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“I am still the only man in the tribes to have killed two griffins,” he said, but he did not laugh. He grunted, softly. She hoped the pain of his wound scalded him. She hoped he was suffering. “The beghs cannot turn their backs on me. One defeat does not mean the end of the war.”
“What do you want? What have you ever wanted?”
He was silent for so long that she sat up, brushing moldy straw from her lips with the backs of her hands. Thirst chafed her throat.
Still, he said nothing. A shroud of silence fell, broken only by the sound of the river. This river didn’t have the deep strength of the Veser. It flowed more lightly, singing over rocks and shallows, the bass melody of its main current almost lost beneath these higher notes and the constant roaring rush of wind through the trees. It reminded her of the rushing river after the battle at the tumulus, when Bayan’s mother had called down a flood that had swept away the vanguard of the Quman pursuit, that had blocked the river, delaying Bulkezu’s army long enough that Bayan and Sapientia had been able to lead their battered troops on an orderly retreat.
Was Bayan truly dead? What had happened to his mother? Was it her magic that had struck down Cherbu?
She could stand it no longer. “If the luck of a Kerayit shaman dies, what happens to that shaman?”
“She dies.”
“Why did you risk killing Prince Bayan’s mother, yet won’t risk killing me? Don’t you all fear the Kerayit weather witches?”
“Any wise man does. But it was our only chance. The other prince was protected from Cherbu’s magic, so I had to strike Bayan.” Small at first, then growing, he giggled, that nasty, gleeful, mad laughter. “I’ve been wanting to get rid of him for a long time, anyway. But I do regret losing Cherbu.” Nothing in his tone gave credence to this statement.
“Surely Cherbu understood that if he struck against Bayan, then Bayan’s mother would avenge her son.”
“Cherbu didn’t like me anyway. He was jealous that I was the elder born and that he had to obey me.”
“Did you care about him at all?”
He made no answer, as if she’d spoken to him in a language he did not understand.
“Then why not have me killed, if the wrath of my Kerayit shaman will not strike you but only the person whose hand strikes the killing blow?”
“Nay, it’s not your young shaman I fear. It’s the owl who watches over you, who is the messenger of the Fearsome One.”
Hanna thought that she actually heard fear in his voice, quickly surfacing, as quickly gone. He rose and went outside so fast that he kicked dirt up into her face. She spat, wiped her mouth. Two guards crouched in the doorway, watching her. One held the rope that bound her at the neck. With a sigh, she lay back down
No Lions’ voices serenaded her as she dozed, waking at intervals with questions chasing themselves through her thoughts. Ai, God, what other prince was Bulkezu referring to? Who flew the gold banner she had seen emerging from the woods? Was it Sanglant who had saved the day? Was it possible that Liath was with him, hidden by magic?
The darkness lightened at last. When they came for her, she was able to walk without too much discomfort while one of the guards led her horse. They moved downriver a short way before attempting a crossing, but the first man to dare the water got caught in the swift current, not deep but strong. He slid off his saddle and his wings dragged him down. The horse fought the water before being lost to sight in the predawn twilight.
The soldiers made certain signs, as though to avert the evil eye. Even Bulkezu seemed unwilling to test the waters, although Hanna would gladly have swum, given the chance. She had never feared the water, but she was fiercely glad to see that they did. If they stayed here, trapped by the river, eventually their enemies would catch them.
A twig snapped behind them. A warning whistle shrilled, cut off abruptly. The Quman soldiers spun around, raising their weapons those who had them.
She saw her chance. She yanked hard on the rope, jerked it right out of Bulkezu’s hand in that instant when his attention jumped away from her, and leaped into the river. Hinging herself forward, she hit the water with a mighty splash, head going under. When she surfaced, she floundered toward deeper water, thrust forward as Bulkezu cursed behind her and shouts rang out. A host of men broke out of the trees to surround the band of Quman and their horses.
The current caught her. With bound hands, it was hard to keep her head above the water. The trailing rope caught in a snag and dragged tight.
“Hanna!”
Just as the noose pulled taut, choking her, just as her vision hazed and the water closed over her face, a hand gripped her. The rope came free, cut through, and she went limp, letting herself be hauled to the bank through the streaming water and thrown up on shore like a fish gasping for air.
“Hanna! We thought you were dead!”
Coughing and spluttering, she rolled onto her stomach and heaved a few times onto rocky shoreline. At last, she looked up to see the concerned and horrified faces of four very familiar men: Ingo, Leo, Folquin, and Stephen, her good friends from the Lions.
“Bulkezu!” she cried, heaving again as she struggled to her feet, but Ingo caught her easily as she staggered.
“Nay, we’ve captured a group of them, the ones that had you prisoner. Are you saying that lord with the broken wings is Prince Bulkezu himself?” He laughed aloud and punched Folquin merrily on the shoulder. “Won’t we have a great prize to deliver to Prince Sanglant!”
“Ai, God,” whispered Hanna. “I’m free.”
Her legs gave out completely and, while Ingo held her, she broke down and sobbed uncontrollably, a storm of tears she could no longer restrain.
