Wolfhere stood in profile, but he turned his head and noticed Zacharias’ movement. Lamp glow and shadow mixed on his face, making his expression impossible to read. He did not move.
“Be ready,” whispered Blessing.
A shout rang out from the coffled slaves. Chains clattered to the floor as iron manacles fell open. Blessing leaped to her feet.
“Follow me!” she shouted, jumping for the ladder. “You are free!”
Zacharias found himself on his feet before he realized he meant to obey. The slaves hesitated, dumbfounded or in a stupor. How long had they been captives, heeding the call of the whip, the binding of shackles?
Marcus spun around as Blessing reached the ladder. He leaped forward to grab the girl around the legs. Zacharias charged past the motionless Wolfhere and slammed into the small cleric. All three—cleric, frater, and child—fell sprawling on the floor. One of the slaves bolted, striking down Marcus’ servant, and in his wake the others erupted into motion. Trying to untangle himself from Marcus, who lay on top of him, Zacharias saw only a blur of bodies before a figure paused beside him, legs wreathed in the tattoos marking those Quman who had chosen the shaman’s path.
“The child,” said the man in a recognizable Quman dialect. “The child with magic saves us.”
The sounds of fighting carried down from above decks. Marcus swore, kicking, as the slave tugged Blessing free. She shrieked with triumph and rushed up the ladder as effortlessly as a spider. Zacharias fought to his knees, lunged for the ladder as the last of the slaves made their escape.
“Stop him!” barked Marcus. “Wolfhere! For God’s sake, go after her!”
The servant raised his staff as Zacharias grabbed the rungs.
A blow smashed into the back of his head.
Then, nothing.
VI
A PROPOSAL
1
“MY daughter is out of control! How can it be that she escaped your care and was almost kidnapped?”
Anna knelt with her back to Prince Sanglant, trembling, waiting for the switch to fall on her shoulders. He was in a rage like none she had ever seen. Matto had got twenty strokes, and Thiemo had demanded that he receive the same number even though as a noble lord he did not have to be humbled in such a way. She would have lost respect for him if he hadn’t shared the punishment. Both she and Thiemo knew who was truly to blame.
Now it was her turn.
“It was my fault, my lord prince,” she said through her tears. “I did not keep her at my side. She asked leave to go dice with the soldiers, but I didn’t go with her. That was when she ran away. She must have crept out through the drainage ditch.”
She had been crying all day, first in anger because of the terrible fight that morning between Matto and Thiemo, then with fear when she had discovered Blessing missing, and later out of relief when the girl had returned late in the day with an unexpected retinue in tow. Now, at last, she wept silently, in terror. Better to crumble to dust than endure the prince’s fury.
“And to add to the injury, this insult! Have you corrupted my daughter with these whispers about the phoenix?”
At least the whole troop wasn’t looking on, only Captain Fulk, Sergeant Cobbo, Brother Breschius, and the Eagle, her face drawn and serious. In the distance she heard Blessing shrieking with thwarted anger. Sanglant had ordered the girl shut up in one of the little cells. Maybe he was ready to whip his daughter, too. Maybe he was going there next, once he had finished with her.
The heat made the earthen walls and the dusty ground bake. The sun’s glare on her face made her squint. Sweat trickled down her spine.
“Is it true?” he roared.
The switch whistled past her back. The tip stung a shoulder blade as it whipped past, barely touching her. She burst into tears, shaking hysterically.
“I crave your pardon, my lord prince. But the words I spoke are only the truth.” Flinging herself forward onto the ground, she pressed her face into the dirt.
He cursed so furiously that she imagined him transforming from man into rabid dog, back into a beast like the ragged, stinking daimone she had once thought him when she had seen him years ago as a captive in the cathedral of Gent.
“My lord prince,” said Brother Breschius in the mildest of voices, “she is only a girl, barely a woman. What purpose does it serve to terrorize her in this way?”
She sobbed helplessly as the prince slapped the switch into the ground, once, twice, thrice, to emphasize his words. Dirt sprayed up with each bite, spitting into her face.
“My daughter is a willful. Spoiled. Impossible. Brat! Now it transpires that she is soaked in heresy as well. And has the nerve to tell her own father that I am damned!”
