Cherbu slipped out through the tent flap and leaped down. She caught sight of mounted men, a tree lurching past, and the sun shining through leaves before the tent flap slapped back into place. The wagon jolted on; despite the jerky motion, she fell into a fitful doze, starting awake whenever she was flung to one side or the other because of a hole or bump. At intervals Cherbu returned to change her poultice or give her a fresh infusion of broth. Strangely, despite the uncomfortable journey, she felt increasingly better as the day wore on and could even eventually crack open her right eye.

She felt, in truth, mildly optimistic when the wagon lumbered to a halt and she heard the familiar noises of folk moving about setting up camp. She peeled the poultice off her face before gingerly climbing out of the back of the wagon. She needed to pee, and wanted to get a look around.

Her legs and arms worked. Her face still hurt, but she could actually open and shut her eye and squinch up her cheek without much pain. She found enough privacy around at the front of the wagon to do her business, then surveyed the situation, the placement of the army, herds, and captives in a broad clearing surrounded by forest.

Maybe there was a chance they had forgotten about her.

Maybe not.

There came Cherbu with a cup of steaming broth. She drank it gratefully. Hunger stirred; her belly growled softly. Cherbu beckoned, and she followed him to the round tent surmounted by the Pechanek banner. Bulkezu strolled out to meet her with a smirk on his face, a cold light in his gaze, and, amazingly, Boso at his side.

The interpreter looked much improved, remarkably so, since she had last seen him throwing up during the parley, but perhaps it was only glee over her impending punishment. “Be afraid, woman. His Dreadfulness has had enough of your disobedience and disrespectful words.”

Was it actually possible that Boso hadn’t realized what had happened at the parlay? Didn’t he know that Bulkezu could understand him? Or was she the fool, thinking all along that Boso hadn’t known? She staggered, head swimming, and fought to keep her balance, to keep her dignity.

“His patience is at an end because you’ve made him very angry.”

A cold fear crept into her gut as the silence dragged out. A few slaves stopped to stare, but Bulkezu’s guards chased them away. He wasn’t one for the big public gesture, not like the Wendish nobles, who raised up and threw down their favorites in the middle of court so that everyone could see. He was a man who kept his grudges personal.

Boso actually sniggered; so aroused was he by the expectation of her imminent downfall that he forgot to be sarcastic. “You can keep your clothes and your Eagle’s cloak, so no one forgets who you are. But all other protections Prince Bulkezu withdraws.”

She found her voice, hoarse as it was. “You mean he’s going to hand me over to Princess Theophanu?”

Boso guffawed, giggling helplessly. Bulkezu’s expression didn’t change. Four guards came forward. If she fought, they’d see how desperately frightened she was. Hadn’t Sorgatani’s luck protected her? Wouldn’t the Kerayit shaman watch over her? She looked toward Cherbu, but he had already wandered away into the trees.

Had she really believed in any savior but Bulkezu’s whim, which had now turned cold?

“You thought yourself better than the rest,” said Boso.

“No more than did you,” she murmured, but she could barely get the words out. It hurt to talk. The impassive guards moved in around her, lances raised. She took a step back, flushed and perspiring as the sun slid out from behind the clouds and beat down upon her.

They advanced, and she retreated, step by step, until she realized that they were driving her, as they would drive a cow or a ewe, back to the miserable crowd of prisoners scattered like so many wilting flowers through the clearing. No longer was she Bulkezu’s honored hostage, his model prisoner. She was just one more hapless captive left to stagger along in the wake of the army, one short step in front of the lances of the rear guard.

Most of the captives had collapsed in the grass, trying to cover their heads against the glare of the sun. Few had survived the night of the slaughter, and perhaps because of that, the plague had not surfaced again in the train of Bulkezu’s army. He had raced ahead, leaving the plague behind, but he still took prisoners and he still dragged them along for his amusement, for his assaults, for whatever sick reason he had, if he had reasons at all beyond laying waste.

A few, those not yet so weakened by their ordeal that they noticed nothing beyond the next sip of gruel, raised themselves up to watch as Hanna was pressed back into their midst.

More than anything, she noticed the stink of so many unwashed bodies, open sores, pools of diarrhea and urine and vomit spreading from those too sick to crawl away from their own sickness, all of it a sink of despair. Flies buzzed everywhere, feasting on infected eyes and filth-encrusted hands. Surely plague was hiding here, waiting to burst out again as it had that awful night.