Nor was she alone in her exile; Petro had deemed it wiser not to leave temptation within Howard’s reach, and sent Bakro, the king stallion, with her. They had decided to explore the woods—and had wandered far from the encampment. To their delight and surprise, they had discovered the remains of an apple orchard deep in the heart of the forest—the place had gone wild and reseeded itself several times over, and the apples themselves were far smaller than those from a cultivated orchard, hardly larger than crabapples. But they were still sweet—and most of them were ripe. They both gorged themselves as much as they dared on the crisp, succulent fruits, until night had fallen. Now both were drowsing beneath a tree in Chali’s camp, sharing the warmth of her fire, and thinking of nothing in particular—
—when the attack on the Rom tsera came.
Chali was awake on the instant, her head ringing with the mental anguish of the injured—and God, oh God, the dying! Bakro wasn’t much behind her in picking up the waves of torment. He screamed, a trumpeting of defiance and rage. She grabbed a handful of mane and pulled herself up onto his back without being consciously aware she had done so, and they crashed off into the darkness to the source of that agony.
But the underbrush they had threaded by day was a series of maddening tangles by night; Bakro’s headlong dash ended ignominiously in a tangle of vine, and when they extricated themselves from the clawing branches, they found their pace slowed to a fumbling crawl. The slower they went, the more frantic they felt, for it was obvious from what they were being bombarded with that the Rom were fighting a losing battle. And one by one the voices in their heads lost strength. Then faded.
Until finally there was nothing.
They stopped fighting their way through the brush, then, and stood, lost in shock, in the blackness of the midnight forest—utterly, completely alone.
Dawn found Chali on her knees, exhausted, face tear-streaked, hands bruised from where she’d been pounding them on the ground, over and over. Bakro stood over her, trembling; trembling not from fear or sorrow, but from raw, red hatred. His herd had survived, though most had been captured by the enemy two-legs. But his two-leg herd—Chali was all he had left.
He wanted vengeance—and he wanted it now.
Slowly the hot rage of the stallion penetrated Chali’s grief.
I hear you, prala, I do hear you, she sent slowly, fumbling her way out of the haze of loss that had fogged her mind. Kill! the stallion trumpeted with mind and voice. Kill them all!
She clutched her hands at her throat, and encountered the thong that held the little iron cross. She pulled it over her head, and stared at it, dully. What good was a God of forgiveness in the light of this slaughter? She cast the cross—and all it implied—from her, violently.
She rose slowly to her feet, and put a restraining hand on the stallion’s neck. He ceased his fidgeting and stood absolutely still, a great bay statue.
We will have revenge, prala, I swear it, she told him, her own hatred burning as high as his, but we shall have it wisely.
Kevin was shoved and kicked down the darkened corridor of the King’s manorhouse with brutal indifference, smashing up against the hard stone of the walls only to be shoved onward again. His head was near to splitting, and he’d had at least one tooth knocked out, the flat, sweet taste of blood in his mouth seemed somehow unreal.
He was angry, frightened—and bewildered. He’d awakened to distant shouts and screams, run outside to see a red glow in the direction of the Rom camp—then he’d been set upon from behind. Whoever it was that had attacked him clubbed him into apparent submission. Then he had his hands bound behind him—and his control broke; he began fighting again, and was dragged, kicking and struggling, up to the manorhouse. He’d seen, when his vision had cleared, that his attackers were some of King Robert’s own mercs. He’d stumbled and nearly fallen on his face from the shock—he’d figured that the town had been taken by Ehleenee or some marauding band—
The door to King Robert’s quarters opened and Kevin was shoved through it, skidding on the flagstone floor to land sprawling on his face at someone’s feet.
“And here is the last of the suspects, my lord,” he heard Willum say unctuously. He wrenched himself up onto his knees by brute force. Lounging at his ease in King Robert’s favorite chair was Howard, sumptuously clad and playing with his father’s new sword. Beside, him, in the blue and red of Howard’s livery, was Willum.
“What the hell is that shit supposed to mean, asshole?” Kevin was too angry to mind his tongue, and a blow from one of the mercs behind him threw him onto his face again, made his brains rattle in his head and jarred his teeth to their sockets. His vision swam and he saw double for a long moment.
He pulled himself back into a semi-kneeling posture with aching difficulty.
“Keep a civil tongue in your head in the presence of your King, boy,” Willum told him, with a faint smile. “You’re suspected of conspiring with those false traders—”
“To what? Invade the town? Don’t make me laugh!” Kevin snorted. “Take over with a handful of men when—what the hell do you mean, King?”
“My father has met with an accident,” Howard purred, polishing the blade of the sword he held with a soft cloth. The steel glinted redly in the firelight. “He went mad, it seems. I was forced to defend myself. I have witnesses—”
Willum nodded, and it seemed to Kevin that there was a glint of balefire in the back of the man’s eyes.
“So I am King now—by right of arms. I have declared that those so-called traders were no such thing at all—and I have eliminated their threat.”
Slowly Kevin began to understand what it was he was saying. “You—good God—that camp was mostly women, children—”
“The spawn of vipers will grow to be vipers.”
“You broke trade-peace! You murdered innocent people, babies in their beds!”
“That hardly sounds like the words of a loyal subject—”
“Loyal my ass! They deserved my loyalty—all you should get is the contempt of every honest man in this town! We’re the ones who’re gonna suffer because of what you just did! You broke your sworn word, you bastard!” Bound hands or not, Kevin lunged for the two of them—
His arms were caught and blows rained down on his head and shoulders. Still he fought, screaming obscenities, and only being clubbed half-unconscious kept him from getting to the oathbreakers and tearing their throats out with his teeth.
When he stopped fighting, he was thrown back at Howard’s feet. He lay only half-conscious on the cold stone floor, and through a mist of dancing sparks could see that Howard was purple again.
“Take him out and make an example of him,” the patricide howled. “Burn him—hang him—tear his guts out!”
“No—” Willum laid a restraining hand on his ruler’s arm. “Not a good idea—you might make him a martyr for those who would doubt you. No, I have a better idea. Did we get the horse barbarians as well? I seem to remember that you ordered them to be taken.”