Otherwise, they had done her no violence, handled her no more cruelly than the conditions of their headlong pace required. Yet she was sick and terrified with the knowledge that violence must be coming, perhaps as soon as their first stop to eat and sleep.
And always she was aware of the silver bracelets lying smooth and chill against her skin. The chain was long enough to allow some freedom of movement, but a potent magic in the bands themselves thwarted her every attempt to work her own spells, whether to heal muscles bruised and aching after so many continuous hours in the saddle, or to try to escape. She had been worrying her tired brain for hours trying to come up with a reason why such elaborate precautions would be necessary. These creatures, so terrible, so powerful, what need have they to fear me and my untrained gift? Why cuff me and constrain me like a thief or a murderer?
When she finally realized what it might mean, the blood rushed into her face in a burning blush and the rest of her body turned cold. She knew stories—stories told in whispers, stories overheard, never intended for the sheltered ears of a princess—about the cruelties inflicted by violent and wicked men on female prisoners. At the same time, there was a widespread belief that no healer need ever endure rape, because the man who attempted that outrage would find himself assaulting a corpse.
Could something so simple and horrible be the real reason behind her abduction? Or was it—considering the extraordinary nature of her captors themselves—likely to end in some worse violation she could not even imagine? These thoughts, when she allowed them, left her dizzy with horror.
Oh yes, she knew herself well enough, knew the extent of her gifts well enough, to be certain that she could take her own life rather than face torture or degradation—but the bracelets robbed her of all choices, whether to live or to die. And whatever these men intended, be it rape or worse, she was helpless to prevent it.
They had followed a descending track since morning, leaving the pinewoods behind, riding through country that was harder and chancier: a region of rockslides, chasms, plunging waterfalls, and a scattering of shrubs that had somehow rooted themselves in what looked to be solid stone. Shortly before nightfall, Winloki’s mysterious abductors finally stopped to set up a camp in a little alpine meadow of thin, dry grasses beneath high cliff walls.
While the guards saw to the horses, the acolytes pitched tents made of the same coarse black cloth they wore themselves. She sat neglected astride her horse, gritting her teeth, trying not to droop in the saddle, until one of the men remembered to untie the ropes holding her in place and lifted her down with surprising gentleness.
As soon as her feet touched the ground, the world swung around her; she turned light-headed and giddy.
It was only pride that kept her upright. A swarm of black-robed figures closed in, ushering her over to a place where the ground sloped, and one of them indicated she was to sit. Then she could finally let her legs give way, sink down in the rough brown grass.
The crowd parted before one of the hooded priests. His ankle-length scarlet robes were split for riding; he was booted and spurred, belted with a sword and two long knives; yet she thought he had an austere look about him that suggested a cloistered, meditative life rather than battlefields.
He offered her a drink from a leather flask. Too parched to refuse, Winloki warily accepted, holding the bottle in both hands, taking an experimental swallow. The spirit was so potent she almost choked, but it satisfied her thirst, with an unexpected taste of honey and herbs.
There had been ample opportunity by now, just by watching and listening, to learn some of their names, to learn a little about the men who held her prisoner. Camhóinhann, Dyonas, and Goezenou: those were the three Furiádhin, more horrible in the flesh than imagination had ever painted them. The others were their acolyte-servants, or else guards attached to their temple in Apharos and by extension to the priests.
This one, who silently accepted the flask when she handed it back to him, was Dyonas. Inside the blood-red cowl his face, with its fine, sharp features, was bleached of color; his flat metallic eyes had no more humanity than ice or wind. And if, under the heavy layers of his clothing, his figure appeared boyishly slight, she did not for that reason make the mistake of thinking him weak or effeminate. No, he was as thin and bright as a new dagger, and likely to prove every bit as lethal. In truth, he had the look of a man who would die on the rack, who would perish in flames, before he would yield a point so trivial that no one else would take it for an inviolable principle. On either side of his forehead were short, polished ivory horns.
As soon as he walked away, the questions began to hammer in her brain. Why had she been singled out from among so many? Or if she had been their object all along, what could they possibly want from her that they were willing to come such a distance to find her? So far, nothing she had seen or heard, none of the bizarre and terrifying tales she remembered about Ouriána of Phaôrax and her monstrous priests, provided any answers.
Before long, all but two of her attendants drifted off and busied themselves with various tasks about the camp. In the field beyond the tents, the Furiádhin had gathered together a few of the black-robed acolytes and appeared to be holding a low-voiced council, darting occasional glances in her direction.
They are deciding what to do with me, she thought. Or much more likely, when they will do it.
Her fingers twisted in her lap, weaving charms as her lips formed the words, though by now she had little hope any of them would be effective. Again and again she made the signs, whispered the spells; again and again her charms refused to take hold. The silver bracelets were very light and delicately made—they hardly weighed more than air—but they did their work remarkably well.
When the discussion across the way came to a close, Winloki braced herself for the worst. Just as she had feared, they all walked over to the knoll and regrouped around her.
“Are you hungry?” asked the one called Camhóinhann. His voice was so deep and compelling, so filled with strange music, it sent shivers along her skin. When she stubbornly refused to answer, he spoke again: “Or is there anything, Lady, that you require for your comfort?”
Winloki could hardly return his glance. This one, she thought, is a hundred times more terrifying than Dyonas.
Just to look at him made her bones tremble and her heart quake. He was so tall that he towered head and shoulders over every man in the camp, and for all that he was so wasted and thin, a large frame gave the impression of great physical strength and power. His face, too, was striking: neither hideous nor handsome, yet with an indefinable something about the features or the expression that suggested both.
Most of all, she thought he was someone who could sway others by the sheer force and magnitude of his personality—and Winloki knew with every fiber of her being that she did not wish to be influenced by him in that way.
She shook her head, unwilling to let any word escape from her dry, scratchy throat, fearing some tremor or crack in her voice might be mistaken for cowardice. There were a great many things that she “required for her comfort,” her freedom first among them, but pride forbade that she make any request, accept any favor, no matter how trivial.
When the others began to drift away to take up their several duties elsewhere, Camhóinhann remained, staring down at her with unsettling pupiless eyes. “If you wish to avail yourself of the privacy of those bushes over there, you may feel free to do so,” he suggested quietly. “No one will disturb you.”