Текст книги "Dragonfly"
Автор книги: Julia Golding
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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 21 страниц)
Chapter 7
King Lagan's spies returned with disturbing news from Brigard. A young man answering the
Prince's description had been seen tied to a circus wagon and forced to walk miles. The same
spies had reported no sign of the Princess.
The King debated the news with his chief advisers long into the night. Could it be Ramil? Lagan
supposed he should be thankful that it sounded as if his son was alive, but how had he been
smuggled across the border and why?
Had he been betrayed by the Blue Crescent people? Had the Princess arranged for him to be
abducted and then disappeared to make it look as if she had nothing to do with it? Lagan found
his age-old distrust of the strange Westerners resurfacing. Why was his son the one being
dragged to a humiliating fate in Brigard and their Princess nowhere to be seen? She could even
now be hidden aboard one of their vessels, using this as a chance to declare war on Gerfal. After
all, you never really knew what those white-faced women were thinking.
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The next reports from his spies in Brigard added further to the alarm and confusion.
"Your Majesty," said the forest warden, kneeling before the King in the council chamber, "I have ridden far into Brigard disguised as a farmer and return with a harvest of grave news. Fergox
Spearthrower is massing his armies all along our border. Reports from Felixholt, Niril, and
Manford tell the same tale: soldiers are arriving from all over the Empire and digging in for the
winter. It is likely they mean to make an assault on us come the spring thaw."
"We have feared this for some time," said King Lagan, glancing at the stern faces of his ministers gathered around him. "And we are prepared."
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While trying to appear confident before his subjects, Lagan thought privately that his divisions,
strung out in a thin line along the Brigardian border, were unlikely to be able to withstand this
attack. If only the alliance had gone ahead, he would have a navy to defend his coasts and troops
to spare for the border where the blow would fall first. But now, he had to prepare for an attack
from the sea as well as by land.
"And, Sire, I bring other news," the warden continued, looking uncomfortable.
"Is it of my son?" Lagan asked eagerly, sitting forward.
"Yes, Sire. A merchant friendly to us in Felixholt told me that his royal highness had been seen.
He is a guest of Fergox himself in the citadel."
"A prisoner, you mean?"
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"My informant was not certain. He only knew that Prince Ramil had been present at the testing
of someone he called 'the Blue Crescent witch.' I think he meant the Fourth Crown Princess."
Lagan sat back. "Testing? What does that mean?"
"According to my man, she was denounced as a heretic, stripped of the symbols of her rank, and
is now a penitent in the houses of the priesthood of Holin the Warmonger."
Lagan closed his eyes briefly, remembering the innocent face of the girl he had talked to on the
terrace. He regretted now that he had suspected her.
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She too was caught in Fergox's trap. But how had she got there and what part had his son
played?
"And my son was present at this ceremony?"
"Apparently so, Sire."
"Willingly?"
"I do not know."
The councillors sat in silence while the news sank in. They all knew that Ramil had despised his
intended bride, but to take her to Fergox for such treatment would be unforgivable. And how
did that balance with the story that Ramil himself had been dragged to the Spearthrower's
court?
"Your Majesty." Lord Usk was on his feet. "I beg leave to go in search of Prince Ramil."
"And I," added Hortlan and Yendral.
Lagan sighed. He knew how they felt. If he did not have to attend to the affairs of the nation, he
would jump on a horse and go and find his boy himself.
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"I understand your concern, my lords. God knows, I feel it too, but I need all my young warriors
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with me at this time. An army stands between us and Rami! if the reports are correct. You would
be riding to your deaths. Your duty now lies with the men of your houses and lands. We will
soon have a fight on our hands; every one of you has a part to play in defending Gerfal."
"But, Sire!" protested Usk.
Lagan raised his hand. "I appreciate your zeal for my son but there is nothing you can do. I will not believe he stays of his own free choice: he is a prisoner of war. I fear we will hear all too
soon Fergox's conditions for his release."
"What of the Blue Crescent delegation, Your Majesty?" asked Lord Taris.
"Should we tell them this news?"
King Lagan tapped his fingers on the arm of his throne. He was facing war with the most
powerful naval empire in the world all because of a
misunderstanding. He needed some brilliant stroke to avoid it, but what?
Some gesture of good faith, a pledge of his son's honor. (Ramil had to be innocent, he had to
be!)
"I have little doubt that the Blue Crescent will have their own informants in Spearthrower's
court. They will hear this news eventually. Far better if we show our friendly intentions by
revealing it now. Summon the delegates and–" Lagan ran his hand across his brow, weary and
grief-stricken. It was hard to think like a king when he was full of the worries of a father "–wake the Princess Briony. I will require her to be present at our meeting with the delegates."
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An hour later, the Etiquette Mistress and Chief Priest were sitting opposite the King. A tousle-
haired princess perched on his knee, half asleep, a robe over her nightgown and her favorite doll
on her lap. Lagan hugged her fiercely.
"You'll have to trust me, Briony," he said in a low voice. "You'll come to no harm."
Briony, who hadn't been worried before, now felt alarmed. She stared anxiously at the strangers
opposite, wondering what was going on.
At a sign from the King, Lord Taris presented the delegation with a copy of the written report by
the Gerfalian spies. Lagan gave them a chance to read it, then spoke.
"You will see that our information is far from complete."
"Your information," snapped the Etiquette Mistress, incandescent with rage,
"says that your son witnessed this sacrilege but did nothing to prevent it!"
"What could he do, a prisoner himself?" Lagan asked, keeping his tone even.
"We do not know that he is a captive!" said the priest angrily. "Your spies"
reports are at odds. Prince Ramil made no secret that he disliked this union.
How do you know that he did not plan this?"
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"I trust my son." As Lagan pronounced his conviction, he recalled Ramil's words said in anger only a few weeks ago. Like a cloud shifting from the face of the sun, he felt his private doubts
dispel. Ramil could be foolish and downright annoying, but he wasn't so base
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as to plot against the Princess and the wishes of his own father. "And as a proof of this trust, I offer you my only remaining child, the Princess Briony, to be a pledge of her brother's honor."
"Father!" exclaimed Briony, squeezing his arm in shock.
Lagan held her small hand reassuringly. "I entrust her to you in the knowledge that you will treat her as one of your own until such time as the Princess Taoshira is restored to you or the full truth
of these terrible events is revealed."
The Blue Crescent delegation were visibly taken aback by the magnitude of the gesture on the
part of the Gerfalians. After a brief whispered exchange, the Etiquette Mistress rose and bowed.
"We accept that the father has had no part in the affront to our nation, but it remains to be seen whether the son lives up to his sire's greatness," she said. "We will treat the Princess Briony with all the honor that should now be shown to the Princess Taoshira but is denied her; your
daughter will receive comfort and freedom while our beloved Crown Princess receives taunts
and a prison cell. Come, Your Highness." She held out a hand to the little girl; Lagan pushed
Briony gently off his knee. "In view of the change in our circumstances, we will no longer
trespass on the hospitality of your court but accommodate ourselves aboard our own vessels."
The Blue Crescent delegation swept out, carrying a scared little princess with them. Lagan sat
stony faced
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as his councillors whispered among themselves. He had spent both his children now in the
service of his country and had nothing left. If this did not stop the war with the Westerners, then
he could only fight with small hope of survival.
Tashi woke the morning after Ramil's visit feeling stronger. Tucking the paper models in the
wide pockets of her black robe, she performed her rituals, then paced the cell to keep the cold at
bay. After her public trial, she hoped that the priests would leave her alone to private
contemplation. She could bear the incarceration, cold and comfortless though it was, as long as
she did not have to go through further humiliation in front of other people.
Her hopes were dashed when a young priest came to fetch her.
"You are expected to attend morning worship in the temple," he announced, keeping his eyes
averted as if he thought she would bewitch him with a look.
"But I do not worship your god," Tashi replied, her back to him as she leant her forehead against the wall for comfort, finding the stone more sympathetic than his hostile looks.
"You will come." He nodded to the temple guards who stepped into the cell.
They surrounded her, swords pointing to her throat.
Brimming with impotent fury, Tashi walked into the corridor. The priest led her out of the crypt
and into
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the temple itself. She'd had no chance to look at it properly when she had been brought this way
the day before; now she saw that a once plain and simple building had been redecorated in
honor of the new god of the Empire.
Bright frescoes of war covered the walls, gleaming with scarlet, gold, and black. The altar shone
with the polished metal of the shields and weapons of fallen foes. A huge icon of Holin hung
over the table, draped in swathes of red cloth. The priest directed Tashi to kneel on the stone
floor in front of the congregation, who were seated in relative comfort on wooden benches. Her
anger had burned itself out and was now replaced by fear, as she wondered what new
humiliation they had in store for her. Keeping her eyes lowered, she sensed the presence of
hundreds of people, all gathered eagerly for the service. The front rows were occupied by the
rich, wrapped in furs and velvet against the chill air. Fergox would doubtless be somewhere
close, sitting at the front in the place of honor. Her neck flushed as she remembered what Ramil
had said about the man wanting to wed her. If this was how Fergox wooed his wives, then
marriage to him was worse than any prison sentence.
A cymbal clashed and a drum began to beat. The senior priests filed in bearing the weapons of
their god: swords, pikes, bows, axes, spiked maces.
Junior acolytes followed, clashing wooden sticks together in time with the drum. The
congregation rose to its feet, but Tashi remained kneeling, her hands clasped loosely in her lap.
In unison, the people began to chant the hymn of
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praise to Holin. She could hear Fergox's voice booming the words out behind her.
"Praise to the war god, glorious in victory,
Crushing his enemies all over the world,
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We offer ourselves in perfect obedience,
Spilling our heart's blood and bending our knees."
The chief priest, a withered-looking man with a pinched, thin face, halted behind the altar and
raised his arms, displaying hundreds of tiny white scars.
He took a knife and in the sight of everyone made a shallow cut on his forearm.
"Honor the Warmonger!" he cried.
"All honor to his name," responded the congregation.
Tashi watched in fascination as he let the blood drip onto the white cloth spread out on the
table. He then chose two weapons from the altar and handed them to a pair of priests waiting
eagerly on either side of the table.
He gave one the mace, the other a sword. Neither was given a shield. The two men turned to
face the congregation. Tashi could see the steel caps on their boots.
"See how we fight for Holin!" they shouted in unison.
To Tashi's horror, they then swung at each other, sword angling down at the knees of the
opponent, the mace bearer going for the head. The combat was only paces away from her. She
could feel the rush of air as weapons slashed and robes whisked. The priests dodged skillfully; so
far no one had landed a blow. Tashi began to hope that this was just an elaborate 128
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dance pattern to celebrate battle without causing injury, but then the mace bearer crashed his
weapon into the skull of the swordsman, who had not moved quickly enough. Tashi flinched as
bone split and she was sprayed with a mist of blood. The victim fell onto the floor in front of her,
so close she could have touched his head. The victor yanked out the mace to the applause of the
audience. He shook it in the air and then presented it to the chief priest to take pride of place on
the altar. The dead man was left lying where he fell. Tashi was shaking, sure she was about to
vomit; she inched back to avoid the blood pooling on the steps until she felt a firm pressure on
her neck. It was Fergox. He had risen and was now standing behind her.
"Stay where you are!" he ordered.
Stooping down, he dabbled his index finger in the blood, then wiped it on the forehead of the
victorious priest who knelt before him to receive the mark of honor. Seeing Tashi's look of
horror, Fergox smiled, reached out and smeared some on her cheek. Revolted, she made to
wipe it away.
"Leave it!" he said, slapping her hand down. "Blood spilt bravely is better than white paint of falsehood." Leaning closer, enjoying her fear of him, he slowly daubed her other cheek.
Tashi trembled, close to tears, as Fergox watched her reaction with a mocking expression. She
could feel the blood drying on her cheek, pulling on the skin, but she dare not touch it.
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Fergox turned from her and raised the victorious priest to his feet. He then lifted the man's fist
in a punch of triumph.
"See how we fight and die for Holin!" Fergox shouted.
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The crowd cheered and the priests struck up a chant.
"Give your offerings of blood, gold, and service," the chief priest cried in ecstasy.
The priests divided into two columns and began moving among the people with bowls. Most of
the congregation poured out the contents of their purses, but some of the most zealous
adherents sliced their hands with a knife and let the blood fall into the basins, prompting
applause from the onlookers. As the priests brought the offerings to the altar, one paused by
Tashi and held out his bowl. Eyes on her clenched fists, she shook her head, and he continued on
to the front without a word.
The rest of the service seemed interminable to Tashi as she tried to regain some control over
herself, some calm to counterbalance the panic and revulsion she felt. Songs were sung to the
accompaniment of drums and blaring horns; a long recitation of the martial virtues expected of
the perfect warrior was read out by a temple guard; the chief priest spoke at great length about
the evils of foreign gods and the superiority of Holin. All Tashi could see was the dead man
sprawled before her, receiving no honor because he had committed the sin of being beaten.
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Finally, at the end of the ceremony, the chief priest held up a hand for silence.
"Now we come to the Choice. One here among us has followed the demon goddess all her life
but today, Holin, in his mercy, has given her this chance of salvation." He nodded to two
assistants. They stood before Tashi, the one on the right hand holding warm clothes and a loaf of
bread, on the left, a birch rod. "Choose service to Holin and your trials will be over; refuse and your mortification will continue until you are cleansed of your errors." He paused, then asked,
"Penitent, who is the Supreme God?"
Silence fell in the temple. Tashi closed her eyes, wondering if her voice had fled. She had to say
something.
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"I am the Mother's servant." Her voice was surprisingly loud in the hushed temple.
"Blasphemy!" shrieked the priest. The crowd murmured and hissed at the kneeling figure in her black robes. "Take the witch back to her cell!" he ordered.
Two guards seized Tashi roughly under her arms and towed her back the way she had come.
Behind her, the chanting began again as the priests hurried to purify the temple after the
pollution caused by her words.
Once back in her cell, Tashi dashed to her water jug and rubbed frantically at her bloodied
cheeks. She felt dirty long after she had cleaned the marks off.
Please, she begged the Goddess, please may they leave me in peace!
She was not to get her wish. The chief priest and his
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entourage followed on the completion of the service. He bore the birch rod in his hands, his
expression unforgiving. Tashi backed against the wall, feeling the priests' hostility like a physical
blow as they crowded into her small room.
The chief priest curled his lips in disgust and threw the rod at her feet.
"You've chosen the way of discipline. You will learn to fight and submit as becomes a warrior of
Holin."
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Tashi held out her empty hands. "My religion is one of peace. I will not fight."
He ignored her. "Your trainer will remain with you. Everyone fights eventually."
With a swirl of red robes, he was gone, leaving a single priest behind.
Glancing up at him fearfully, Tashi saw that it was the man who had so efficiently wielded the
mace to kill his opponent. He now wore a robe fastened with a linked belt and a breastplate
made of gold, spoils of his victory and a sign that he had graduated to the highest level of
warrior-craft.
About fifty years old, he had the scarred face and hands of a professional soldier. He regarded
his pupil for a long silent moment then pointed to the rod.
"Pick it up," he ordered, drawing from the fold of his robes a similar instrument.
Having no idea what to expect, Tashi scooped the rod up from the floor. She had decided to
obey any order that did not conflict with her principles.
"Penitent, all Holin's followers must learn to fight for him and to submit to him as a good soldier does to his commander. You will quickly feel the penalty of 132
refusing an order from me, your master, if you refuse to give battle when told to do so.
Therefore, I say, 'Fight!'"
The warrior-priest launched himself at her, swinging the rod down in an arc like a sword slash.
Instinctively, Tashi raised her arms across her face. The blow whipped across the back of her
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hands. She yelped.
The priest gave a cold smile. "I think you understand now. I will keep on attacking until you fight back." He raised his rod again, expecting her to launch her counter-strike.
"I will not fight for your god," Tashi retorted, turning quickly so that the next blow fell on her back. The sting made her gasp.
"That is blasphemy." The man bent the rod in his hands, his eyes glittering with battle-fire. "The Warmonger wants strength and blood from his followers, not weakness and cowardice."
"Then I won't follow him."
The third blow hit her ribs with a crack.
"You must fight back or I will beat you until I have no more strength to raise my arm."
Tashi believed him, but either she let him break her body or crush her will.
She took a step forward, held her rod between her two hands and snapped it over her knee. She
threw the pieces to the ground.
"I am fighting back, sir, in the only way my faith allows."
He raised his arm to strike again but Tashi did not flinch this time.
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"I did as you asked: I fought, but still you would hit me?" she asked, steeling herself for the blow.
The priest slowly lowered his rod, his expression one of reluctant admiration.
"You have strength, witch, but it is in the service of the wrong god. I will return tomorrow to
continue our lessons," he said, tucking the rod away in his belt.
Ramil had decided that he stood the best chance of escape if he ingratiated himself with Fergox.
If he could earn the man's trust, it was likely the guard on him would be relaxed sufficiently for
him to slip away and make his preparations. To do so, he would have to start acting as if he
accepted that he was a guest rather than a prisoner. On hearing from the two soldiers who were
his permanent escort that Fergox usually spent the morning sparring with his warrior priests,
Ramil went in search of his host. Their information had been correct: Fergox was duelling in the
practice courts adjoining the temple, an arena surrounded by a wooden barrier. As Ramil
approached, he could see warriors testing their skills on the sawdust-covered floor. Fergox was
in the very middle, stripped to the waist, sweat running down his back, a few cuts to his torso,
but he was getting the best of the fight. With a skilful swipe of the sword, Fergox had his
opponent on his knees, blade pointing to his windpipe.
"Submit to me, and thus to the Great Holin," Fergox panted. There was a hungry look in his eye, as if he hoped to have the excuse to finish the thrust.
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"I submit," said the priest, letting his blade fall to the ground with a clatter.
With a tight laugh, Fergox dropped his sword and stepped back.
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"Honor to the Mighty Holin," he chanted.
"Honor to his name," replied the man, completing the ritual. He looked immensely relieved to be walking away with his life.
Fergox reached for a towel held out by one of his servants, wiped his face with it, and slung it
around his neck. He then saw Ramil leaning against the barrier.
"Good morning, Prince Ramil. I trust you slept well?"
Ramil bowed. "Indeed, sir."
"Would you care to fight?" Fergox gestured to the rack of weapons inside the court–swords,
spears, mace, and staff. "I like to practice with at least three partners each day to keep up my
skills."
Ramil vaulted over the barrier. "I do not pretend to match you in experience or strength, my
lord." It did not suit his plans to risk getting injured just to show off his swordsmanship. "Would target practice be an acceptable competition between us?" He chose a short spear, the sort he
carried when hunting back in Gerfal. "Perhaps you would care to show me the skill that earned
you your title?"
Fergox nodded. "I have no problem with that, Princeling." He picked a spear and gestured to a row of straw men-targets against the wall at the far end of the arena. "A killing strike wins–head or heart."
They walked together to take up their positions
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opposite the dummies. Fergox felt the sharpened end of his spear
thoughtfully.
"I hear from the priests you visited my little penitent."
Quelling any sign that would betray his nervousness on this subject, Ramil nodded. "Yes, I went
to reason with her but found her unmoved."
Fergox lifted the spear to his shoulder and took a few swings to loosen his arm and neck
muscles.
"She's putting on a good show for the people. Prettily stubborn. A sudden conversion would not
be half so impressive."
He launched the spear and it struck the central dummy in the head.
"A fatal blow," he said with a satisfied smile.
Ramil warmed up, then cast his missile, imagining the dummy to be Fergox.
It flew hard and fast, piercing the straw man in the heart.
"Excellent!" Fergox clapped him on the back. "Your family should be proud of you. Best of 139
three?"
Ramil was about to agree when a red-robed priest appeared at Fergox's elbow. He muttered a
swift report out of Ramil's hearing, bowed and retired.
Fergox turned back to his young challenger with one of his chilling smiles.
"I do apologize, Prince Ramil, but we will have to postpone our contest. I am called away to our
not-so-penitent penitent. She has excelled herself this morning and I must congratulate her."
He walked out of the practice courts, leaving Ramil to wonder what he meant.
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The door to the cell opened for the third time that day. Tashi took up her post against the far
wall, her fingers clutching the stones apprehensively.
"Ah, Tashi, Tashi, you are remarkable!"
Fergox Spearthrower stood before her, arms outstretched in a benevolent gesture. He was bare-
chested, covered in cuts, and had a towel round his neck. She could smell the sweat of combat
on him from the other side of the room.
"You've found your own way to fight. I like that. It suits a female follower of Holin: passive
resistance, scorn of pain and punishment–excellent."
"I didn't do it for your Warmonger," Tashi said, her eyes lowered.
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"Ah, but everything you do is done for Holin. You cannot help yourself."
Fergox smiled and crossed the cell to embrace her. "You were worth the money." He pressed
her to his chest and kissed the top of her head.
Tashi pulled away. "What do you mean? Worth what money?"
He ran his hand over her hair, trapping one lock in his fingers. "You don't understand, my poor,
sweet girl. You're only here because I paid the chief priest on Kai one hundred thousand gold
heralds to pick you. I made you what you are. If it hadn't been for me, you'd still be herding
goats." He tickled her under the chin with her hair.
"No." Tashi shook her head, pushing his hands off her. He was leaning over her, trapping her against the
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wall, smiling his horrible smile that said he knew everything about her, how she felt, how she
thought. "I don't believe it."
Fergox chuckled. "Must I show you his signature on the receipt, little penitent? I doubtless still have it somewhere in my treasury."
"No." Her protest this time was feeble. She sagged against the wall, feeling as if he had removed all strength from her. Was it possible? Was she his creature? It would explain the sudden death
of the previous princess and the oddity that someone as insignificant as her had been chosen.
But if that was true, it meant the end of everything she believed in.
"I wouldn't let it worry you, Tashi. You made a very fine princess and will be a beautiful wife for 141
an emperor when the time comes." He patted her consolingly on the cheek. "I'll leave you to
your penitence. Don't take too long about it, will you? The disciplines get very nasty after a few
weeks of resistance and I'd hate to think you'll suffer so unnecessarily. You'll submit in the end.
Everyone does give way to me."
He ran his finger down the side of her face and then touched her lips. "Just say the words, Tashi, and you'll be out of here and in a warm chamber lying in a bed with silk sheets."
She turned her head away, too devastated to speak. She felt his hand removed and heard the
noise of the door closing. Alone again, she slid down the wall to the floor, feeling as if her whole
world had crumbled around her.
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