled over to the captives.
Her cracked old voice gave an order, and the first captive was forced to lie on the ground.
The sheda bent over her with a bronze knife in her palsied fist. Alexeika held her breath, but the knife was only to cut a hank of hair from the captive’s head. Holding the blonde tresses aloft in the wind, the sheda chanted while a firebrand was brought to her. She set the hair on fire and dropped it into a bowl. Peering intently over the ashes, she prodded them with her finger, then nodded.
The captive was allowed up, and another brought to her place. Again and again the ritual was performed over all of them. In the end, three were separated from the others, Larisa among them. The rest were given shabby robes and food, then led away out of sight. Larisa and the other two were tied together and forced to kneel before the sheda.
She glared at them, spitting out something that sounded like a curse. Then she shook her staff bells at them, and three mamsas stepped behind them and cut their throats in unison.
Alexeika screamed, gripping the bars of her cage in horror. But it was done, and the mamsas squatted next to their victims, draining their blood into bowls. Later the slaves dragged the bodies away and threw them into a ravine. The mamsas mixed the blood with horse’s milk and curdled the concoction with mysterious herbs and spices before feeding it to the survivors. Alexeika suspected that the women allowed to live were pregnant; those who had just been killed were not.
She had heard stories all her life about the atrocities of the Grethori savages. They were said to eat their own children, to drink the blood of their vanquished enemies, and to steal babies by the use of dark magic. When Alexeika was a young child, before the days of exile, her old nurse used to frighten her with threats, saying she would be stolen and eaten by the Grethori if she did not behave.
Now, as an adult, Alexeika was witnessing the truth about the Grethori ways. They did indeed drink blood; that was true enough. They did not eat their children, but apparently their women bore few. And from the few understandable comments she overheard, it seemed that they kept some slaves as broodmares, their only purpose to bear infants that were then kept to be raised in the camp or traded away for goods.
Joyska, one of the surviving women and Vlad’s mother, glared at Alexeika, who sat crouched in her cage. “This is your fault!” Joyska screamed. Her hatred came at Alexeika like a blow. “We could have been pardoned and safe, but for you!” A mamsa tried to silence her, but Joyska shook off the old crone and went on glaring at Alexeika. “Your father led my husband to slaughter. Then my boy died for you. And now I come to this. A thousand curses of my heart on you, Alexeika Volvn!”
They beat Joyska then and hustled her away with the others. Her words, however, seemed to go on hanging in the air.
Alexeika leaned forward, gripping the bars of her cage, and closed her burning eyes.
No one had told her why she’d escaped the others’ fate, unless it had something to do with the fact that she’d fought Holoc like a man, and that she’d used her unreliable powers in the battle. She had no other theory to explain it. Now, although she rubbed her face again and again with shaking hands, she could not wipe away the horror of this latest Grethori ritual. Over and over, she saw the sharp knife drawn across Larisa’s throat. Over and over, she saw the bodies fall to the dust. Over and over, Alexeika heard Joyska’s curse. Her spirits were devastated. She thought back over this difficult, tragic summer that had begun with such high hopes of defeating King Muncel and seeing freedom restored to Nether. Instead of victory, there had been defeat after defeat, tragedy after tragedy. Yes, she had argued long and hard against accepting Muncel’s amnesty. The cost for such a pardon to all rebels was to become slaves in Gant. She thought she was keeping the camp strong. She thought they were all of one mind with her. It seemed she was wrong.
But the Grethori were not her fault. The deaths of Uzfan, Vlad, Larisa, and so many others were not her fault. No matter how low her spirits plummeted, she would not accept false blame. Draysinko the coward had betrayed them. He had left the sentry posts vacant, and at the first attack he’d fled with their supply of furs and the money he’d stolen from Alexeika’s tent. She realized that he’d known what was going to happen. Perhaps he’d even arranged it, leading the Grethori to them in exchange for his miserable life. She’d never know the entire truth, but she knew enough to hate him for his betrayal. No wonder he’d urged her to run away with him there on the bank of the fjord that last night. And now, she could not imagine what fate awaited her and these few other prisoners. Alexeika’s eyes burned, but she did not weep. She could not. Her tears were locked away somewhere inside her, where she could not reach them. “Demon,” said the cracked, wheezing voice of the sheda. Startled, Alexeika looked up and saw the ancient crone standing hunched over before her cage. Alexeika had not heard or seen her coming, but suddenly she was there.
Her black, malevolent eyes peered at Alexeika through the wooden bars of the cage. “Demon,” she said again.
Alexeika’s faltering spirits steadied. She lifted her chin in fresh defiance.
“Do you fear my powers?” she asked.
The sheda glared at her and struck the cage with her staff.
Alexeika flinched in spite of herself, and the sheda grinned toothlessly at her.
“Your turn will come soon,” she said. “His lust grows hot in the spell I make. When the moon turns, he will no longer be able to control it. Then will he take you. He is strong, our chieftain. Strong and brave, but he is only a man, and he fears you.”
“Good,” Alexeika said defiantly, although her heart had frozen inside her. “He should fear me.”
“You cannot harm him,” the sheda said. “My protection spell keeps him safe, as it did the day your dagger missed his heart.”
Alexeika frowned and drew in her breath with a hiss.
The sheda smiled. “My powers are stronger than yours, demon. You do not like to hear that, but it is true. Holoc knows not whether you are woman or man, for you look like one and fight like the other. But I know.”
She laughed again in a gasping cackle that made the hair rise on the back of Alexeika’s neck. “A son you will bear him, demon. Your powers will make a strong son whose name will ride the heavens. My hands will make your food, and I will feed you with many spells to make your child so thick of hide he will not need a shield. Claws will he have for fingers, that he can rend his enemies without dagger or sword. Flame will be his eyes, that he can destroy all who stand before him. Death will live in his mouth, that he has only to breathe forth in order to slay.”
Alexeika found herself half-mesmerized by the old woman. Her mind seemed gripped by a force she could not resist, and she understood every word clearly. Somehow, she found the last scraps of her defiance. “I will bear no such monster.” The sheda’s black eyes narrowed and she hissed in displeasure. “Fool! I have seen a vision of the coming days. We will have this leader. Like a dragon will he be, son of demon and Holoc the Brave. He will lead our people against the pale-eyes. Like the locusts of the steppes will we ride. Fire will flash from our spear tips. Lightning will smite our enemies. Then there will be no more pale-eyes. Then there will be only Grethori.”
Alexeika tried to draw back from her, but the sheda thrust her staff inside the cage and prodded Alexeika’s stomach with the end of it. “Your womb, demon, is mine. I have seen the visions.”
“Thod smite your visions,” Alexeika said. Her mouth was dry and her voice shook, but she faced the old crone with all the spirit she had left. “The Grethori can only fight helpless women and children. They run from armed knights, and even if you made a monster to lead your people, the Grethori would still run.” Glaring, the sheda shrieked in outrage.
“I’ll be no part of this,” Alexeika declared.
The sheda moved her staff up and down Alexeika’s belly and thighs. “Beauty and fire,” she mumbled. “Fire and beauty. He burns for you. You are flame to him. Let the blood mingle. Seed and soil. Grethori and demon will unite, bound into one being.” She paused in the chanting of her spell and tapped Alexeika’s stomach with the end of her staff. “When the moon turns, you become his forever.”
Snarling, Alexeika grabbed the staff with both hands and yanked it away. The sheda screeched with anger, and the mamsas came running to surround her. Alexeika ignored their shouts as she knelt and tried to break the staff. It was made of a smooth, dark wood as strong as iron. She could not snap it, so she tore the bells off and flung them at the mamsas, who screamed in rage and beat the bars of her cage with sticks. Alexeika pounded the small skulls on the ground, letting her pent-up anger and horror free as she tried to smash them. One of the little skulls cracked, and the sheda screamed as though in agony. Grinning to herself, Alexeika smashed the little skull again. But the mamsas wrenched open her cage and swarmed inside it. The staff was wrested from her hands and she was dragged outside. She tried to get up, but she was too weak from lack of food and water to struggle much. They kicked and beat her until she lay there, spent and half-conscious, in the dirt.
She felt something tug at her thick hair. Lifting her head, she saw the glint of the sheda’s bronze knife. That fast, it was done, and the sheda held up a lock of her hair.
“This he will eat,” she said triumphantly. “What is lust now will grow into his madness. Beneath the stars will he take you. Before us all will he take you. And the mamsas will sing chants of our war-songs while you bleed to make this son. Demon, dragon, and Grethori will this child be. So do I say.” She hobbled away, Alexeika’s hair fluttering in her hand like something alive and captured. Alexeika lay there helplessly and clenched her hands on the dirt. “Not while I live,” she muttered. “Never!”
But she knew that if she didn’t escape, this fate would indeed be hers. Determined neither to be mated to Holoc nor to bear some monstrous babe of witchery, Alexeika made her plans.
Every night while her body mended, she watched the rising of the moon. Every night its fullness waned a little more. Her time was running out. Holoc seldom came near her, but when he rode out of camp in the mornings his gaze went to her cage. When he rode in at eventide, he looked for her. She knew whenever his eyes watched her. She had a special sense for it, as though all her instincts had been attuned and sharpened. His sun-bronzed face remained impassive, but his dark eyes burned with a fever that intensified daily. She feared it with all her mind and soul.
It was no good trying to summon her powers—they never came when she wanted. She knew her fears made them even less reliable than usual. If only she could draw forth Faldain, the true king of Nether, and turn vision into reality. He lived, somewhere in this world. Lost and exiled from Nether, he delayed his coming for reasons she did not understand. If only she could reach out to him as she had once before. If only she could send her plea for help to him. He was strong, manly, and handsome. His heart was good, and he had the blood of eld in his veins. If he were here, he would fight for her. He would save her. But such thoughts were only the foolish imaginings of a lovestruck girl. She had glimpsed him once, and endangered him in the very process of parting the veils of seeing. How Uzfan had scolded her for it.
If the old priest were here, he could counteract the sheda’s spells.
But there was no one here who could save her except herself. Faldain, even if he knew of her plight, even if he chose to care enough to rescue her, could not come in time. Such thoughts were pure fantasy. And Alexeika knew no fantasy could save her. She had only her own determination and wits to rely on.
Twice before, she’d broken free only to fail. This time, she knew she must succeed. The stakes were far too high for failure.
Although they now fed her well, Alexeika picked out only the berries and meat. She feared the spells and seasonings in everything else. Sometimes she was not successful, because her dreams would be wild and lustful. She would find herself heavy-eyed the next day, staring at Holoc despite herself. She hated such manipulation and was tempted to quit eating completely. But she needed her strength for her coming escape. This time, she would not try to take a horse; they were too well-guarded. She would head instead straight down into the ravine. It would be dangerous at night, because the footing was so treacherous. But her trail would be hidden there and hard to follow. She would rather take the risk than lose all by being too cautious and careful. During the day, she was allowed occasional exercise. She walked around camp, followed by the mamsa who guarded her. At night, however, she was caged and guarded by a different mamsa. As the camp bedded down under the stars on the mountaintop, Holoc walked past Alexeika’s cage like a silent shadow. Sometimes he stopped and stood there, unmoving for perhaps an hour, before he walked on. These silent nightly visits unnerved her more than anything else. She felt the nets of the sheda’s spell closing around her. As time dwindled, her fear continued to grow. And with fear came a sense of paralysis and defeat, until sometimes in the darkness she lay there on the cold ground, shivering and wretched, and believed that nothing she did or tried would be successful. But she always fought off such bouts of self-pity. She refused to give up or surrender to fate the way the others had. They never spoke to her now. Whenever Joyska or Shelena or any of the others walked past her, they averted their eyes. She watched them change, becoming anxious to please, to fit in, to do well. They all looked the same, with the same fearful apathy in their eyes, the same mendicant smiles, the same semi-cringing posture as they learned their new slave duties.
I am a princess, not a serf, Alexeika reminded herself to keep her courage going. It is better to die in defiance than to live crouched at the feet of a master.
She prayed to Thod for protection. She spent time envisioning her father in her mind. His proud, upright figure, princely stance, and uncompromising values always gave her comfort. She told herself again and again that she must be a worthy daughter of such a man. He had died for his principles. She could do no less.
Meanwhile, the days passed. One morning, when the men left the camp at a dead gallop, whooping and shouting more than usual, the mamsas ordered the slaves to roll an enormous stone with a flattened top into the center of camp. Other stones were placed in a circle around it. A robe of yellow and vivid blue stripes was draped over the center stone, like a garish cloth over an altar. Generous platters of food, heavily spiced, were brought to Alexeika. She ate nothing.
In the afternoon, two of the mamsas slipped her robe off her shoulders to her waist. One rubbed her back and arms with unguents. The other painted her breasts with intricate patterns that were themselves a spell of desire. Alexeika’s skin felt on fire, as though it had come to life itself. She tried to pull away, tried to resist, but she was slapped until her head rang and forced to sit quietly for these ministrations.
“Tomorrow,” one of the mamsas muttered as she began to paint Alexeika’s back. “The stars align as the sheda has said. Tonight, your body will begin the dance alone. You will burn with fire, igniting his. But there must be the waiting and the burning and the waiting. Tomorrow night will you lie on the stone of Adauri, mother of all Grethori. The ini stones will surround you with their power, controlling you, demon. And the spell will be completed. Then will he come. Then will we watch our future begin.”
Alexeika tried to push them away, but they took leather ropes and tied her up. All day in the bright sunshine they painted her body with fantastic coils and flowers and serpents. Her heart thundered inside her chest, and she told herself over and over, Tonight I must escape.
The young women of the camp pretended to ignore these proceedings. They were supposed to be weaving, but Alexeika could hear them talking over the clack of their looms.
One slender maiden, very bronzed of skin and black-eyed, glared at Alexeika more than the others. Today, she finally threw down her shuttle and came to Alexeika with a face of fury and hatred. Shouting a curse, she picked up a stone and hurled it. It skimmed past Alexeika’s ear, barely missing her. Furious, Alexeika cursed her in return, and strained against her bonds to pull free. Both mamsas dropped their paints and unguents to turn on the girl.
“He is mine!” the girl shouted. “I am promised to him!”
“No longer, Vika,” one mamsa said. “The sheda has spoken.”