"Stay there a while," she told him. "Later this morning we'll go for a ride."
Puriel stood, surrounded by the hostile gazes of the villagers, until at length he began to moan. He stared at the ground, flinching whenever anyone stepped close. Alemar and Elenya ignored him. Owl was not sure what the twins had in mind, but he smiled to see Puriel so uncomfortable.
The looters divided the spoils and loaded it onto carts and pack animals. Several hefty villagers tethered the main group of prisoners together and led them away. Squads of men piled broken wood and straw against the structures and doused them with oil. Only then did the twins return to the governor.
Elenya climbed into the saddle. "Mind you keep up, now," she said, as if offering Puriel a dollop of sincere, friendly advice. She shook the reins.
Her mount trotted across the bridge at a pace that made Puriel run, fast enough to wind him, but not so fast that he would fall. The crowd surged behind, hooting, laughing, encouraging him to step lively, making jokes about his bony ankles.
They stopped at the edge of the forest, and waited there while the castle was evacuated. The men who brought out the last load lit fires as they departed. Puriel watched the flames lick at the bowels of his sanctuary. "The heat will weaken the mortar. Then we'll pull down the walls as well," Alemar told him. The governor licked his lips, wide-eyed and incredulous, clearly shocked, as Owl had been earlier, that the rebels were not keeping the castle as their own. But even the tavernmaster had quickly seen the logic: They did not have the strength to defend it against a concerted attack. It would only provide the Dragon with a target, and his retribution would be terrible enough without making it simple for him. Far better to dissolve into the forest and the towns, where they could not be easily found and/or identified. For the Dragon to reestablish his presence, his minions would have to spend long hours rebuilding the fortifications.
But much of that work would wait until the next day, when the bonfires had burnt out. Meanwhile, Elenya led the procession into Old Stump. Puriel jogged behind on unsteady legs. When she got too far ahead of the crowd, she turned and came back, starting again at the tail end. The governor began to pant, clutching his side, holding the rope with a death grip. She slackened the pace just enough that he could keep his feet, her toying glances always hinting that maybe, around the next bend, she would spur her mount and drag him. Puriel's eyes bulged. Spittle dotted his slate grey beard. Once, as he passed the line of prisoners, he called out to his men to aid him, but every one of them pretended he did not exist.
She rode him three times around the center of the town, gradually drawing the circle tighter around the remnant of the great father tree, where Milec had been pinioned. The people gathered around, jockeying for the best view. Small children, lacking the patience of their elders, pelted the governor with pebbles. One boy ran up close and flung a stone that struck Puriel hard on the bridge of his nose. Puriel snarled and kicked out at the child. Only then did Elenya jerk him forward, yanking him face first into the dust.
Three rebels picked him up, stripped him, and tied him to the tall stump. He panted so hard that Owl felt sure the man would faint. Once again the observers began to chant for his death.
"Be done with it," he moaned.
She rode back and forth, scanning him as a goat breeder would examine a prize buck. "I think not," she said.
His brows crept closer together. "Eh?"
"I think the folk of this town will be able to determine what sort of justice you deserve." As Puriel grew pallid, she, Alemar, and thirty or forty of the core group of rebels turned and rode away, leaving the governor in the care of the locals.
Owl solemnly watched them go. He had expected the sudden turn of events; the twins had told him and some of the other elders that the fate of the prisoners would be given into their hands. But he was surprised to see his own daughter, twelve years old with figure still delicate and uncurved, dance over to Alemar's oeikani and lift a flower to him. He took it. She smiled at her audacity, caught her father's eye, and scampered back into the throng.
Owl recognized the gift as a bough lily, the flower of Cilendrodel, a pale lavender, trumpet-shaped bloom with a faint, comforting aroma. The traditional victory flower.
Victory, thought Owl. It finally struck him just what the prince and princess had accomplished. For the first time since Gloroc had sent his minions out of the boundaries of the Dragon Sea, he had suffered a clear defeat. He had lost his single greatest weapon in Cilendrodel-the fear of the general population that no one could overcome his forces. If he had lost once, he might do so again. The people would not soon forget Alemar and Elenya's vengeance. Nor would Gloroc.
Owl and his companions turned to the former governor. Let them worry about reprisals another day. For the moment they would have satisfaction.
The twins and their party did not ride free of their audience until far past the outskirts of the hamlet. Alemar held up his hand in salute, but the motion was perfunctory, unconscious. As the trees closed over their heads, he stared up into the branches, looking for some hint of movement, for the sweet, melodic call of tiny voices. The wood mocked him with its silence.
Never in his life had rythni shunned him. Throughout boyhood, this fact had set him apart, given him one of the greatest joys of his life. He had never conceived of losing their trust.
The cost of victory had been too high.
"Come back," he sang in bittersweet rythni. Elenya, the only one of his companions who could understand him, closed her eyes in pain.
He gradually became aware of the object tickling his hand, and for the first time saw the bough lily. He let it fall into the dust.
PART TWO
Scheming Dragons
Hidden dragon. Do not act.
– I Ching, First Hexagram, First Line
XVIII
JANNA DID NOT STAY in her sea chamber, but took Toren to a reception room near the pool decorated with rugs, tapestries, overstuffed pillows, and curtained alcoves. He sat down, the tortoise cupped carefully in his palms.
The high priestess took an ornate glass bottle and a snifter from a cabinet and poured him one swallow of a scarlet liquid. He took it, sniffed it mistrustingly.
"It will ease the shock when your totem is restored," she said.
The concoction smelled similar to that used by his own Fhali shaman for the totem ceremony. He drank. It coated his gullet with a hot, medicinal film.
"It is very strong," he said, suspicious.
"It needs to be," she explained. "This procedure is not going to be the pleasure you have imagined."
His fingers knotted around the stem of the glass. "My ancestors," he said anxiously. "They were harmed inside the gem?"
"No," she answered quickly. "They are intact. It is you who have changed." She rubbed her cheek, looking guilty. "Except for the potion, there's not much I or Struth can do to prepare you. When you awaken, I will be gone. This is something you will have to deal with by yourself."
His eagerness dribbled away, but nevertheless he longed for the reintegration. She replaced the snifter in the cabinet and ordered him to lay down on the divan. The potion melted into him, grasping at his consciousness. The tortoise shimmered.
Janna's incantation built from soft, crooning tones to full-voiced song. His tortoise lifted its head, blinked its eyes, and crawled forward. Its pads left brief, smoky tingles along his chest and throat. It slipped into his mouth like a bird into its nest, dissolving as it passed his tongue, following the path smoothed by the potion. It merged with him.
The room dimmed. Janna's shadowy form hovered nearby. A kind of drowsy half-sleep overtook him, and dreams filled the empty place in his mind, dreams of his father, his grandfather, and all his ancestors along the male line back to the founder of the village. He was no longer a cheli.