A dizziness came over her. No, she heard Haught saying, though he was not saying
a thing. She saw Tasfalen leaning over her in the bed, saw Ischade as a shadow
in the doorway, felt all her terror again, but this time Haught was there, in
her skull, looking out her eyes and running his fingers over Tas-falen’s skin
Haught’s anger swelled and swelled and she felt her temples like to burst.
“Gods!” she cried, and: “Stop it!” Stilcho was shouting, his dead arms around
her, holding her up while the blood loss from her wounded foot sent a chill up
that leg and into her knees. She was falling, and Stilcho was shouting: “Gods,
she’s bleeding, she’s all over blood, for the gods’ sake, Haught-“
“Fool,” Haught said, and took her arm, gripping her wrist so hard the feeling
left her hand. The pain in her foot grew acute, became heat, became agony so
great that she threw back her head and screamed.
The bay horse clattered up the street and sent fragments of apple and potato
flying, sent a clutch of slavewomen screaming and cursing out of its path, and
Straton did not so much as turn his head. The ring had no need to be on his
finger. He felt. He felt all of it, lust running in tides through his blood and
blinding his vision so that he had only the dimmest realization what street he
was on or what house he had come to. He slid down from the saddle as the bay
came right up on the walk and the jolt when his feet hit the ground was physical
agony, much beyond any pleasure, as if sex would never again be pleasure to him,