wasnât just that. I felt as if Iâd been disconnected from my muscles. I wasted precious moments working my legs until I felt I could walk without falling.
And then I stood up. I could walk. But what good would that do? At that moment, I hated being small more than I had ever hated my stature in my life. Yet even if I had been a tall and mighty warrior on a powerful horse, what could I do against so many armed men?
I felt sick and helpless as I realized the larger truth. Not even an army could undo what had been done. Nothing and no one could bring back Steward Revel or unspill FitzVigilantâs blood from the snow or unburn the stables. It was all broken. I might still be alive but I was just a salvaged piece of a life that had been shattered. Not one of us was whole. There was no going back, not for any of us.
I could not decide what to do. I was already getting cold. I could get back into the wagon, burrow under the blankets, and let happen to me whatever might happen. I could run away into the darkness and try to find Perseverance under the snow and the cloak. I could flee to the captured people, and be once more dragged to the wagon. I wondered if I could steel myself and run into the burning stable deep enough to die there. How badly would it hurt?
Cornered wolves fight. Even the cubs.
That thought seeped into my brain, then was frozen and shattered by a long, shrill scream. It seemed so odd that I could recognize who the scream belonged to. It was Shun. I peeked around the side of the wagon. The man who had defied the plump woman gripped Shun by her hair. âWeâll go,â he agreed affably. âBut first Iâll enjoy a prize of my own.â He tugged Shun up on her toes. She squealed, sounding like a piglet. At any other time, it would have been a funny sound. Both her hands were on top of her head as she gripped her own hair, trying to take the pressure off her scalp. Her torn blouse gaped wide. It was as red as blood, that dress, with an overlay of white lace in a snowflake pattern. He shook her, not gently. âThis one. This little cat tried to stick a knife in me. Sheâs still got some fight in her. I havenât had her yet. And in some things, I am not a hasty man.â
Still gripping Shun by the hair, he dismounted. She tried to pull free of him but he just shifted his grip to the back of her head. He was taller than she was and when he held her at armâs length her swinging fists could not touch him. The men of Withywoods just stood and watched. Their eyes were dull, their mouths slack. No one moved to help her. FitzVigilant would have tried to protect her. But Iâd seen him earlier, sprawled in his blood in the snow. Shun struggled against her captor, as helpless against him as I would be. He laughed, and shouted over her shrieks, âIâll take special care of this one, and then Iâll catch up with you. Before morning.â
The other mounted soldiers were stirring, suddenly interested, fighting the fog manâs calm. Their eyes fixed on the struggling woman like house dogs watching a man tear the last meat from a bone.
The plump woman shot the fog man, Vindeliar, a desperate look. He pursed his mouth until his lips thrust out like a duckâs beak. Even where I stood, ignored by them, I felt the suffocating drag of what he did. My thoughts softened at the edges like candles too near a flame. I had been about to do something, but it could wait. It would have been too much bother. Too much effort. The day had been long, and I was tired. It was dark here, and cold. It was time to find a quiet, safe place and rest. Rest.
I turned back to the sleigh and reached for the edge of it to climb back over the side. My hands in the immense fur mittens slipped and my forehead jolted hard against the wood.
Wake up! Fight. Or run. But do not fall asleep. Wolf-Father shook my awareness as if shaking the life from a hare. I came back to myself with a shudder.
And then I stood up. I could walk. But what good would that do? At that moment, I hated being small more than I had ever hated my stature in my life. Yet even if I had been a tall and mighty warrior on a powerful horse, what could I do against so many armed men?
I felt sick and helpless as I realized the larger truth. Not even an army could undo what had been done. Nothing and no one could bring back Steward Revel or unspill FitzVigilantâs blood from the snow or unburn the stables. It was all broken. I might still be alive but I was just a salvaged piece of a life that had been shattered. Not one of us was whole. There was no going back, not for any of us.
I could not decide what to do. I was already getting cold. I could get back into the wagon, burrow under the blankets, and let happen to me whatever might happen. I could run away into the darkness and try to find Perseverance under the snow and the cloak. I could flee to the captured people, and be once more dragged to the wagon. I wondered if I could steel myself and run into the burning stable deep enough to die there. How badly would it hurt?
Cornered wolves fight. Even the cubs.
That thought seeped into my brain, then was frozen and shattered by a long, shrill scream. It seemed so odd that I could recognize who the scream belonged to. It was Shun. I peeked around the side of the wagon. The man who had defied the plump woman gripped Shun by her hair. âWeâll go,â he agreed affably. âBut first Iâll enjoy a prize of my own.â He tugged Shun up on her toes. She squealed, sounding like a piglet. At any other time, it would have been a funny sound. Both her hands were on top of her head as she gripped her own hair, trying to take the pressure off her scalp. Her torn blouse gaped wide. It was as red as blood, that dress, with an overlay of white lace in a snowflake pattern. He shook her, not gently. âThis one. This little cat tried to stick a knife in me. Sheâs still got some fight in her. I havenât had her yet. And in some things, I am not a hasty man.â
Still gripping Shun by the hair, he dismounted. She tried to pull free of him but he just shifted his grip to the back of her head. He was taller than she was and when he held her at armâs length her swinging fists could not touch him. The men of Withywoods just stood and watched. Their eyes were dull, their mouths slack. No one moved to help her. FitzVigilant would have tried to protect her. But Iâd seen him earlier, sprawled in his blood in the snow. Shun struggled against her captor, as helpless against him as I would be. He laughed, and shouted over her shrieks, âIâll take special care of this one, and then Iâll catch up with you. Before morning.â
The other mounted soldiers were stirring, suddenly interested, fighting the fog manâs calm. Their eyes fixed on the struggling woman like house dogs watching a man tear the last meat from a bone.
The plump woman shot the fog man, Vindeliar, a desperate look. He pursed his mouth until his lips thrust out like a duckâs beak. Even where I stood, ignored by them, I felt the suffocating drag of what he did. My thoughts softened at the edges like candles too near a flame. I had been about to do something, but it could wait. It would have been too much bother. Too much effort. The day had been long, and I was tired. It was dark here, and cold. It was time to find a quiet, safe place and rest. Rest.
I turned back to the sleigh and reached for the edge of it to climb back over the side. My hands in the immense fur mittens slipped and my forehead jolted hard against the wood.
Wake up! Fight. Or run. But do not fall asleep. Wolf-Father shook my awareness as if shaking the life from a hare. I came back to myself with a shudder.
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