In the Ruins

Last came Zuangua. He held an iron sword drawn behind the Pale Sun Dog, whose face was pale with weariness. Threads dissolved into a shower of sparks. These flares died, and suddenly it was dark.



“Silence!” cried Feather Cloak.



“Success!” barked Fox Mask in answer, and in reply they heard the weeping and curses of the prisoners.



Sparks bit, and oil lamps and reed tapers were lit. Light and shadow wove through the assembly.



Zuangua said, “Where is my Little Beast?”



Little Beast sprang forward and barreled into him. He patted her on the head as he might a favored dog. “Can I go with you next time, Uncle?” she demanded. “I’m old enough to be a shield bearer.”



Her speech was fluid and fluent, shockingly so, but they had gotten used to it; everyone agreed it was some gift of the blood or the taint of sorcery, inherited from her mother. Maybe she had been bitten by snakes.



“Old enough,” he agreed carelessly, and he looked at the blood knives as if daring them to try to wrest her from him.



But the priests stared avidly at the prisoners. The woman in long robes had begun chanting in a singsong voice that reminded Secha of the sky counters’ praying. It seemed she had power, because the other prisoners calmed and steadied, although by their flaring eyes and gritted teeth they were still as terrified as the bleating sheep. There was a short man with thick arms and massive shoulders; there was a youth little older than her own son; there was a man with blood on his tunic and another who limped from a wound, and the last was white-faced with shock although he was the tallest and plumpest among them.



“You can’t have all of them,” said Zuangua to the priests. “Those two—” He indicated the burly man and the youth. “—we took from their forging house. They’re blacksmiths.”



The priest-woman in her long robes looked toward the stone circle. The Pale Dog was leaning against one of the stones as though exhausted, his eyes closed and his breathing shallow. His mouth was parted, and his chin and jaw and lips moved ever so slightly, as if he were talking to himself in an undertone. Everything was pale in him, fair hair, fair skin, undyed linen tunic pallid against the night, and a gold circle hung on a necklace at his fair throat. The dark stone framed him, highlighting his beauty and his cunning power, his strength and his shine.



The priest-woman cursed him. You didn’t need to understand the words to hear the power of her speech.



But if he heard her, he gave no sign. His eyes remained closed. He might have been sleeping, mumbling as dreamers do, except for the twitching of one little finger.



Zuangua had a mask after all, one tipped up on his head: he wore the visage of a dragon, proud and golden, just as he was.



“I have something to say,” he began, and Feather Cloak raised a hand to allow him to continue.



“He is a very evil man,” observed Zuangua as his warriors waved their hands in agreement. “He has lost even the love and loyalty for kinfolk that every person ought to have! He betrayed them all, without mercy.”



“Thus will humankind fall,” said Feather Cloak. “They are faithless each to the other.”



Secha spoke up. “Not all of them are. Liathano kept faith with your son, Sanglant.”



At the mention of those names, the Pale Dog’s jaw tightened, but he did not open his eyes. He had very good hearing.



“Your son kept faith with his father,” said Zuangua to Feather Cloak, “which I saw with my own eyes.” He grinned wickedly. “Even this ‘little beast’ who stands at my side seems to love me.”



The girl glanced at him, surprised at his words, then grinned. “You’ll teach me to fight!” she exclaimed.



“Beware the beast does not bite you in your time,” said Feather Cloak.



“I’d never bite him! I like him, and I hate you.”



Feather Cloak studied the girl. In truth, thought Secha, her disinterest in her only grandchild was no more unnatural than the pale sun hair’s disavowal of his kin. “I thought you hated this one called ‘Lord Hugh.”’



“I hate him! He’s a very bad man. He’ll cheat you if he can. He’ll kill you.”



Feather Cloak smiled, amused, perhaps, by the piping voice and passionate expression of the girl. “A fair warning, Little Beast. He may try. He is not as strong or as clever as he thinks he is. What of the raid, Uncle?”



He indicated everything they had captured. “We walked between this crown and one that Sun Hair told us was far in the north. He called the place Thersa. We took the villagers by surprise. They could not fight us. It may be true that the Pale Dogs are many, that they have multitudes, and that we are few. But I tell you, it will be difficult for them to protect themselves against this manner of warfare.”