She grabbed one of the arrows, but her touch on the shaft sent pain shooting up her spine and down her calf. She choked down a scream; she knew what she had to do.
Let them run, she prayed. Let them retreat and save themselves.
She grabbed each shaft, closed her hands around them, and called fire. The pain inside her thigh flared; it bit; it flowered. It stunned her with its ferocity, eating at the flesh from inside. She wept. Tears spattered her face with cold fierceness. There was a terrible strong wind blowing in off the sea. Thunder rumbled.
Or was it the earth trembling beneath her?
Fire guttered as rain splashed, yet it wasn’t the rain that cooled the flames but the sparkling wings of butterflies, a thousand winking shards. Where they fluttered, flame died.
The first arrow crumbled away into ash. Blood from the wound gushed down the belly of the horse. Ash and blood in a muddy mixture dripped onto her feet. She tugged on the second arrow and almost passed out, but it did not break. It had not burned through.
“I’ve got it, Mistress! I’ll put it out.”
Mosquito was the one with the round scar on his left cheek and a missing tooth. Gnat had broader shoulders, a broader face, and was missing the thumb on his right hand.
And, damn him, there he was, scuttling in beside his brother. He shoved a knife between her thigh and the horse, levering it in until it hit the shaft.
She thought the pain of that movement alone would kill her. The heavens dazzled; stars spun webs, and Mosquito yelped with fear as Gnat sawed and she moaned. A glittering net drifted out of the sky an arm’s length above them. Butterflies skimmed across her cheeks.
Anne stepped out of the line of soldiers and halted a stone’s toss in front of her. The skopos was crowned and robed in the splendor of her office, wearing white robes embroidered with red circles. No ash marred the purity of that linen. A gold circlet rested on her brow, mirroring the gold torque that circled her neck, the sigil of her royal ancestry.
Anne regarded her in silence for some moments. Because the light of the burning tents blazed behind her, her face was in shadow, half obscured. Yet Anne had always been obscured; if there was passion beneath that cool exterior, it, like coals, had always been buried beneath a layer of ash.
“Shoot the servants,” she said.
Five arrows flashed out of the burning night. Three thudded wetly into flesh: two into Mosquito and one into Gnat, just above his collarbone. He fell back, choking. Mosquito had collapsed without a sound.
“I am disappointed in you, Daughter,” Anne said in that mild, flat tone. Anne never raged. “You cost me so much. Yet now I have nothing to show for it.”
“Did I cost you so much?” The agony awash in her thigh, the sting of the blade’s edge pinching her mangled flesh where the knife was still wedged between leg and horse, was nothing compared to the pain in her heart. “I cost you nothing. My mother and father are both dead. What cost was there for you in my conception? In my mother’s death? In my father’s murder? Except that you had to lie to the others all these years, pretending that I was born from your womb.”
“Ah.” Even with the truth cast on the ground for them both to consider, with the charred bodies of men smoldering around them, Anne did not flinch or falter; she showed not the least tremor of emotion. “Well, then. Certainly there is no hope of a rapprochement if you have discovered the truth. Yet I wonder. How do you know these things?”
“Well, then,” echoed Liath, mocking her. Mockery was all she had, surrounded by the ruin of her hopes. “It seems you have told me more than I have told you, since you have now confirmed what I only guessed at. I have nothing further to say.”
The first strands of that net brushed her hair and settled over her shoulders. The fire that burned inside her, her mother’s spirit, shrank from its cold touch.
“You need not speak, Liath. Your plans are an open book to me. You may have a fire daimone’s heart, but you are weak, as Bernard made you. You were easily captured and will be easily held in my power. With this same net of sorcery I caged your mother.”
The net was a cage for fire. But she was only half born of fire. The rest of her was common human flesh, Da’s heritage.
She grabbed the arrow and wrenched. The pain blinded her, but only for an instant. Gnat’s knife had done just enough work, weakening the shaft, which snapped, half charred, half splintered. She rolled sideways over the smoking body of the horse to fall between her wounded servants.
She grabbed their arms and, of a miracle, they scrambled up although it was impossible to know how they could still walk. They ran, staggering, bent over, while men shouted and gave chase.
