Chapter Nine

Winter 501

As the days passed and Malegant’s abuse continued, I began to dread the dark because I knew he would come. It wasn’t uncommon for him to be out of his mind with drink, which only served to hamper his performance and prolong my torment. Sometimes when he couldn’t satisfy himself sexually, he would beat me until my eyes were bloody and my body shredded by his fingernails and teeth.

Imogen helped me visit the latrine and conduct my business—a humbling experience to be unable to perform such basics without aid—then lifted me back into bed, stroking my hair and holding me as I sobbed and shook. She never spoke, only communicated with her eyes and a few simple gestures. I assumed she had been born mute, but I did not have the heart to ask, nor did I know how she would explain. Somehow, her silence comforted me.

Each morning, Imogen would help me wash, brush my hair, and feed me spoonfuls of pottage as though I were a child. We spent the interminably long days in each other’s company, she knitting or spinning, me sleeping or staring out the window at the lake far below or the mountains towering above.

Each night, Imogen would again help with my ablutions and see me settled into bed before retiring to her own mat. Only when Malegant came, which he inevitably did, did she leave the room.

In time, as my wounds began to heal and I regained my strength, I grew restless and paced the length of the chamber, for there was little I could do without the use of my hands. One morning, Imogen surprised me by removing the bandages from my hands.

“What are you doing?” I asked, only to feel foolish because she could not reply.

Imogen fixed me with a determined stare. It is time, her eyes seemed to say. Trust me. Slowly, carefully, she moved the smallest finger of my right hand.

I sucked in air in anticipation of the pain, but it did not come. Only when she applied a slight pressure to my knuckle to make my finger bend did I want to scream. Still holding my gaze, she repeated her tortuous routine on each of my fingers. By the time we were finished, my brow was slick with sweat, and I was lightheaded.

Imogen patted my thigh, as if to tell me I had done well.

Every day for a week, we repeated this exercise once at dawn and once at dusk. After a few days, the pain was tolerable, though I didn’t yet dare try to move my fingers on my own.

One week after starting to exercise my fingers, she gestured for me to try. Hesitantly, like a child attempting her first steps, I bent my right index finger. When it didn’t hurt, I nearly whooped with joy. I tried my other fingers. They all worked. I couldn’t help but laugh. Soon I was wiggling my fingers in front of me, a child discovering her hands once again.

The following day, Imogen produced a collection of small objects from a pouch at her waist: a small wooden block, a stylus, a rock, and a ball of yarn. She indicated each in turn, grasping it in her hand then handing it to me. After a few minutes, I understood. She wished me to get used to holding objects of various sizes and weights again.

Everything went smoothly until I tried to shift the rock from my right hand to my left. It hit the floor with a thud, a chip skittering across the wooden planks and under the bed.

Embarrassed, I bent to pick it up.

So did Imogen.

We knocked heads as we straightened.

I laughed, rubbing my forehead. She made a gargling sound that I could only assume was laughter and massaged her brow.

It was then I saw it, light as a shadow, delicate as a whisper. In the center of her forehead was the ghost of a waxing crescent moon, long ago faded into nothingness.

Tenderly, I traced its shape, a soft smile forming on my lips. “You are a priestess,” I said softly. “Just like me.”

In response, Imogen touched her thumb to my forehead, lips, and heart.

I embraced her, feeling at once the bond of sisterhood that joined all priestesses of Avalon. My mind raced. No wonder she had taken such good care of me. Her expertise was the only reason I was slowly regaining use of my hands.

“Thank you.” It was not the first time I had spoken my gratitude since waking in this accursed place, but I felt it stronger now than ever before. “How—” I wasn’t even sure what I wanted to ask. “How did you come to be here?”

A moment after the words escaped my lips, we heard approaching footsteps.

Imogen placed a finger to her lips as if to say, Keep this between us. We will discuss it later.

I shivered, knowing what would be expected of me. Malegant had his own ideas of how I should practice using my hands.

The weather grew colder as each day passed until one melted into another like the ceaseless snow that covered the fortress with a thick white veil. One morning, when the snow was falling gently, I gathered up my courage and stuck my head out of the window. Looking up, I was pelted with thousands of icy feathers, but I saw enough to know we were on the uppermost floor of a castle made from a single wooden tower. In some ways, it resembled a granary more than a fortress. I twisted back around and braved a look down. Far below, the lake was churning with icy waves.

In the distance, I could just make out the edge of a thin bridge connecting the tower to some anchor on the far shore. The snow and ice made its rope railing look more like a giant cobweb. A fierce gust of wind rocked the castle, and I pulled my head in a little. The bridge was swaying. I couldn’t help but imagine that anyone caught on it would feel much like an insect in a spider’s snare.

Shivering, I climbed down off the ledge and tacked the fur lining tightly over the window. I sat in front of the fire and combed my hair with my fingers, relishing the heat. I had been here—I counted the full moons—three months, and this was the first time I’d dared think of escape. Why hadn’t it occurred to me sooner? You were in no condition, my mind answered. Only now are you strong enough. Yes. I was finally strong enough to fight back. But how? There had to be a way out beyond the locked door. If Imogen could come and go, so could I.

I was still contemplating the possibilities when Imogen entered with our midday meal: freshly baked bread and bowls of hardy, dark stew. I ate my portion hungrily, especially grateful for the heat that made its way leisurely down my throat and into my stomach. My tongue tingled with hints of sage, rosemary, and wild onions mixed with the sweetness of parsnips, turnips, and something gamey—not venison, something wilder. “Imogen, this is wonderful. Did you cook it yourself?”

She nodded proudly.

After we had eaten our fill, she signaled it was time to begin my therapy for the day. We had progressed beyond holding simple objects to performing complex patterns. She showed me a set of movements, first placing the fingers of her left hand horizontally across her shinbone then touching certain points on the fingers of her right hand.

I copied her, pleased at both my dexterity and ability to recall the pattern she presented. After suffering so many blows at Malegant’s hand, I had feared I would have lasting damage to my mind, but as each day passed, the likelihood of my fear coming true lessened.

Imogen clapped excitedly then touched the pads of two fingertips to the side of her nose, repeating the pattern she’d performed on her leg.

As I mimicked her movements, something tugged at the back of my mind. This exercise was familiar somehow, though its meaning was lost in the fog of my memory. Was it a game my mother had played with me? Or some kind of code Elaine and I had invented on one of our childhood adventures? No, it was neither of those. As we repeated the pattern over and over, the fog slowly lifted. Avalon. That was where I knew these movements from. She was a priestess, and so was I.

I repeated the pattern once more, very slowly, realization beginning to dawn. I could translate the gestures into words.

I can speak to you, but Malegant must not know.

Imogen was speaking to me through cossogam, sronogam, and basogam—the three types of signing Ogham. They were named for the body parts used to speak: the leg, nose, and palm. Written Ogham was taught early in our training, but only the priestesses who remained for advanced studies learned manual Ogham in preparation for the silence and isolation of the final days before consecration.

“How, how—” Now that we could communicate, I suddenly found myself speechless.

My son does not know I remember Ogham. He never pursued advanced studies, so he cannot sign, though he can write it.

I held up a hand to stop her frantic signing. “Wait. I must have misunderstood you. Did you say ‘son’?”

She nodded. Your captor is my son. For that I am deeply ashamed. Please forgive me.

My legs turned to jelly, and I sank to the floor, unable to process what I had just learned. Not only could Imogen speak to me in her own way, but she was Malegant’s mother. “But you helped me. . .”

Imogen sat in front of me, using nose Ogham so I would be sure to see her. I wish you no harm. I myself am a prisoner here. If I could help you escape, I would. I do not condone the things my son does.

“I need time to think about this.”

I understand, she signed. Just remember that in front of him, I am mute. If he finds out the truth, he will kill us both.

“Or at least cut off our hands,” I said, half in dark jest.

We were silent for a long while. I stared into the fire, trying to rearrange what I now knew of my world—the nature of the land where I was being held, Imogen’s relationship with Malegant, and my ability to talk to her—with what little information I had gleaned during the months I was bedridden. Putting it all together was like trying to solve a riddle without all the clues. I needed to know more.

I turned to Imogen. “Where is Fiona? Why have I not seen her?”

She shook her head, eyes brimming with tears. She is dead.

I gasped. My eyes pricked. “Was it. . .was it. . .?” I could not bring myself to ask if my captor was to blame.

Imogen nodded.

Fiona had been such a sweet, innocent girl. She was so docile, there was no way she could have provoked him into deadly rage as I easily could. “What happened?

Imogen hesitated. She knew too many of his secrets, as did I. He killed her and cut out my tongue.

I clasped my hands over my mouth, horrified. “But you are his mother!”

She gestured for me to keep my voice down. And he is a demon.

Not long after my fingers healed, Malegant insisted I begin living with him on the main floor. “After all, you are not my prisoner. You are my wife.”

And so my life developed into a new routine, one of serving, kneeling, and obeying Malegant’s every whim. That very morning, I took on the duties of both wife and slave, although considering Malegant had made me his wife by kidnapping, I was willing to bet the two were one and the same in his mind. There were few others in the castle, so I assisted Imogen in preparing each meal. The thought crossed my mind that a quick end could be made to all of this with a simple “slip” of the wrong combination of herbs, but Imogen warned me against it.

I have thought of that as well, but so has he, she signed while carefully slicing carrots for the stew. He will make you eat your portion first. Only once he sees you suffer no ill effects will he deign to eat.

I shivered. So this man who held me captive was not only cruel and mad, he was clever, which made escaping his grasp that much more difficult. Maybe that was why Fiona had submitted. But I could not. I would not. The blood of queens sang in my veins. I could not let them down.

About two weeks later, in a lull between snowstorms, our little hideaway received its first visitors. From my vantage point in the kitchens, I could just make out two men, burly and wooly as bears, speaking with Malegant. Their unkempt appearance and guttural tongue were all I needed to place them as Picts. What they were doing so far south, however, was a mystery.

“My wife is very hospitable,” he said. But then he caught sight of me, excused himself, and stalked in my direction. Without losing eye contact, he grabbed me by the throat, his fingers digging into my airway. “If you so much as make eye contact with my guests”—his breath was hot in my ear—“I will make certain you cannot walk, much less use those beautiful hands of yours. Do you understand me?”

I tried to speak, but all that came out was a strangled gurgle. I settled for nodding, but all that did was make the pain in my throat worse and rob me of what little breath I had left.

“When you serve us tonight, you will cover your face and answer to the name Fiona. While we eat, you will kneel in the corner until we have need of you.”

Stars were beginning to dance before my eyes. I nodded again. Finally he let me go, and I bent over, coughing and my eyes streaming. When I looked up, he was gone.

Beneath the gauzy black veil, my face was covered in sweat. Every step I took was measured, every movement carefully carried out. I willed myself not to trip, my hands not to shake, as I placed the platter of lamb on the table and returned with a bowl of sauce.

Around the long table, Malegant and his guests paid me as little mind as they would a specter. All, that is, except for a woman I had not seen earlier. Her flaxen hair was loose, flowing down to her trim waist. She was dressed as though for battle, a long, menacing sword hanging at her side. Something was familiar about her, but I could not place what it was.

One of the men held up his cup, and I hurried to refill it.

“Why does your wife not show us her pretty face?” one of the men asked. “I do so enjoy a beautiful woman.” He punctuated his statement with a sharp pinch to my backside.

I had to fight my instinct to smash the pitcher of ale over his head.

“Maybe she’s not as pretty as he says,” the woman scoffed. “Some men have to settle for less than the best.”

Malegant pointed at her with a bone. “Like your husband?”

The men chuckled, and her cheeks reddened with rage.

“Watch your tongue, Lord Malegant.” She toyed with her dagger under the guise of slicing a chunk off the shank before her. “Or you shall lose it.”

Malegant sat back in his chair, a smug smile playing at his lips. “Aine, I’d love to see you try. Or do you not recall the outcome of our last tussle? I remember you pleading with me to spare your bloody carcass.”

Aine was distracted from their exchange as I took away her used trencher and replaced it with a fresh one. She grabbed my wrist and removed the sapphire ring Arthur had given me from my finger. “Pretty bauble,” she sang, looking right into my veiled eyes. “I think I’ll keep it.” She shoved me away.

“You never answered my question, my lord,” insisted the man who had assaulted my backside.

“Her brother recently passed through the veil, and she doesn’t wish others to witness her mourning,” Malegant said dismissively. “But you did not come here to discuss our woes.”

I retreated to the corner, adopting the submissive pose Imogen taught me—kneeling back on my heels, palms on the floor, head bent low to the ground. I wasn’t sure how I was supposed to know when they needed me to serve, but if this was what Malegant wanted, I would do it.

As the night went on and the visitors fell under the spell of Malegant’s thick, strong ale, they switched from the common tongue to the visitors’ native language. I was fairly certain Malegant was aware I would be able to understand some of what was said, their tongue being not so different from my mother’s native language, but he did not so much as cast a glance in my direction. While I couldn’t understand every word, I understood enough to follow the conversation.

“He’s left Camelot in the hands of his second and has declared Cadbury his capital until such time as she returns,” one of the Picts said.

Arthur. They were talking about Arthur. He was still looking for me.

“But surely he can’t have many men left,” Malegant protested. “How many of them would last for extended periods outdoors in the deep of winter?” There was irritation in his voice and perhaps the slightest hint of fear.

“Many of the knights have returned to Camelot, Cadbury, or been wounded,” one of the Picts conceded. “But there are a few who continue to search.”

“Let them come,” Malegant said with sudden vigor.

“What makes you think they will come after you?” Aine asked.

“Arthur hates me already. I did kill one of his lords, a member of the Combrogi. I would think I was first on his list of suspects.” Malegant sounded almost proud of his state of disgrace.

My stomach tightened. I had not known Uriens had died from his injuries. Tears welled in the backs of my eyes, and for once, I was grateful for the veil so no one would see me weep—ironically the very reason Malegant had given for its use.

The woman said something I did not understand. Everyone laughed.

The Picts pulled wineskins from their belts and passed them around. Everyone poured some of the cloudy brown liquid into their cups, and they toasted, but again I couldn’t understand what they were cheering about. Slugging down the drink, Aine sauntered around the table to Malegant. Her eyes glowed with a lustful fire.

“Dear sister, do not be so bold in front of our guests,” Malegant chided, this time in our native tongue, but his heart clearly wasn’t in the rebuke.

“I am no sister of yours. Your mother always underestimated her control over her husbands’ cocks.” She traced a finger down his chest then began painting Malegant’s face with the remnants of the jelly still on his plate from the final course.
He pushed her away playfully. “Oh, but you are, sweet sister.” He took her finger in his mouth and sucked off the jelly.

That was when I placed her. The woman sitting on Malegant’s lap was the girl who had been painting the reveler’s faces and bodies on Samhain. I froze, wondering if she knew full well who was sitting in the shadows beneath the veil. It couldn’t be a coincidence that she had been there when I was taken and was also here now.

The Picts grinned. “You aren’t the only ones who should have some fun tonight. What about them?” One indicated Imogen and me with a jerk of his thumb. “Are they for sale?”
Malegant looked us over as if assessing our value. “The one in the veil is my wife, so no, she is not for the taking. But this one”—he indicated Aine—“would likely take you both, or you can share her with the other woman, if you like.”

They studied Imogen carefully then each chose a companion. After one more slug of liquor, they each dragged a woman off toward the sleeping chambers.

Malegant was no less gentle with me. He tugged me to my feet and flung me over his shoulder. “Be grateful I think so kindly of you, wife, and know I will treat you far better than my guests. They have. . .” He paused in the middle of the hall, searching for the right word. “More brutal tastes.”

A fortnight passed, each day a forgery of the last. Imogen came stumbling into the bedroom, bruised and bloody, the morning our guests were due to depart.

She signed frantically. I have been through a lot in my life, but I cannot take being used as a whore any longer. Last night, those dogs abandoned Aine and both came at me at once.

It was my turn to tend her injuries. I swabbed her bleeding thighs and gave her herbs against pain and disease.

“What was the shape of the tattoo on their right arms?” I asked, hoping to ferret out which of the tribes raised such brutes.

Tattoo? she asked, apparently dazed from pain. Which one? They are so covered with them it would take close and careful study to tell one from another.

So they were Highlanders then. That was even worse than I’d suspected. Malegant had kept me away from the majority of their discussions, but I’d gleaned enough to know they were negotiating some sort of bargain.

Imogen looked at me. It is time. We must get out.

“But how?”

She grasped my hand and smiled. We will figure it out. Together.

The next night, Malegant fell into bed next to me, deeper in his cups than I had ever seen him. He stank of that strange Pictish brew. They must have left the remainder of it with Malegant’s sister. Whatever they had been bargaining for, her return had been payment.

“You must be happy to have your sister back,” I said, trying to be pleasant when all I wanted was for him to pass out.

“My sister,” he mumbled into the feather pillow, “is worthless. All of them are. First Leigh fails to kill Arthur, and now Aine can’t even secure a simple exchange of lands. At least she was good for delivering the notes.”

I sat up. That was a revelation. At least now I knew how he—or rather she—got in and out of Camelot to deliver me notes without being seen. I wanted so badly to ask him who Leigh was, but I was more afraid of sparking his temper by revealing too much interest in his motives.

Malegant turned his face toward me, head still glued to the pillow. “Aine claims I don’t trust you and I never will. I should prove her wrong by explaining myself to you, not that I owe you even a drop of information.” He narrowed his eyes at me. “But you have a strategic mind, so perhaps you will appreciate the brilliance of my plan. After all, it won’t be long before the whole of Britain marvels at its intricacy, bowing before the brilliance of its new king.”

I closed my eyes. So he was planning to overthrow Arthur. I’d suspected as much, but to have such a plan confirmed was another matter. But he had done more than prove me right; he given me another key to how his mind worked, another possible way too thwart him. His pride, which he so highly valued, could be turned against him.

“I would be honored to be the first to know.” I swallowed hard, willing myself to say words I knew would please him. “As your wife, it is my right, is it not?”

He propped himself on one elbow and regarded me closely. “You are finally coming to understand. Good. Yes, it is time you know all.”

“Who is Leigh?” I asked, bringing him back to his previous line of thought.

“One of my many half brothers. I used him to try to have Arthur killed, but then your spy or maid or whatever she really is interfered, so I had to change tack. Luckily, I have no shortage of half siblings who owe me their lives and therefore must do my bidding. I told you long ago how I was fostered for my own protection. When I returned, my mother had taken power, and I found I had a brood of younger brothers and sisters sired by the chieftains of the other six ancient tribes. But she was law-bound to none of them, so each made his own claim against me.”

“What did you do?” I asked with mock concern, stroking his hair.

He shrugged. “What any man would do given the situation. If I was to take my rightful place as head of my tribe, I would have to kill each one of them. The eldest I killed with my bare hands, the entire village cheering us on. By the end of the year, my arms were bloody up to the elbows, my skin furrowed with scars. I was so crazed with blood and revenge I threatened even the babes. I remember pressing a dagger to the chest of a screaming toddler, threatening to cut out his heart. I think I would have done it too, had they not relented. In the end, the families I did not overthrow with steel paid me their loyalty in exchange for the lives of their youngest. Aine and Leigh were among them.”

I lay in stunned silence, sifting through what he had just revealed. No wonder this man was so brutal—he’d always had to be. For him, brutality was a way, the way, to stay alive.

Malegant kissed my stomach, dragging his lower lip up to the cleft between my breasts. I thought he was going to begin his nightly work on me, but he laid his head on my breast instead.

“You and I have quite a history, you know,” he drawled, tracing a finger over the muscles in my abdomen. “I was your mother’s pupil. You were too young to remember, only able to wobble on fat baby legs. I remember three of your brothers and a sister. She was a lot like you, you know—same piercing green eyes and haughty attitude. She was already promised to another, but I vowed to myself that when you came of age, you would be mine.”

I tried not to recoil from the thought of this man desiring me from childhood. There were taboos against such a thing for a reason. “Is that why you tried to have Arthur killed? Because he wed me and you did not?”

Malegant laughed. “It is so much more complex than that, but yes. You see, the man in whose house you lived, Lord Pellinor, sought to control all of the Summer Country. As I had no interest in his simpering daughter, I convinced him that if he arranged your marriage to me, I would cede some of my power. He was a useful tool, the old, pious fool. And your father wasn’t much more formidable. All I had to do was remind him of my training with your mother, and he practically welcomed me like a son. Everything was arranged. I had already paid your right of purchase and price of virginity—what a farce that was.”

His voice trailed off as his lips met mine, tenderly for once, and he began to move against me slowly, as though stoking his own pleasure.

“Your father owes me, Guinevere.” He planted a line of kisses from one end of my collarbone to the other. “Were it not for that damned honor debt, you would have been my wife of the highest degree years ago. But then that fool Uriens told Arthur about you, and he swooped in and stole you from my grasp. But now the old man is dead. So”—he leered at me—“how do you think I should best extract payment from your father, from Arthur?” His hand closed around my throat.

“I can give you all the money owed you and then some, you know that.” My voice shook, though I tried to temper it.

“But that’s not really the issue, is it? No, your father did more than cheat me out of money. He cheated me out of my rightful wife. Then the king not only did the same—he sullied my name as well. This is revenge on many levels, Guinevere, a substantial righting of wrongs.” He forced me onto my stomach, grabbed me roughly by the hair at the nape of my neck, and entered me with his usual force.

I cried out in pain. He twisted one hand in my hair and continued to pull, his other hand digging sharply into my right buttock. If only I could have associated pain and pleasure the way he did, I would have been in ecstasy.

“A son,” he panted. “That will be the ultimate recompense. Then I will be the one with a legitimate heir.” He bit my earlobe. “Arthur is a dead man, and I will get what is owed to me.”

bering his diatribe from the night before. The impending snowstorm that had driven away the Picts arrived, so we spent the day in close quarters, holed up against the cold and wind. I was on edge all day, waiting for Malegant to make some comment or show some sign of regretting what he’d said, but he treated me as though nothing had happened. The only difference was that he took Aine to bed that night.

I tried hard not to think about that. I still didn’t know for sure that Aine was related to Malegant by blood, only that he thought she was and she vehemently denied it. Maybe she was right. But then again, this man broke every prohibition in our culture without a second thought. It made my skin scrawl to think he believed her to be his sister and yet saw nothing wrong with their relationship or, worse, carried on anyway. But I couldn’t bring myself to ask Imogen the truth— I really didn’t want to know.

Imogen interrupted my thoughts with a swift tap on my wrist.

Guinevere, I am afraid if we do not do something soon, he will tire of you. My son is like a cat with his prey. He toys with it until he grows bored. Then he goes in for the kill. I can already see the joy fading from his eyes.

“Then what do we do? We have to escape.”

For a while, we were both silent, caught up in our thoughts. I twisted what I had learned around in my mind, trying to find some weakness, some chink in the armor of Malegant’s plan we could use to our advantage. We were in a tower on an island surrounded by deadly cold water in a valley between mountains. The fortress was nearly impenetrable.

There was no way the two stout Picts would have crossed that string of a bridge that swayed in the wind outside the window, and neither could we. It was far too icy to try. There had to be another way in. And if there was, there was another way out.

“How did the Picts get into the castle?” I asked.

By boat, she signed after setting a mug of tea in front of me. But it is heavily guarded.

I brought the mug to my lips and breathed in the steam. It was earthy, heavy with the loam of the forest and berries forbidden to mortal lips. I breathed in again, trying to identify the scent. The distinctive smell of burning dried leaves—sage—was the first to assault my senses. Woody rosemary, marjoram, and thyme followed, chased by the sweeter aromas of mint and imported hyssop.

Imogen smiled. I learned this blend from Argante when she was a young priestess. It opens the centers of the sight and will give us knowledge we seek. Let us drink in honor of our gods. She held up her mug.

I let the warm liquid flow past my lips. On the whole, it had a pleasant taste, reminiscent of a salad of early spring greens, but once swallowed, it bit back with sharp spiciness that made me want to gag.

I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, allowing the liquid to flow through my veins. As it took effect, I relaxed for the first time in months. A second mouthful brought with it the sight—a vision of the tower burning while we rowed away to the safety of the far shore.

I opened my eyes.

What do the gods say?

“We set the tower on fire and escape in the boat. But how can that be? You said it was heavily guarded.”

It is, but not at night. We don’t have enough guards to keep watch at all hours.

I swallowed the dregs of my tea, tossing around the basic elements of our plan—fire, the boat. What else? How did it turn into action?

Fire, travel by water. . . I found myself invoking the goddesses associated with our quest—Ellen, the guardian of the ways; Nehalenni, patroness of travelers; and Brigid, the goddess of fire and forge.

That was when it hit me. Brigid. She was the key.

I grabbed Imogen’s arm. “The feast of Brigid nears. On that night, the moon is full and will be eclipsed by the sun. That will afford us both distraction, as all cower inside against evil omens, and protection in the darkness. Once we have cleared the lake, we can invoke Brigid and burn this place to the ground.”

She smiled. Then we must make ready.