The thief cried out in pain, then, “I swear it, I can help you! Do not kill me! I can help you!”

Scarseth raised his hands up, palms open, trembling like a shiver in winter, his eyes wild and fearful, blood dripping from his lip. “Almaguer is coming back now. A dozen men. You will not get free if you waste time on me. Please, for the love of Idumea, you are Demont’s sworn man. I know you are. Not even he murdered. Please, for the love of Idumea, spare me!”

Lia reached them both, staring into the thief’s blazing eyes. He looked up at her, recognized her, then closed his eyes shut as if he knew he was going to die.

“This belongs to my family,” Colvin said with revulsion and fury mingling in his expression. His eyes blazed with hatred. He drew the maston sword from Scarseth’s scabbard, the blade that Lia had admired. She stood there, helpless again, seeing the flesh at the thief’s throat constrict as he swallowed

The tip of the blade aimed at that point. Lia blinked quickly, quivering, believing she would see a man die in front of her. Colvin’s eyes burned with passion. Part of her hungered to see it happen. Part of her knew she would never forget it if she watched.

“You betrayed me to die,” Colvin said huskily. “But in this thing only, you do not lie. I am Demont’s man. And I cannot end a man’s life who lacks the spleen to fight me.”

“I saved your life,” Scarseth whispered hoarsely, his eyes opening again. “I could have left you to bleed to death by that tree. I carried you to Muirwood in a rainstorm. I carried you. She will tell you. I did save your life.”

He coughed with contempt. “Your greed saved me, not you. Your cowardice saves you now.” He paused, raising the sword, staring down at the shivering man. Their eyes locked. Then kneeling down, Colvin clutched Scarseth’s throat with his free hand, sword poised above, ready to fall. “You are a liar. You will always be a liar. But you will betray her again.”

“I swear I will not!” he squeaked, his voice choking.

“By the Medium, I take your power of speech. You will not utter another word.”

Lia felt it, as if a gust of wind suddenly swept up the stairwell. She had sensed it that night long ago when a great storm had raged and the Aldermaston calmed it. The Medium was there.

Colvin released Scarseth’s throat, and the thief’s own fingers replaced them. His eyes bulged. His lips moved but no sound came out. Tears ran down his cheeks. Grabbing the man’s belt, Colvin hoisted him up off the floor, then severed the belt in the middle, spilling him back to the floor. He grabbed the scabbard, tugged it free, then motioned for Lia to follow him.

They escaped out the rear of the Pilgrim Inn on a horse held by a grinning boy named Brant.

They did not make it far. The sheriff and his men rounded the corner.

“The girl!” Almaguer shouted.

Colvin stamped the flanks. “Hold onto me. Tightly! Squeeze as hard as you can. No, even harder! Lock your fingers together or you will bounce off! Quickly now – before we start to gallop!”

At first Lia thought the horse was already galloping, but when it started, the entire feel of the animal changed. The sensation in her stomach went from nausea and fearfulness to glee. Her wild hair whipped behind her, the cowl of her cloak bouncing against her back.

Behind them, against the rush of the wind in her ears, she could hear the sheriff’s men shouting. But running men, thronged by villagers, could not catch the surging rush of a galloping stallion. The motion jarred Lia and she feared she might tumble off the back of it.

“I am slipping!” she shouted.

One of Colvin’s arms tightened against hers, pressing her arm painfully, but it steadied her.

“Use your legs. Squeeze them against the flanks. Press against me tightly!”

A voice in the crowd shouted out her name. She turned to look, but the movement nearly made her lose her balance the other way.

“Stop twisting like that!” Colvin threatened. “Press against me!” He kicked the stallion again and it felt as if they had left the rutted street completely – that they were now flying.

Lia wondered who had called her name. She pressed her cheek against the sweat-damp fabric of his shirt and held on until her muscles ached. So many times in her life she had mixed dough, churned butter, used her arms and fingers as her tools. They did not fail her. Her grip was hard, and she managed to cling to him despite the bouncing, the speed, and the rush of wind. They rode down Chalkwell Street, along the Abbey’s eastern walls. The tall spire of Muirwood rose sharply into the sky, but it was getting smaller with each hoof-beat.