Rabben bent, slowly, slowly, forced inch by inch down and down, to his knees, to
all fours, prone, pressing and grinding his face further and further into the
dust, rocking back and forth, pressing harder and harder into the sand …
Lythande turned and lifted the girl. She stared in disbelief at the burly
sorcerer grinding his black beard frantically into the dirt.
‘What did you -‘
‘Never mind – let’s get out of here. The spell will not hold him long, and when
he wakes from it he will be angry.’ Neutral mockery edged. Lythande’s voice, and
the girl could see it, too, Rabben with beard and eyes and blue star covered
with the dirt and dust –
She scurried along in the wake of the magician’s robe; when they were well away
from the Promise of Heaven, Lythande halted, so abruptly that the girl stumbled.
‘Who are you, girl?’
‘My name is Bercy. And yours?’
‘A magician’s name is not lightly given. In Sanctuary they call me Lythande.’
Looking down at the girl, the magician noted, with a pang, that beneath the dirt
and dishevelment she was very beautiful and very young. ‘You can go, Bercy. He
will not touch you again; I have bested him fairly upon challenge.’
She flung herself on to Lythande’s shoulder, clinging. ‘Don’t send me away!’ she
begged, clutching, eyes filled with adoration. Lythande scowled.
Predictable, of course, Bercy believed, and who in Sanctuary would have
disbelieved, that the duel had been fought for the girl as prize, and she was
ready to give herself to the winner. Lythande made a gesture of protest.