Joscelin glanced from the retreating Camaelines to the impassive Skaldi to me with a look of utmost bewilderment. "What is it?" he asked me at last. "Have you any idea what they’ve done?"
"Yes." I stood ankle-deep in snow, shivering under the bright sun. The sky overhead was a remarkable blue. "They’ve just sold us to the Skaldi."
If his response was singular, Joscelin’s reactions were always swift. The words were scarce out of my mouth before he was scrambling for the pack and his sword, boots skidding in the snow.
The Skaldi leader loosed a shout of laughter, whooping to his men. One of them spurred his shaggy horse forward, intercepting Joscelin, who dodged. Another drew a short spear and thundered past the bundle, his mount’s hooves spraying snow as he leaned down to pluck the pack neatly from the snow on the tip of his spear. Joscelin veered toward him, and the Skaldi jerked his spear, tossing the pack to a comrade.
They surrounded him, then, laughing with ruddy cheeks and high spirits, tossing the bundle back and forth across the circle while Joscelin spun about hopelessly, floundering in snow. The Skaldi leader sat apart, grinning with strong white teeth as he watched the entertainment. I wondered if the Camaelines had unbound Joscelin’s hands knowing what would follow.
It was worse than the Eglantine adepts taunting him in Night’s Doorstep, and I stood it as long as I could before I threw away our one advantage.
"Let him be!" I called to the leader in fluent Skaldic, raising my voice so it carried across the snow. "He does not understand."
His yellow eyebrows rose, but he betrayed no other sign of surprise. Joscelin, on the other hand, had ceased his futile efforts and stood gaping at me as if I’d grown a third eye. The Skaldi leader waved negligently to his men and moved his horse over to stare down at me. His eyes were a light grey, and disconcertingly shrewd.
"Kilberhaar’s men didn’t tell me you spoke our tongue," he mused.
"They didn’t know," I replied in it, doing my best to hold his gaze despite my shivering. Kilberhaar; Silverhair, I thought, and remembered Isidore d’Aiglemort’s pale, shining hair. "There are many things they do not know."
The Skaldi gave his roaring laugh, tossing back his head. "Those are true words, D’Angeline! You say your comrade does not understand. Do you?"
I knelt in the snow, as gracefully as my cold-stiffened joints would allow, and kept my gaze on his face. "I understand I am your slave, my lord."
"Good." A look of satisfaction spread across his face. "Harald," he shouted to one of his men, "give my slave a cloak! These D’Angelines are frail creatures, and I would not have her die of cold before she has a chance to warm my bed!"
It got a laugh; I didn’t care, for a young man whose mustache was barely started rode over grinning and tossed me a thick garment of wolfskin. I wrapped it around me and pinned it with frozen fingers.
"Thin blood," observed my Skaldi lord, "though they say it runs hot." Reaching down with one brawny arm, he lifted me into the saddle behind him. "You ride with me, little one. I am Gunter Arnlaugson. Tell your companion to be wise."
He wheeled his horse, bringing us broadside of the still-staring Cassiline.
"Joscelin, don’t," I said through chattering teeth. "They won’t kill us out of hand; they paid too dear. Skaldi value their slaves."
"No." His blue eyes were fixed and wide, nostrils flared. "I failed you with Melisande Shahrizai, and I failed you with d’Aiglemort’s men, but I swear it, Phèdre, I won’t fail you here! Don’t ask me to betray my oath!" He lowered his voice. "The Skaldi’s sword is in your reach. Get it to me, and I swear I will get us out of here."
I didn’t look; I could feel it, the leather-wrapped hilt protruding from Gunter’s sword-belt near my left elbow. Joscelin was right, it was in my reach.
And we were alone, in a frozen wasteland. Even armed, the Cassiline was still outnumbered eight to one, by mounted Skaldi warriors.
"I have lived in servitude all my life," I said softly. "I’m not willing to die for your oath." I touched Gunter’s shoulder. He looked back at me, and I shook my head. "He is too proud," I said in Skaldic. "He will not heed."
The shrewd grey eyes narrowed and he nodded. "Bring him!" he called to his men. "And have a care he does not hurt himself on your spears," he added with another roar of laughter.
It took all seven, and I had to watch it.
I daresay Joscelin himself had never known, until that moment, what true battle-fury was. He fought like a beast at bay, bellowing with rage, and for a time I could see nothing but horses' bodies and thrashing limbs. He succeeded in wrenching a short spear loose from one of them and kept them all at a distance then, jabbing and threatening; if it had been a more familiar weapon…I don’t know. I cannot afford to guess.
"He looks like a girl," Gunter commented, his expression lively with interest, "but he fights like a man. Like two men!"
"He is trained to it from childhood," I said in his ear. "D’Angelines have betrayed him, the man you call Kilberhaar. Make him your friend, and he may fight for you against him."
It was a risk. Gunter’s gaze slewed around to me, considering. "Kilberhaar is our ally," he said. "He pays us gold to raid your villages."
The shock of it went through me like a knife, but I kept it from showing on my features. "To have a traitor for an ally is to have an enemy-in-waiting," I said solemnly, silently blessing the number of hours I had spent translating Skaldic poetry. Gunter Arnlaugson made no reply, and I kept my mouth shut, leaving him to think on it. His men, half of them dismounted, finally succeeded in bringing down the thrashing Joscelin, wrestling the spear from his grasp and forcing him facedown in the snow.
"What shall we do with him?" one of them called.
Gunter thought about it a moment. "Tie his hands and let him run behind your horse, Wili!" he called. "We will tire the fight from this wolf-cub before we reach the steading."
It was quickly done, and we set out, riding beneath the bright blue sky. I clung awkwardly behind Gunter, pathetically grateful for the fur cloak and his burly frame blocking the wind, and trying not to look back at Joscelin. They had bound his wrists before him, attaching a long thong like a lead, and one of the Skaldi held the end, forcing the Cassiline to run behind his horse. Joscelin floundered in the snow, sometimes losing his footing and being dragged, until the Skaldi halted and gave him time to gain his feet. His breath came raggedly and his face was bright red with cold, but his eyes glared fierce blue hatred of everything and everyone around him.
Including me.
Hate me, I thought, and live, Cassiline.
It was nearing nightfall when we reaching the steading, our shadows stretching long and black before us across the deep snows. Gunter made up a song as we rode and sang it aloud in a powerful voice, about how he had outfoxed Kilberhaar and captured a D’Angeline warrior-prince and his consort; it was a good song, and I didn’t bother to correct him. By that time, I was so cold, I could barely think.
There were a handful of snug cottages in the steading and a great hall. The doors to the hall were flung open wide as we approached, and men and women alike poured out shouting congratulations. Gunter dismounted, beaming, firelight from the hall catching the bronze fillet that bound his hair. He lifted me down from his horse and shoved me toward a knot of Skaldi. "See my new bed-slave!" he roared. "Is she not fine?"
Hands grasped at me, prodding and examining; too many faces, crowding close, ruddy and rough-hewn. I struggled free, searching for Joscelin.
He had sunk to his knees behind the Skaldi’s horse, exhaustion compelling the obedience that nothing else would. Whoever said the Cassiline Brotherhood was a humble order, lied. His chest heaved, and his hair had come completely loose from its tidy club, rimed with frost. He glared through it at me.