Klaus raised an eyebrow and plucked the scrap of fabric back. “Bill says it’s your pa’s and you say it’s Bill’s. Very convenient that you’re blaming each other. And no one has yet cleared up the mystery of where Ezaara has been since your fight at the marketplace.”
Holding the cloth high, Klaus turned to the crowd. “Whom shall I believe?”
The villagers yelled, waving torches.
Frantically, Tomaaz scanned their faces. “I know!” Tomaaz tugged Klaus sleeve. “Sir, I know how you can determine this!”
“How?”
Tomaaz gestured to a woman at the back of the crowd. “She saw Ezaara shoving the cloth back at Bill. She may recognize it.”
Klaus motioned the woman forward.
“Tomaaz says you’ve seen this cloth before,” Klaus stated.
She frowned, shaking her head.
“Earlier today, in the marketplace,” Tomaaz interjected. “You bought a length of cloth from Bill, green with a wheat pattern.”
“So I did.” She nodded. “What of it?”
“Before you purchased your fabric, Ezaara was at the stand. Did you see her pass something back to Bill?”
“Oh, that!” Comprehension flashed over her face. “Yes, I did. She had her head down, fascinated with something she was holding. When she noticed I was near, she thrust a piece of material into Bill’s hands, telling him, ‘No, thank you.’ I did wonder what had captivated her.”
“So, do you recognize this fabric?” Klaus asked.
“It was black with gold and red, that’s what I saw.” The woman held out her hand. “Let me have another look.”
Klaus passed her the cloth.
“Yes, it’s definitely possible that this is the same piece I saw today.”
“Possible,” yelled Bill. “She’s not sure. That’s not proof! Not like we have against Hans.”
Klaus narrowed his eyes. “What proof do you have?”
“Lovina,” Bill called, charging through the crowd and dragging Lovina forward. Tomaaz winced. Bill’s grip had to hurt. Sure enough, when Bill removed his fingers, the imprint stayed on her upper arm—her thin pitiful arm, covered in goosebumps. She was wearing her ragged shift—no protection against the chill of the night. “Lovina saw Hans’ daughter leaving on that dragon,” Bill said. “Tell them, Lovina.”
She hadn’t, had she? Tomaaz’s pulse hammered at his throat. He met his father’s eyes, bright over the gag.
Eyes downcast, Lovina murmured something incomprehensible.
“Go on, girl,” Bill demanded. “Speak!”
Lovina opened her mouth, then shrugged and stayed silent.
“Girl, answer,” Bill growled.
There was a threatening edge to Bill’s voice that Tomaaz didn’t like. Before he could think, Tomaaz blurted, “Tell the truth, Lovina.”
From behind Lovina’s matted hair, a glimmer of hope shone, then her face was blank again and she slumped.
Had he imagined that glimpse?
“Talk!” Bill grabbed the back of Lovina’s dress. She pulled away and stumbled, the worn fabric ripping, leaving Bill clutching shreds.
Hands outstretched, Lovina fell. Tomaaz jumped forward, catching her. He gaped at her exposed back. A crisscrossed mess of wounds marred her skin where she’d been whipped. Fresh, red lacerations in raw flesh. Lash marks festering with crusty, flaking scabs. Pale-pink scars were layered over faded white ones.
Tomaaz stared in horror.
Shoving Bill aside, Klaus pulled Lovina away from Tomaaz, draping a protective arm around her. “We must find a healer,” he croaked. “Lovina, who did this? Did Bill whip you?”
Lovina nodded, eyes flat.
“Did anyone else whip you?” Klaus asked.
She shook her head, greasy hair flopping around her face.
“Bill is sentenced to ninety days’ imprisonment for whipping his daughter,” Klaus’s voice boomed. “Seize him!”
Bill lunged, snatching a torch. He threw it onto the pyre. “Dragon lover!” he screeched, racing off into the dark fields. Men sped after him.
For an instant, Tomaaz stood, rooted, as the pyre flared to life around his father’s feet.
Flames licked Pa’s boots. Pa tugged and jerked, but he was bound fast.
Tomaaz ran, stomping through the fire. He whipped out his knife and slashed at the ropes, but they wouldn’t give. Angling his knife against the rope, he sawed. Sparks flew onto his breeches. Heat scorched through his boots. His legs were getting hot. Smoke smarted his eyes. He kept sawing. Just a few more fibers.
“Keep cutting,” yelled Ernst, there beside him with Lofty, stamping at the base of the pyre.
“Help Tomaaz!” bellowed Klaus, throwing his jerkin on the fire to douse it. But the jerkin flared to life, flames devouring it.
Villagers jumped on the pyre, stomping on the flames.
Pa yanked and the ropes around his hands gave. He tugged his gag free, screaming as fire licked up his legs. Tomaaz stomped too, trying to see where Pa’s legs were tied. Smoke stung, blurring his vision. In desperation, he slashed through the flames at the base of the stake.
Pa pulled hard. The ropes around his ankles gave way. He leaped off the pyre, stumbling onto the grass. Ernst chased after him, rolling him to douse the fire.
Then Lofty was there, pulling Tomaaz to the ground, rolling him, smothering the flames on his breeches. Until he felt the grass on his skin, he hadn’t even noticed that the fabric had burned through. His legs were in agony.
But if his were sore, Pa’s must be horrendous.
§
Hans groaned. Shards, his legs hurt. And his hands were throbbing, too. He lay on his side, his cheek in the damp grass, grateful for the cool relief. He’d been in worse scrapes and survived, although it had been a while.
Thank the Egg, Tomaaz had acted so quickly. He could still feel the vibrations of Tomaaz’s sawing shuddering down the stake against his back. The wicked heat on his legs.
Hans gritted his teeth to stop himself from yelling as Ernst undid his boots and eased them off, but a groan still escaped him. The night air wafted over his searing feet.
“These won’t be much use anymore.” Ernst clucked his tongue, dropping the boots. “Thank the Gods,
