Fold Thunder

by Gregory Ashe

Chapter Twenty-three

  Noise, then light. Irwa wanted to draw back into the darkness, but she couldn’t. Her hands were bound; her broken arm still throbbed with pain. Her legs were bound as well, and a soiled gag filled her mouth. The bonds, however, were not what kept her from recoiling from what she knew was coming. Despair, tinged with something that tasted like death, was all she had left. Movement took too much effort.

  She lay on her back, naked under a scratchy wool blanket. Irwa pressed shut her eyes. No prayers came to mind. No pleas to Ishahb for mercy. For three days she had begged—at first for deliverance, then for strength to endure, and then death. Dimly, Irwa wondered if that last prayer had been answered, at least on the inside. The thought passed quickly, though—thinking took effort; thinking hurt.

  The light disappeared. Maybe they had just been checking on her, making sure she had not escaped. The thought would have made her laugh if . . . well, if everything. Wounds covered one side of her body, most from where she had fallen from her horse, but some newer, from men who were rough with their women, who liked her to scream. Her skin stretched tight with fresh scabs.

  “Time to get rid of that one,” a voice said from outside the small shack where she lay. Anje. The blond Sinian was one of the cruel ones. Not the same way as Eline, the bearded man who had claimed her as his own. He liked her screams, he said. Anje was cruel unintentionally, if such a thing were possible, cruel through his complete disregard for the fact that she was a person. Eline, however . . .

  Whatever else despair had extinguished within Irwa, her hatred of Eline still burned, a single light in that comforting darkness. Hate provided a strange peace as well. Her hatred was simple, pure, unadulterated by humanity—either her own, or Eline’s. That flame burned bright. Ishahb’s flame.

  “Meik says we’re packing up. Time to move on, he says. It’s been too bloody quiet on the trail, no one in almost a week.”

  The voice that answered she did not recognize, but that was not surprising; not many of the men spoke when they came into her, although some wanted her to talk. “Meik’s a bloody fool,” the man said. “We fought hard for this spot; why give it up?”

  “He says we’ll be coming back, in the spring. We might as well move down the mountain while we still can. The snows come early up here—you should know that better than anyone, Trickwood. Don’t your bloody kind live in snow caves with she-bears for company?”

  “Only when we can’t find good Sinian women to keep us company,” the man said with a rough laugh.

  “Well, I’m going to find Eline. His job to get rid of her; he’s the one who insisted on bringing her back in the first place.”

  “I didn’t hear you complaining too much, Anje.”

  “Well, she’s a bloody witch isn’t she? That’s what Split said, although she hasn’t been too much trouble.”

  “And that didn’t keep you from lining up every night,” the other man replied.

  Anje just laughed. “That what you’re here for then?” he asked. “Might as well get in one last go before Eline rolls her off the cliff.”

  “Didn’t know it was going to be the last round,” the man said, “but I might as well while I can.”

  “Don’t worry,” Anje said, “there’s always more of them.”

  The door swung open again. Irwa lay still, heart slowly measuring out the last of her life. Dead, she thought. I’ll finally be dead. It brought tears of relief to her eyes, and a brief moment of bliss that was almost painful in its unfamiliarity. Despair and numbness wrapped around her again, though, as the door swung shut and she heard the scuffing steps across the dirt floor.

  Irwa’s breath caught when the calloused fingers touched her broken arm, brushing the skin from palm to elbow. She shivered. Any moment now, in the darkness, the pain would begin.

  “Hold still,” the man said, his voice slightly accented. She had not noticed that through the wall. “This break is bad, very bad, and these idiots have made it a hundred times worse.”

  The words confused Irwa. She struggled to push through the heavy layers of despair, to think. What’s going on? What is he doing?

  She gasped as cold steel touched her skin, and then the rope was gone from her wrist. Then her other arm was free, then her legs. “Who are you?” she asked, her voice sounding strange in her own ears. “What are you doing?”

  “Quiet,” the man said in that strange accent. Not Apsian, Irwa thought. Not Sinian, but perhaps close to deep Sinian. Not Canian. “This is going to hurt. If the gods of earth and stone smile, perhaps the small blessing of your treatment here is that no one will wonder at one more scream.”

  Irwa did not understand, and then he pulled on her wounded arm. She screamed, splinters of pain racing up to fill her eyes with spots of light.

  “Easy,” the man said. “Easy.” Irwa tried to slow her breath, but it came in fast whimpers. The arm felt better, but echoes of the pain still rippled through her. “I set the arm, at least as best I can here. I’m going to splint it; it may hurt a bit, but nothing like that last part.”

  It did hurt as he bound her arm to the wooden board, using the left over rope that had been around her feet and wrists, but, in spite of the rough calluses, the man was gentle as he worked. When he had finished, he helped her sit up, one hand supporting the broken arm. She barely noticed as the wool blanket slipped to reveal her breasts; any sense of privacy had vanished. Irwa’s head swam as she sat for the first time in days, and then she was vomiting, the sick spilling down her naked chest.

  The man wiped her clean with the blanket, his hands moving efficiently, not lingering to caress or fondle. “This is going to be hard,” he said as he worked. “You’re not in any condition to travel on your own, but I can’t go with you; if I left, Meik would have everyone out hunting for us, and they wouldn’t stop until we were dead. Meik doesn’t want anyone to know about this little camp, let alone about his activities along the highway. If Lord Brech caught him . . .” His voice trailed off, and after a moment he added, his voice flat, “Well, that’s a question for another day.”

  His face, barely visible in the dim light of the shack, did not inspire Irwa’s confidence. A long jagged scar, barely healed, ran from ear to the corner of his mouth, drawing his lips into a strange, permanent smirk. His features were rough—large nose and eyes, thick eyebrows, a shaggy mane of blond hair—but he spoke like an educated man. The eyes caught Irwa, though, and seemed to hold her—they were a deep blue, and hard as ice.

  He did not seem to notice her attention. He pulled out a fold of cloth, and in surprise Irwa saw that he held one of her old dresses—brown, stained, its hem frayed, the dress had never looked so wonderful to Irwa. “I’ll have to help you put it on,” he said, and then did so, again acting in the same disinterested fashion. He undid a scarf from around his neck and used it to carefully hang Irwa’s broken arm in a sling. “No shoes, I’m afraid, or underclothes. I got enough trouble from the men for keeping the dress; I’m lucky Meik hasn’t started asking questions about why I haven’t been in to use you. Maybe this visit will help.” The words brought a flush to Irwa’s cheeks. She shifted uncomfortably. “I’m sorry, I’m not making light of your suffering—just trying to explain my situation.”

  “What are you going to do to me?” Curiosity had penetrated the shield of numbness, and Irwa found her mind slowly waking up.

  “I couldn’t do anything until they decided to get rid you,” the man said. “Please, believe me, I would have helped if I could. There are too many of them, though.” He sighed, eyes falling to the ground, and absently traced the scar along his face with his thumb. “I’m so sorry.”

  With a shock, Irwa realized that he was waiting for her to say something. To forgive him. The thought left her speechless for a moment; the man was trying to save her life, and he wanted her to forgive him first. She laid one hand on his arm, surprised at how strong he felt, and even more surprised at her own noticing. The sudden reminder of sexuality left her feeli
ng sick, and she pulled her hand back as though burned. “Please. I know you’ve done what you could.” In her confusion, Irwa scarcely noticed how flat the words sounded.

  The man did not meet her eyes, but he said, “We need to go. Meik wants the men leaving today. Split said you’re a witch—can you open a gateway to save yourself, or fly, or something like that?”

  Irwa closed her eyes. Whatever remorse she had felt about using magic, whatever compunctions about power and its effects, had vanished after the first day in the camp. After experiencing, for the first time in her life, true and utter helplessness. The hepisteis and cheira swam in her mind, though; fatigue and privation left her unable to concentrate.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, opening her eyes. The man’s eyes flitted away again. “I . . . can’t, not now.”

  “Not a problem,” the man said. “We’ll get out of here another way. I wasn’t sure if it was true, you know, so I planned for this. No one is watching the back of this shack, so we’ll just go out that way and make our way down that side of the mountain.”

  Irwa’s legs trembled just standing there; they had not fed her, and they had given her a little water. Her sleep had brought little rest with it. She nodded, though. “Tell me your name,” she said. “Then we’ll go.”

  The man kept his gaze on the back wall of the shack and said, “Hynnar.”

  “The man outside called you Trickwood,” Irwa said. “Why?”

  “I gave them another name,” Hynnar said. “They did not care; they call me that to mock me. It doesn’t matter; we need to go.”

  He pulled two boards loose from the wall, the muscles in his arms bulging under his shabby wool coat. At that moment, Irwa realized just how large Hynnar was. He stood a good head and a half taller than her, and was probably twice as wide. Hynnar stepped through the opening, barely fitting between the remaining boards, and beckoned for her to follow. Irwa joined him outside, legs burning at their first steps in so long. The light outside blinded her for a moment, and she blinked the tears from her eyes.

  Only a sliver of the sun was visible between the mountains, the early morning light filtered by the peaks that surrounded her. A few feet ahead, the ground gave away to a steep slope covered in scree, dropping off abruptly a few yards further. She could see down into the stony valley below where trees, their leaves a mixture of green and brilliant red and orange, covered the ground. Behind her, the shack, and dozens more like it, lined the edge of the cliff, and the smell of woodsmoke and the sound of men, laughing and arguing, carried in the thin, sharp air.

  “This way,” Hynnar whispered. He led her south, keeping so close to the edge that Irwa eventually had to raise one hand to shield herself from the dizzying vista. The line of shacks hid them from the majority of the camp, although Irwa realized that, if just one man happened to glance their way as he passed, they would be seen instantly. She glanced to her left once. The jump would be easy. She would not let them take her again.

  They came to the last shack, before a stretch of open ground perhaps twenty paces across that ended at a line of scraggly fir trees, their white, papery bark shining in the morning light. Hynnar held up one hand, stopping her. Speaking into her ear, he said, “I’m going to cause a distraction. Run to the trees when no one is looking, and then go down the trail; not too far, though. It gets dangerous fast.”

  Without looking back, he stepped out from behind the shack and turned, heading into the camp. “Eline,” he shouted. “Eline, you bastard, get out here.” There was a murmur of interested voices, and then the sound of a door slamming open.

  “What in the name of Ishahb’s burning teat do you want, Trickwood? I’m bloody sleeping.”

  “Your whore up and died on me while I was in her,” Hynnar shouted. Irwa felt her face flush in spite of herself. Nausea washed over her.

  Eline laughed and said, “That’s what you get for waiting so long, Trickwood. Are you sure you were doing it right? A woman’s different from a boy, you know. Probably hard for you to tell, though, since she has her hair so short.”

  Hynnar swore in a language Irwa did not know—Sinian, she guessed, but it could be one of the tribal languages of Greve Sindal as well. Then she heard the crack of fist on bone, and suddenly everyone was shouting. The roar of excitement made her knees buckle. The sounds of fighting continued as the men swore at each other. After a moment of heart-sick fear, Irwa poked her head out around the corner. Eline was kneeling on top of Hynnar, fists raining down in quick succession, while a ring of men surrounded them, cheering.

  Irwa grabbed her dress in her good hand and ran. Her legs trembled and her breath whistled in and out. After a few paces everything swam around her, and she feared she might fall. Irwa risked a glance back, but the men were still fighting, and no one had seen her. Then she was pushing through the feathery branches of the fir trees, her heart hammering. Each breath was like a knife in her side.

  The sounds of fighting continued, following her, and she felt sick again, but this time for Hynnar. Eline had looked like a man ready to kill, and Hynnar had been trying to help her. Leaning against the last tree in the small strand, bordering a narrow, rocky trail that wound down, Irwa tried to focus. If I could only remember the hepisteis, she thought. Her head spun, though, and she could not seem to steady her vision, let alone produce the focus necessary for a cheiron. For a moment, a prayer to Ishahb hovered on her lips, but she crushed it down. Ishahb had heard enough of her prayers for one lifetime.

  Slowly she picked her way down the trail, keeping one hand on the slope of the mountain. The other side was a straight drop down to the valleys below, and Irwa did not trust herself anywhere near the edge. The sounds of struggle followed her, until a chorus of gleeful howls suddenly erupted. Pressing one hand to her mouth, Irwa leaned against the cliff, eyes closing briefly. He’s dead. She knew it. Dead, and he tried to help me. The thought sat in her stomach like a cold knot. There was nothing to do for him though. That was reality, cold and hard as stone.

  Still leaning against the side of the mountain, Irwa stumbled forward. The loose stone and dirt scraped her good arm, but Irwa worried that, if she tried to stand on her own, she would fall and never get up. Her way down the narrow switchbacks was agonizing. She rubbed her upper arm raw supporting herself, and every step sent a jolt of pain shooting through her broken arm as her knees threatened to give out. Her pace felt excruciatingly slow; when she glanced back up, the row of fir trees looked as close as ever.

  Finally, at one of the turns of the switchback, she collapsed, sliding to her knees to lean up against the mountain. The stones and dirt warmed her back, a pleasant change from the chill morning air. The sun now hung well above the peaks, chasing away the shadows of the valleys below and tempering the sharpness of the mountain air. As she drew in breath, Irwa realized with a shock how clean the air tasted. The thought was strange, vaguely hopeful in its contrast to the despair that trailed her.

  Sleep claimed her, then, as she lay there, slipping over her so gradually that it merged seamlessly with the numbness within. A warm hand on her shoulder woke her. Irwa started, sending another flash of pain through her arm, and let out a low moan. The sunlight banished the sudden memory of the shack, though, and Irwa remembered where she was.

  “You’re in worse shape than I thought,” Hynnar said. He knelt beside her, his face a mass of fresh bruises and barely scabbed cuts. Blood still oozed from a deep cut to his left nostril, leaving a trail around the corner of his mouth and down his neck. “Either that, or you’re much more confident than good sense would allow. Why in the world did you stop so close to the camp? All it would take would be for someone to decide they wanted a last look off this side of the mountain, and they’d see you sure as day.”

  Irwa struggled to work moisture into her mouth; she did not know how long it had been since she had had something to drink. “I couldn’t go any more,” she finally said.

  Hynnar helped her to her feet, then let out an oath in that unknown
language. “What happened to your arm?” he asked, turning her so he could see.

  “What happened to your face?” Irwa said. “Are you ok?”

  “I’m fine,” he answered drily. “Eline is fierce, but lazy. After a short time of hitting me, he got tired and found another wineskin. Speaking of which,” he opened a pack behind him, which Irwa had not noticed before, and fished out a leather skin. “I figured you’d need something.”

  He unstoppered the skin and passed it to her. Irwa drank; the wine was bitter and burned her throat, but, as cheap and watered as it was, it tasted like nectar. She drank until the skin was dry, cursing herself as she felt the liquid overflow her mouth and run down her cheeks, but she could not stop, did not want to stop. It tasted like life, newly poured into her.

  “Bloody fool,” Hynnar said, shaking his head. “I should have given you something up there; I didn’t even think about it. I’m so sorry.”

  Irwa blinked, wiping her mouth with the sleeve of the dress, and passed the skin back. Apologizing again, she wondered. This man either has too much guilt, or not enough. She had seen men like this, in her congregation back home. She had never found one quite to this extreme, though. “Thank you,” she said. She felt immensely better. “Thank you, thank you.” She pressed his hand, forcing herself to touch him, not to recoil from the solid warmth, the smooth skin.

  He shifted his arm and turned, pretending he had intended the movement. He drew out a block of cheese from the bag and a loaf of bread and offered them to her. His face betrayed nothing of his thoughts, but Irwa felt the reproach, the rejection implicit in his movement. She was sullied, dirty, worthless. Worse than a whore. She took the food and, at his urging, tried to eat slowly, though her hunger spurred her. The food was quickly gone, and Irwa’s head felt clear, or close to it, for the first time in days.

  “Thank you,” she said and meant it. She could not blame him for his feelings toward her; what had happened was the fault of neither one of them, but it had happened and it left its mark. She cursed her attraction to him. Probably normal, Irwa told herself. Considering what I went through. It’s like some twisted version of the Canian romances—no knight, no princess, but somehow the same excess of passion.

  Hynnar nodded and stood, lifting the pack onto his broad shoulders. He stretched out one big hand—Irwa was surprised at how smooth his arms were, almost hairless—and helped her, practically lifted her, to her feet. “We still have a ways to go,” he said. “And we need to go fast; I’ll have to catch up to Meik and his men by tonight, or he’ll think I’ve deserted.”

  “And right now?” Irwa asked.

  “He thinks I’m just mad at Eline. He’s not wrong there, but I told him I’d meet up with them by tonight. They’re probably halfway down the mountain already; when Meik decides to move, he moves fast. It’s what’s kept him alive this long.”

  “Let’s go then,” Irwa said. Why do you stay with them? The question hung on her tongue, but she did not give it voice. He’s done enough for me already, she decided. No point in putting the man to the question.

  In spite of her improvement, Irwa still felt shaky as they descended the rocky trails. Hynnar hurried her along, though, as conscientiously as he could, carrying her at times when the scree grew too dangerous, or when he saw her falter. The large blond man’s face was red with exertion, and his breath came in quick, explosive gasps, but he recovered quickly when he set her down, and he never stopped unless Irwa asked for a rest.

  The sun had disappeared behind the mountain by the time they reached the bottom of the slope and broke through the lines of scraggly pines at its base. On the other side, a trail continued winding between patches of the red-and-green trees and clearings covered in tall grasses. Hynnar had not led her more than a dozen paces along trail before a man burst from the tall grasses.

  Irwa let out a scream and stumbled. She would have fallen, but Hynnar caught her, one big arm wrapping easily around her waist. “Calm down,” he said, letting out a nervous laugh. “Calm down. It’s ok. That’s my brother, although the bloody fool should have realized not to jump out like that. I suppose it’s obvious which one of us our mother dropped more frequently.”

  The joke was weak, but Irwa smiled, as much at her own relief as at Hynnar’s attempt at humor. Once he was sure that she was all right, Hynnar withdrew his arm, and Irwa felt the bite of disappointment. That, in itself, shocked her, and she realized that the numbness and despair had all but fled. It worried her, but she did not have time to think about it. Hynnar’s brother walked toward her, and she turned her attention to him.

  He was a big man, almost as big as Hynnar, although without the massive muscles. He was much more slender, and his blond hair was neatly trimmed, pulled back, and plaited. His features were similar to Hynnar’s, but finer, and his eyes were a light, icy blue. A brown coat, over a tan shirt, and brown pants had hidden him well within the grasses. He smiled and said, “My name is Kjell. Don’t worry, we’ll take good care of you. You’re lucky that he was able to get word to us so quickly; we don’t often hear from him.”

  “Us?” she asked, glancing at each of them.

  “My apologies,” Kjell said. “Eyo, you can come on out. It’s them.”

  After a few moments, a slender blonde woman slipped out from between the tall grasses. She stood almost as tall as Kjell and was strikingly beautiful. Irwa ran one hand through her short hair, envying the other woman’s long, loosely curled tresses that stirred in the light breeze. “This is my wife, Eyo,” Kjell said, one of his hands seeking and finding the woman’s as he spoke. “Hynnar thought it would be best if a woman accompanied you, at least for a while.”

  “It doesn’t hurt that Eyo is a better shot than Kjell and probably more than his match with the sword as well,” Hynnar said. “She’ll be better company, too. Kjell will have you listening to quotations from his wax tablets the whole ride, so you might as well have some company while you ignore him.”

  “That’s not fair,” Eyo said, her words slow and thick with the accent that sounded so light on the two men’s tongues. Another sign, Irwa thought, that Hynnar is much more educated than he seems. “I find Kjell’s quotations fascinating. He was teaching me about the balance between jalbar and hior aman.” The words meant nothing to Irwa, but a grimace crossed Hynnar’s face.

  “Not more of that,” Hynnar said. “I’ve heard enough to fill me for a lifetime.”

  Eyo shook her head, but Kjell just grinned. “Now which one of us was dropped on the head more?” he asked.

  “Enough,” Hynnar said. “If you two are going to get started on that old track, we’ll be here all night. I need to catch up with Meik, and the sooner I leave, the more I’ll get to sleep tonight. We’re traveling west. I’ll try and send a message when I can.”

  “West?” Eyo said, her eyes coming up to meet his. “How far? Not to Fakholme. Surely Meik isn’t that confident.”

  “No,” Hynnar said. “I don’t think so. Perhaps the southern pass, toward Apsia, or another one of the smaller passes on the Codense. Split claims that someone has been watching the passes, though, which is what made Meik move on in the first place. He doesn’t have any interest in dancing on the gibbet.”

  “A practitioner, huh?” Kjell asked. “Or spies?”

  “Split didn’t say,” Hynnar said. “If I learn more, I’ll let you know.” He gave Irwa a long look and turned to go.

  “If it’s spies he means,” Eyo said, “then you may be a dead man. Why go back? Come with us.”

  Kjell frowned, but Irwa’s heart rose for a moment. Hynnar shook his head and said, “I can’t. You know that. Beside, he wouldn’t have let me go if he suspected me.”

  “Thank you,” Irwa called after him. The words sounded painfully small, but she could not seem to articulate the ocean of feeling that rose inside her as the man walked away.

  He turned back, gave her that same nervous, abashed grin, and trotted off. Hynnar disappeared quickly among the overlapping
strands of trees, their red and yellow leaves flittering in the breeze.

  “Come with me,” Eyo said in her thick accent. “I have food and clothes, and you can sleep before we leave, if you wish.”

  Irwa let the taller woman take her gently by the arm and lead her into the grass. As she walked through the clearing, the blades of grass making the light alternate with shadow in a rapid flicker, she cursed herself for being a fool. He helped you because he’s a decent man, she told herself. Shadows, light, shadows, light, and Eyo’s hand on her arm. And he doesn’t want you. The thoughts echoed in the painful clarity that was now assailing her, but Irwa did not want to let her frustration with Hynnar disappear; behind it, she could sense, lurked the darkness of the shack. Pain. Despair. Better to worry about Hynnar, about why he drew back from her, to play over and over in her mind that scene of rejection because, in its own way, that rejection was a hundred times more intimate than what she had experienced for the last week.

  The grasses parted, opening up onto a small clearing next to a stream of muddy water. Three pallets were made up next to the remains of a small fire, and a two-wheeled handcart sat a few feet away, loaded with more blankets and tarps. Catching Irwa’s eye, Eyo said, “We didn’t know how badly you would be hurt; Hynnar is a man of few words, you may have realized. Or at least few words about what is important.” She smiled, and again Irwa thought she saw a hint of something more than simply friendliness behind the woman’s words about Hynnar. Irwa pushed back a surge of irrational jealousy. “Would you like something to eat?”

  Irwa shook her head; her stomach still felt swollen, distorted by so much food after days of deprivation. “Some water, though, maybe,” she said.

  Eyo brought her a skin and unstoppered it. “Here,” she said, passing it to Irwa. “It’s cleaner than that stuff, and by tonight we’ll reach better water.”

  Irwa drank the water quickly. It tasted even better than the wine, quenching her thirst for the first time in days. When she had finished, the skin was empty, and her stomach sloshed with movement. She handed Eyo the skin and caught the glance of pity in the woman’s eyes.

  Eyo reached out and hugged Irwa. For a moment Irwa froze, her body rejecting the unfamiliar touch, but the warmth from the other woman’s body penetrated Irwa’s clothes. Irwa relaxed, falling into the embrace, resting her head against the taller woman’s arm. The touch, the connection, soothed tensions that Irwa had not even known she felt. Without a word, Eyo released her, wiping her own eyes, although Irwa’s remained dry.

  “Come on,” Eyo said after a moment. “Lie down and get some sleep. Kjell and I will keep watch, and I’ll wake you when it’s time to go.”

  Irwa lay down. She did not want to shut her eyes. The clarity of thought brought by food and drink was fading as exhaustion rolled over her, and Irwa found herself terrified that she would sleep only to awaken to find herself in the shack. Panic, terror that had lain masked by despair for so long, scrabbled its way to the surface.

  Without realizing it, Irwa found herself murmuring a prayer to Ishahb, one of the first she had learned as a child. The words were almost meaningless to her, just a chant to keep away the darkness, to keep herself from screaming. For a heartbeat she felt warm sunlight brush her face, impossible in the deep shadows of the valley. Then she slept.

 

  That night, Irwa woke, screaming through sobs that knotted up her throat. Disoriented by the darkness, by the weight of the blankets, she thrashed and tried to scream again, but tears choked her.

  “Keep her quiet,” a voice said.

  “I’m trying.” A woman’s voice. There was the sound of metal sliding on metal, and a slender beam of light illuminated Eyo’s face, rocking back and forth above Irwa. “Irwa, you have to be quiet. Quiet, please.” One of the woman’s rough hands stroked Irwa’s cheek. “Sh. Quiet now, we’re not safe here.”

  Irwa latched on to the words, held on to them to keep from slipping back into the nightmares of darkness and hands that held her tight and pain. She clamped her teeth shut to keep from screaming, but short, whimpered grunts still escaped her.

  “It’ll be all right,” Eyo promised, though her face looked worried in the flickering shadows. “Everything will be all right. Go back to sleep now.” The sound of metal again, and then darkness and silver moonlight.

  Tears rolled down her face, but silently now. From pain and self-pity, not terror. And then she was praying again, and she dreamed of a great, terrible fire that swept the land clean, leaving purity in its wake. A landscape of white ash broken by a long red weal.