weald

His own streaming blood mixed with hers as he and Kuroyi bore her back toward the Sithi camp. The day wore on, full of madness and misery. Behind the mist and snow, the sun rose past noon and began to fall. The broken west wall of Naglimund began to glow with the light of a murky afternoon, and the snows grew even more red. Maegwin walked along the edge of the battle like a ghost—as indeed she was. At first she had hidden behind the trees, afraid to witness such horrible things, but eventually her better sense had led her out again. If I am dead, then what do I fear? But it was hard to look at the bloody forms that lay scattered about the snowy hillside and not fear death. Gods do not die, and mortals die but once, she reassured herself. When this is settled, they will all rise again. But if they should all rise again, then what was the point of this battle? And if the gods could not die, then what did they fear from the demon hordes out of Scadach? It was puzzling. Pondering, Maegwin walked slowly beside slayers and slain. Her cloak fluttered behind her, and her feet left small, even prints in the froth of white and scarlet.

9 The Third House Simon was furious. They had walked into a trap, as sweetly and stupidly as spring lambs led to the killing block. "Can you move your hands at all?" he whispered to Miriamele. His own wrists were bound very securely: the two Fire Dancers who had done the job had some experience with knots. She shook her head. He could barely see her in the deepening night. They were kneeling side by side at the center of the forest clearing. Their arms had been tied behind their backs and their ankles roped. Seeing Miriamele trussed and helpless, the idea of brute animals readied for slaughter returned and black anger rose inside Simon once more. I'm a knight! Doesn't that mean anything? How could I let this happen? He should have known. But he had been busy strutting like a mooncalf over the man Roelstan's compliments. "You have seen this knight wield a sword," the traitor had said. "He has naught to fear from Fire Dancers." And I believed him. I am not fit to be a knight. I am a disgrace to Josua and Morgenes and Binabik and everyone who's ever tried to teach me anything. Simon engaged in another futile struggle with his bonds, but the ropes held him in an unbreakable grip. "You know something of these Fire Dancers, don't you?" he whispered to Miriamele. "What are they going to do with us? What do they mean when they say they're going to give us to the Storm King? Burn us?" He felt Miriamele shudder against him. "I don't know." Her voice was flat, dead. "I suppose so." Simon's terror and anger were for a moment overcome by a stab of regret. "I let you down, didn't I?" he said quietly. "Some protector." "It's not your fault. We were tricked." "I wish I could get my hands on that Roelstan's throat. His wife was trying to tell us something was wrong, but I was too stupid to listen. But he—he... '" "He was frightened, too." Miriamele spoke as from a great and lofty height, as though the things of which she spoke were of little import. "I don't know if I could give my own life up to save the lives of strangers. Why should I hate those two for not being able to?" " 'S’ Bloody Tree." Simon didn't have the strength to waste pity on treacherous Roelstan and Gullaighn. He had to save Miriamele somehow, had to burst these bonds and fight his way free. But he didn't have the slightest idea how to begin. The business of the Fire Dancer camp went on around them. Several white-robed folk were tending the fire and preparing a meal; others were feeding the goats and chickens, while still others sat and talked quietly. There were even a few women and children among them. But for the two bound prisoners and the omnipresent gleam of white robes, it might have been the onset of evening in any rural steading. Maefwaru, the Fire Dancers' leader, had taken a trio of his lieutenants into the large cottage. Simon did not much wish to think about what they might be discussing. The evening grew deeper. The white-clad Figures ate a frugal meal, none of which they offered to share with the prisoners. The fire danced and fluttered in the wind. "Get them up." Maefwaru's eyes flicked across Simon and Miriamele, then rolled up to the blue-black sky. "It is nearing the time." Two of his helpers dragged the prisoners to their feet. Simon's feet were numb, and it was difficult to balance with his ankles tied together; he swayed and would have fallen if the Fire Dancer behind him had not grabbed his arms and jerked him upright once more.

Beside him, Miriamele also teetered. Her captor wrapped an arm around her, handling her as casually as if she had been a log. "Don't you touch her," Simon snarled. Miriamele gave him a tired look. "It does no good, Simon. Let it go." The Fire Dancer at her side grinned and pawed at her breasts for a moment, but a sharp sound from Maefwaru sobered him fast. As the robed man turned to face his chief, Miriamele hung in his grasp, her face devoid of feeling. "Idiot," Maefwaru said harshly. "These are not children's toys. They are for Him—for the Master. Do you understand?" Miriamele's captor swallowed and nodded rapidly. "It is time to go." Maefwaru turned and headed for the edge of the clearing. The Fire Dancer behind Simon gave him a rough shove. Simon toppled like a felled tree. His breath flew out in a great huff and the night swam with points of light. "Their legs are tied," the Fire Dancer said slowly. Maefwaru whirled. "I know that! Take the ropes off their legs." "But ... but what if they run?" 'Tie a rope to their arms," said the leader. "Tie the other end around your waist." He shook his bald head in thinly-concealed disgust. Simon felt a flash of hope as the robed man produced a knife and bent to saw through the knots at his ankles. If Maefwaru was the only clever one, as seemed to be the case, perhaps there was some hope after all. When he and Miriamele were both able to walk, the Fire Dancers tied ropes around both of them, then pushed them ahead as though they were balky oxen, prodding them with spear-points if they stumbled or lagged. The spears were oddly formed, short and yet slim-hafted and very sharp, not quite like anything Simon had seen before. Maefwaru stepped through the vegetation at the edge of the clearing and disappeared, evidently leading them somewhere out of the clearing. Simon was a little relieved. He had been watching the fire for a long time and having very bad thoughts about it. At least they would be taken to some other place; it might be that their chance of escape would improve.