Back at the window he glared at the street where groups of men went by, in threes and fours. One corner of the citadel gate was barely visible, and he could see men passing through. Passersby in the street showed up clearly in the light thrown by Ninfadel. The moon was directly above, making no shadows.
It was senseless. He had come to meet his father, so why was he captive? He had come of his own will, so why was he a prisoner? He was willing to meet, to talk, to learn, even, and he was shut away alone. The thing was crazy. Phaed could not doubt who he was!
And where was Maire? Up the hill, at the farm? Safe before the fire, with the Gharm providing food, as they had done yesterday and the day before? Why hadn’t she been brought here with him? Did she realize that he had no choice but to leave her? Did she realize he had been forced away? She could not believe he had simply gone, leaving her to whatever fate Phaed planned. He had not intended to leave her, and he prayed that she knew that. Though why would she know it?
Because, he told himself, she knows I love her and would not leave her.
How would she know that?
Bleakly, he considered whether Maire had evidence of his affection. Had he ever told her he loved her in a way that made her know he meant it? Had he shown her in any way? He remembered throwing words, like a bone to a hungry dog. “Oh, yes, Mam, I love you, too.” Bones of love, without much meat; dutiful attention to occasion, but no spontaneous expressions. A bouquet on her natal day. A bottle of wine at First Harvest. And what else?
Nothing else.
He held the bars in his hands and strained at them, finding the pain less uncomfortable than the question. Had he ever convinced Maire that he loved her?
Did he, in fact, love her?
Perhaps he had never really thought she had earned his love. He had not forgiven her for taking him away from Voorstod. She could have left him here. She shouldn’t have given him the choice. It would have been easier for her if she had left him here. He had blamed her sometimes that she had not left him with his dad, or stayed with his dad herself. He had blamed her, thinking she had cared more about Maechy than she did about Sam.
He turned from the window, running his hands along the walls, the stone walls. Out in the street there were men walking, walking among the whipping posts. Whipping posts and hooks upon the walls of the citadels, blood and pain and death. Voorstodss.
Maire had never told him about the prophets, or the hooks on the walls. Would his own life end there? Did they kill their victims first? Or did they hang them on those huge sharp hooks still living? Did the metal hooks pass through living flesh, flesh that bled and writhed?
Sam found himself weeping without knowing why. He had never feared death, but now, suddenly, he trembled with fear, slumped to the floor, wept passionately, exhaustingly, until he could weep no more. He lay where he had fallen, empty, worn out from apprehension, at last falling into a doze.
A noise in the street brought him awake. The moon was now making long shadows, and the men below were half-hidden, half-disclosed by the mantic light. Mugal Pye, two other men. Their voices came clearly, a sibilant hiss meant not to be heard, but heard nonetheless through some fluke of acoustics in the narrow street. It was a white-haired man, snarling at Mugal Pye.
“What are you doing here, Pye?”
“Came here because Phaed’s son’s here, Preu Flandry!”
“What do you need with the son, you’ve got the mother.”
“Hell, no, we didn’t get her,” Mugal snarled.
Flandry’s voice, “How could you not? She’s an old woman! You had men, you had sniffers with you.”
Mugal Pye’s voice in belligerent answer: “Because she got down to the west shore, that’s why. The woman must run like a rabbit. There were some fishing boats there. Looks like she knocked holes in all of them but one, and took that one.”
“Got to the blockade, did she?” Preu asked, wonderingly.
“Who knows. Got there or drowned! Though it could have been a false trail. We’ve got one more place to look.” This was a third voice, from a man standing clearly in the moonlight.
“The Awateh wants her, Epheron Floom,” hissed Preu. “It’s why I came! Giving her to Awateh will get us off the hook.”
“What the Awateh wants is an example made,” agreed Mugal Pye. “So if we can’t find her, what?”
“If we don’t find Maire, it’ll have to be Phaed’s boy, then,” said Flandry. “He’s here, and there’s three of us with you, Epheron. We could get him now.”
“Not so fast, not so fast,” hissed Pye. “Phaed’s got men up there with him. We’ll wait until he leaves, until his son is alone, tomorrow …” Pye’s voice trailed away as he went down the street, tugging on Flandry’s arm.
There was no light in the room Sam was in. The men could not have known they were overheard. Sam’s world gradually came into focus again. Pye and Epheron had been after Maire, but she was safe. Undoubtedly the Gharm had spirited her away. And Jep was safe, and Saturday. The army of Ahabar was on the borders of this place, and time and the Godstuff would work their spell. The forces of righteousness had conspired to help him, though he had not deserved it. He wept again, this time thankfully. He would tell Phaed
