The quiet was uneasy. Thunderheads loomed distant and black over the fields, rumbling ominously in an augery of rain. Other than the thunder the day was nearly silent outside the border of Winchcombe; which was unusual for this time of year. But the warning bells had sounded the night before, and all the town was braced for an attack. There was no telling if or when the bloodthirsty Zerui would launch their raid, but these days a single shadow moving in the night was enough to set the town on edge.

Just at the outskirts of Winchcombe, a thatched cottage nestled beside a crude log corral. Ordinarily children and dogs would be tumbling in the dirt while the older members of the family completed their chores, but today the only sign of life was a horse or two prancing anxiously in the corral. Doors and windows were bolted shut for the first time in months and it was making the interior of the tiny home impossibly warm.

The family spread out over the packed earth floor of the main room-or, spread out as much as possible with nine people and a very cramped florrplan. Golden hair glinted faintly in the dim light, with the exception of two people huddled together in the farthest corner from the window. The two were clearly father and daughter (as they shared the same mass of dark curls and wide-set eyes), and the girl knelt at his chair with her head resting on his knees. John stroked a hand through Renna's curls and chanced a glance around at the rest of his family. All his other children had golden hair and blue eyes like their mother, who was sitting in the opposite corner and playing pattycakes with tiny Jane. The twins sat with Anne and took turns forming a string into intriguing patterns in their hands. Brash Thomas was pacing to and fro and muttering about what he'd do if he had a sword, and serene Marinna was simply mending a tear in her apron. Everyone was frightened. John knew that much, but it was Renna who worried him most. "...Are you frettin' about the horse, sweet?"

She shook her head. "No. My loom."

The loom was located in a shed just beside the house, since it was far too large to squeeze into the cottage. It was just as well. Renna had a habit of singing as she worked, and if she thought someone was looking over her shoulder she had a tendency to stumble. John sighed and stroked her hair again, not knowing what to say. "God will guard us."


"Or the guards," Thomas quipped. This earned him a chuckle from nearly everyone else, but inwardly Renna winced. She couldn't really be angry with her brother about his joke since he didn't know, but the last thing she needed right now was to be reminded of Aiden. Redheaded Aiden with the sea-blue eyes...he'd be watching the town today. She shifted on the floor and wondered if he'd get hurt. No, surely not. He was a wonderful guard...maybe he'd resue her from a fierce Baskar warrior and she'd have an exuse to make him a present. His new wife couldn't get upset about that, could she? It would be completely innocent. Renna's fingers started to move of their own will, weaving in the air as she imagined what beautiful things she could create for him. Just as her hands flashed into full speed the sound of the bells rang out urgent and loud, and they fell like stones into her lap.

"Oh, God. It's started." Marta cuddled her youngest to her breast and gave her husband a frightened glance. John, for his part, tried to soothe as best as he could. "Naew, don't panic. We're on the furthest end from their grazin' grounds; they won't make it 'round the city without bein' caught. And if they do, the horse is out. They'll take it an' go. We've got nothin' else. Just pray, children, and pray hard."

The day was gray and black. Eguzki hid his face behind a thick cover of clouds, and many of the interlopers, not used to dealing with Eguzki's fearsome breath and tears, were inside their boxy dwellings. Izotz followed his father as they pounded toward the little town. They had crossed the border an hour ago, but it was only a border in fact, not in practice, and his father said that their tribe could seize its own domain. Their tribe could challenge Zeru himself, who was, after all... of diluted blood.

Izotz leaned forward against his horse's neck, urging the beast on to greater and greater speeds. When they reached the town it was eerily empty--until an arrow whistled through the air, and Arnas's horse buckled beneath him. Izotz's fellow warrior pitched himself forward, off the struggling, squealing mare, his shield up; Izotz raised his as well, scanning the blackened horizon. There! Pale-faced guards, archers stationed on a few of the town's rooftops. He wrenched at his horse's reins, tugging the animal aside, and flattened himself to the gelding's back. An arrow missed him narrowly, and another stuck in his shield. The point was very strong. He wrenched it out and took his own bow, then nocked it. Squinting against the rising wind, he drew back the recurved bow and fired the hard metal arrow back toward its source, the black outline of a helmeted interloper silhouetted against a rooftop, looking away from him.

The arrow struck, and he was rewarded with a long gurgling sound. He had also alerted them to his position in the leeward shadow of their abominable houses (the doors did not even point eastward). He threw himself off his horse. The time for the greater strength of the beast was over, and now he would have to have stealth and agility.

His father's men had the same idea, and they too rushed forward, letting their horses gallop away, out of the range of the interlopers' crippling arrows.

Izotz tangled with a few guards and dispatched them easily. They were untrained and young, and he had already been in several raids. Then he came up against another. A bigger, older man, this one had a ropy scar running from his forehead to his chin, and an empty socket where one eye had been. Izotz hesitated a moment when this pale specter loomed out of the darkness. Rain had begun to fall, and he wiped his eyes with his forearm to see; and the man struck.

He fought dirty. Not slow with the big swords, as interlopers often did. No, he came in with a knife, and he caught Izotz on the arm, slicing until the tip of his blade grated on the bone of Izotz's elbow. For the moment he felt no pain, only battle-rage, and he raised his axe to block the next descending blow even as he kicked out at the man, making him stumble.

The redoubled attack pressed him back against the wall to a house. No--he was slammed backwards by an answering kick, and then pinned by his own axe, the man's single eye set in a slit. He cast his eyes to the right. There was a door.

And he shoved his attacked with all his might and spun him, so that he in turn landed on the door, which was made of light stuff. It collapsed inward, Izotz on top of the interloper. In the confusion, the man had dropped his knife. Izotz did not hesitate.

He wrenched his axe back. He raised it. And he let it descend.

He thought he heard a muffled, womanly shriek, and he looked up to see himself in a little house full of family. Just in front of him was a girl, a very pale one with grass-colored eyes stretched wide in amazement.

Izotz smiled a slow, bloody grin.

"I hurt no one," he said in Scalian. "I take the girl and the horse." They had one, in the tiny fenced excuse for a grazing-field these heathens kept. "I go now." He tugged her toward him.

In truth, he was not in the position to bargain... if they had all mobbed him, he might have been vanquished. But that tone of superiority, the demands, and the fact that he was covered in another man's blood: these things had power.

Renna's quiet moment with her father was utterly destroyed when the sounds of battle drew nearer, and she pressed herself into his knee in fright. His arm circled around her shoulder, but out of nowhere their door shuddered and splintered inward. One of the guards tumbled inside with a savage on top of him, and there was a collective gasp as the guard's knife spun out of his hand. Quickthinking Thomas darted forward in an attempt to retrieve it, but it was too late. He'd barely taken two steps when the heathen plunged his axe into their comrade's back. Marta shrieked as Jane started to wail; everyone else froze where they were.

The weaver watched in utter horror. She wanted to look away from the terrible scene but found herself inexplicably drawn to it. Renna flinched when the axe fell and stared up at the murderer, only to have his hand snap around her wrist. The young woman tried to pull back from him, the one who'd struck like a serpent. This man seemed to be made entirely of muscle! Not to mention he smelled overwhelmingly of sweat and blood and leather. It was making her stomach churn-or maybe that was just him pulling her to his side. Renna whimpered and tried to break away once more, tugging as fiercely as she knew how. "Papa!"

John was on his feet in an instant. That was his daughter this savage was taking, and his dearest to boot. But then the warrior spoke, and there was a moment of complete amazement. Renna blanched, Marta wept, and John surged to his feet with poker in hand. "No." The farmer couldn't wrap his tongue around any other words, anger making him mute. His daughter clawed at her captor, scrabbling frantically to break free. Even with a wound digging into his arm, she was no match for him. But Papa and Thomas, the two of them could-

As she twisted she chanced a glance over Izotz's shoulder, and abruptly went limp. He wasn't the only one surrounding their little cottage. Another band was fast approaching, and all of them were strong, war-hardened men. The girl felt her knees buckle beneath her. She sank and shook her head, giving her father a glance of pure terror. "No, Papa. No-you can't-"
Her voice broke. "There are more. You can't hurt him."

John's face twisted in agony, but he sent the poker aside and held out his hands. "Trade? Trade for my daughter." What did he have? He cast his glance around their home, his heart sinking. China. Candlesticks. Renna was in grave danger, and he had nothing to offer. In a panic he turned and pulled at the quilt covering the bed in the corner. "Blankets?"

Renna listened dully to the exchange, her gaze focused on the place on her arm where the warrior's bloody handprint had emblazoned itself on her skin. Aiden would come any moment now, and she wouldn't have to go with him. She knew, vaguely, what would happen if she went. The thought made her shudder with dread, but she made no other attempt to free herself. If he was angry he'd kill the rest of them, and take her anyway. He'd murder them like he had the poor guard lying prone in the doorway.

Izotz only shook his head, and picked the girl up, slinging her over one shoulder. He had carried heavier things, and even if she struggled he could squeeze her tightly and still wield his axe with his free hand.

"No. Nothing." His father had taken many concubines from among the Ekaini. Some were dead now. No one asked what had happened to them. They weren't really people, anyway. But perhaps his father would respect him more if he had the gall to take a concubine of his own, particularly as he was still unmarried.

He glanced in contempt at the black metal stick the man (the father of his captive) brandished at him, and walked out of the little house, stepping over the fallen man's back. In the corral, the horse ran up and down, letting out screaming whinnies. He pushed open the little gate, which shrieked open, swinging on damp metal hinges. The horse smelled the blood on him, but Izotz moved calmly to its side, putting up a hand. Horses were like people. If you were firm and matter-of-fact, they would follow you.

Sure enough, the animal put its head down and moved toward him, and he soothed it, his axe in his belt now. Then he slung his captive over the horse's withers, letting her slide into a seated position astride the animal (no need to carry her like a sack of barley, after all) and boosted himself up behind her. The horse did not respond well to his new burdens, but there was nothing he could do bout that but grasp a double-handful of the beast's mane and dig his heels in hard, clinging like a limpet to a rock. Izotz had a good seat, and for that he was grateful.

He clucked his tongue, urging the horse on, and held the girl in place before him. She might struggle, but he could manage her easily. He guided the horse with his legs, heading back toward the now-retreating members of his father's tribe. The town had little they wanted, and they had already taken many horses.

She wanted to struggle. Truly, she did. The moment she'd come of age Renna's father had told her that if this ever happened, it would be better to fight. She'd been taught that death was better than letting this happen. But it was so easy to tell someone to fight, and much harder to actually do that when one's limbs were leaden with fright. She couldn't move.

Her family's horse jolted forward and she snapped with it, held in place only by the man's arm around her waist. Renna swiftly bent forward and twisted her own hands into the creature's mane, tightening her legs around its belly. What was she supposed to do? Jump off in mid-gallop? The girl strained once, experimentally. There was no way she was going to break this grip. A whimper caught in her chest, and she tightened her hold in the mane, clinging until her knuckles shone white.

Renna's vision blurred behind tears. She could feel him, braced behind her, already touching her in ways no man ought. The young woman bit down on her lip, aware that she was quivering violently in his grasp and trying to make herself stop. He spoke Scalian. Maybe he could be persuaded to mercy of some kind. He wasn't giving her up quickly, that much was certain, but maybe...maybe she could....could what?

She didn't know what she was thinking. But the girl sucked back her tears, at least for the moment, and whispered behind her. "Please, sir. Let me go."

Izotz ignored the whimpers of his captive, as he knew he ought, and joined up with his father and the rest of the men.

It had been a relatively successful raid. Izotz could make out several men carrying hard-metal knives and even a few shields, and he himself had his woman. At home he had the hard-metal-tipped arrows he had taken previously, and a set of knives, too, one almost long enough to be a sword. It was thinner than his own bronze sword, but the metal was so tough....

Hibai led them back toward the camp, their horses cantering beside them as they rode on new, captured animals. The captured animals would not follow docilely, but the trained Zerui horses knew to stay close to their masters. Eguzki was going to sleep, his face red with the blood of His people's battle. Darkness spread itself across the sky as they pounded through the fields, and he kept his arms pressed against the captive girl. She had struggled a little, but it was hopeless; Izotz was very strong, one of the strongest in their tribe, even amongst all of the Zerui when they gathered in summer.

Hibai said almost nothing, as usual, but raised a hand to call his men to a halt.

"We have been victorious!"

Izotz rode forward, so that his father could see his captive--the first he had ever taken--and the blood on his face and body. Beside him, his friend, Argi, shot him a look that he could not read. Jealousy, or contempt? He would thrash him later for it.

"We have brought back much hard-metal--but that is not enough. We cannot continue to pick away at the interloper's scraggly borders. Soon all of the Zerui will see that Zeru should not be Warlord, and they will follow one who understands the true Blood Sacrifice, which must happen as often as possible--every day!--so that Eguzki may quench his thirst with the blood of our enemies!"

His wide-eyed, white-rimmed gaze roved over his warriors and came to rest on his son. Izotz sat up a little straighter.

But Hibai said nothing.

"Go, now. If you are wounded, see the Healers. If you have taken concubines, enjoy. If you have taken weapons, keep one blade and put the rest in my tent."

He slid off his horse. Hibai had a fresh cut all along one arm, but it seemed not to hinder him. It seemed he did not even notice; and he had two hard-metal swords and a hard-metal arrow that was very bloody indeed, probably ripped from someone's flesh.

Izotz closed his eyes for a moment, but let himself show no emotion. He slid off the horse and left it to wander with the others; it would not stray once with the herd, and he'd recognize it as his. The Zerui knew their horses as others knew their own kin. He tugged his captive down after him, and looked her in the eye.

Best to get this over with. "You are now mine," he said, one hand darting out to encircle her upper arm. "I am Izotz sem'Hibai, the son of the Chief. Is not bad to be mine." It was dark, the sky very black and set with stars. The moon, Eguzki's Ghost, hovered in the sky. He had to peer quite closely to see that her eyes were of a strange color, like light grass. There were no eyes on him, though his friends would joke with him tomorrow about his night.

When Izotz gave Renna no answer, she simply let her tears fall and streak back into her hair. The girl wept for most of journey, but as the day started to slip into night she finally subsided in utter exhaustion. Her sobs combined with the rocking of the horse, terror, and the odor of the man behind her had given her a raging headache that served very well in keeping her mute. Renna finally sighed and went limp in his arms, letting her thoughts travel home. Maybe she'd wake up soon to her father's smile, and get out of bed to start breakfast just the way she'd always done.

As the band slowed on the outskirts of what looked to be their camp, Renna stared down at her hands folded in Jennet's mane. Why was he riding forward now, when everyone else was stopped? Did he want the shouting man to see her? And what was he shouting about anyway?

The obvious leader paid no attention to her, but no one else did the same. Dark eyes flashed in the fading light of stars and fire as this band stared, raking over her pale frame curiously. Renna shivered and tensed where she sat, not once lifting her head to meet their eyes. She'd never been looked at that way before; like she was some kind of freak. Like she was something better off somewhere else. Did they want to kill her? There were stories told about these savages and their customs of sacrifice. When she'd first heard them she'd found it impossible to believe that anyone could be so cruel, barbarian or not-but now, held up like some kind of trophy, it didn't seem so impossible. Even the women were watching her with no pity or compassion showing in their faces; as if she were some sort of stray animal the warrior had chosen to bring home. Maybe it would be murder, then, and not what she'd feared. No woman would let that happen to one of their own. She certainly wouldn't.

The girl gave a tiny gasp as her captor slid easily off the horse and pulled her down to him, away from the mass of people welcoming the warriors home. His eyes were black and expressionless. And then he spoke, delivering his news with all the confidence of a prince.

You are now mine.

There was a roaring in her ears as she looked at him, barely feeling the surprisingly long-fingered hand cinched around her arm. His name was Izotz, and he was a prince, and he thought she should be happy to be here, and his face was nearly on hers as he tried to look at her eyes.

"No."

The word wasn't shouted or wailed. It was the barest of whispers, hollow with shame and despair. Renna sank down as her legs buckled beneath her, falling to her knees. She let her arm stay in the air so he could hold her by the wrist, but bowed her head at his feet. "Let me pray, please."

The silence that followed didn't last very long, as Izotz's prisoner was plainly terrified of angering him. But she did not move from her knees, nor did she lift her head as she struggled to speak to him. "....My name is Renna Mochrie." There was a moment of hesitation, a silence thick with unshed tears before the prisoner pushed herself onwards. "I am.....honored...that the son of the chief would consider me his." Another pause. "And I will....be happy to...." What was she saying? She wasn't happy. He was telling her that she was going to be his whore, in God's name. She was the farthest thing she could get from being happy. "I will try to please you." There was nothing else to do. Renna begged for guidance from above and finished in a terrified whisper, her heart sinking into her stomach."But I have never known a man. Have pity."

Izotz was puzzled. He had heard that the interlopers had strange compunctions about physical love before marriage. And of course, any members of their tribe would probably kill themselves in shame after being raped by an interloper, not that any good Zerui... or particularly Hibaii... woman would allow such a thing.

But Renna was acting like a captured Ekaini woman who understood the nature of the exchange--understood she had been fairly won. She even seemed willing.

No... she seemed aware of his power over her. Then she cared about her own survival even more than shame. Any dog may fight for its survival; only the Zerui fight for an honorable death. But she wasn't fighting at all. It had to be the strange god of the interlopers. It was said that they worshipped a dead ghost-god who told them to be weak and obedient.

That had to be it, and that was why she had requested to pray. Izotz wondered if he ought to try to stop her praying to the heathen interloper god. His father would be angry if such a false god were invoked on Zerui soil. Hibai even objected to the Ekaini spirit-worshippers, and could think nothing good of this... but she had only been taken hours ago.

"Pray silently to your own god," he said at last, watching her as she slumped on the ground. He let her wrist slide from his grasp. Her skin seemed no thinner than any Zerui woman's, but it was so pale he could see a startlingly blue tracery of veins beneath the pink-white flesh. Her hair lay in straggling curls around an equally pale face--a different texture to the curl than his own, though his hair was very wavy by Baskari standards. So interesting! Not beautiful in the manner to which he was accustomed; more fragile, like the thin white stone the interlopers used to make cups. He had never had an interloper woman before, because his father had always said rape was dishonorable, though fairly capturing a concubine was not.

"You cannot pray to Eguzki yet, because you do not know him, but if you will to become..." He paused, struggling over the words. He had learned Scalian young, for trading with mercenary arms dealers, but he didn't speak it often. "... will become one of the Zerui, then you must." If, then. He was proud of himself for mastering that construction. "You are acting well to accept... almost like a Baskar."

He gave her a very faint smile, an unusual expression from him. "When you are finished praying, come with me. My tent is there." He pointed, then folded his arms over his chest and stood silently over her, watching her.

The girl felt his stare on her and very slowly wrapped her arms around her chest and shoulders. She could aready feel herself going numb. He wasn't going to have pity. Renna had heard that girls who were raped were spared feeling the true pain of it; that often they watched it happen as if they were floating over the scene. They could feel sorry for themselves, but not feel the event itself. Papa had told her animals did much the same thing. God let the hunted creature go into shock before it died, so it didn't feel anything. Was this what was happening to her?

She lifted her eyes to give him one final, pleading glance, and then fell into shock to see a smile there. It was faint and faded quickly, but he seemed pleased. No, he was pleased! He was saying as much. He was also saying that she needed to learn his god, if she wanted to become one of them....which she didn't, but--also that she was behaving well. Did submission please him, then? Acceptance? That was strange. The Baskar were fierce; she'd always thought that they admired those who fought well. Maybe it was just....endurance they liked. Well, she could do that. It wasn't as if she had a choice. There was no physical way she could kill him or run away, and suicide was a sin. Not to mention impossible at the moment without a weapon or a cliff of some kind.

He was ordering her to his tent. Renna's heart started to thunder and she clutched at herself once more, straining to comfort herself before she made any attempt at dealing with him again. Everything happened for a reason. Right? Then she was meant to be here. Maybe God saw some use for letting this happen. If that was the case, then...

Her thoughts wandered for a moment as she glanced up at the moon, marvelling dully at how beautiful it was. The stars were still there, and blazing against an inky sky.

Something at the sight lent her the strength to stand. Renna brushed off her dress nervously and looked at him, then went to the tent he'd pointed out. She lifted the flap and entered on shaking legs, then sank to sit on the floor. Renna looked up at the warrior and whispered to him, her mouth and voice dry. "Explain to me what this means?"

Would he kill her when he was finished? If that was the case, she would fight, as futile as it would be. Or did he mean to make her his wife? Or simply a whore, and then what would happen when she grew old? What would happen to her children? Was she fair game to any man in the tribe?

Izotz settled down across from her, legs crossed, his hands on his knees.

"What does this mean?"

Ah; of course she wouldn't understand. The interlopers had little knowledge of Baskar custom. She probably didn't even know how to clean herself properly--he'd heard the interlopers never bathed. But she didn't smell very bad, and he was still bloody. He kept a bucket of water in the corner, and soon he'd take off his tunic and wash himself. He'd have to ask her to undo all of those odd clothes, too...

"Means? You are now my... murroi-emazte*... like a wife, you belong to me, but lower rank. You will cook for me, because I have no wife." Usually he ate with his friends, because none of them wanted their mothers' food any longer, and Bihar's wife cooked for many at a time if he asked. Cooking could be a delicate euphemism for sex--but Bihar got very angry if anyone intimated his wife shared more than her bread with his friends. "And you will have other duties of a wife, too, all the same. It is a custom of the Baskar. We take from the other Tribe, the Ekaini, and they take from us, but now we take from your Tribe. It is not the same as being murroi, what you call serf, I think, and not the same as... women who sell herselves... you are my wife, but children of smaller... lesser rank."

He watched her, wondering if she could understand what he was saying. Izotz wasn't used to explaining this--he had never tried to speak of anything but weapons and military techniques before, not to the interlopers.

"You understand?"

She might be less frightened if he weren't still covered in blood. Carefully, Izotz peeled off his sticky, stained tunic, and reached over to draw the stone basin of water toward him. The stone kept it cold, so it still smelled fresh; he leaned over to clean himself, using the cotton cloth he kept beside it.

"Oh--and you will also have to wear our clothes, and learn Baska--our language," he added, looking back toward her, water dripping off the ends of his short hair. The cloth was stained red, but his body was now clean and mostly dry. "Do you want to clean yourself?"

As a prelude to sex, it wasn't the ideal offering, but he didn't want to sleep with a dirty woman, and he had to claim her.



*concubine, lit. 'slave-wife'

Do you want to clean yourself?

She hesitated. Even if she was a 'wife', to him-she hadn't been asked if she wanted to, and she wasn't ready. Her stomach was tying itself into knots. Maybe if she refused he wouldn't touch her.

On the other hand why torture herself more by dragging this out. Sin it might be to accept this, but there was no way she could see to make it stop, and if she kept thinking on it she was going to go mad. Renna stood and put her hands behind her, carefully unlacing her dress. It could be worse than this. He was strong; darker than she'd liked and bloodthirsty...but he didn't seem entirely cruel. He hadn't struck her, and he was giving her a chance to settle in before he tried anything. Maybe there was a good heart beneath the blood. Maybe there was hope.

Renna stood and let her gown fall to the skins carpeting the tent. She bent to gather it and folded it carefully, setting it aside and then removing her layered skirts. Those were also folded, leaving her standing in only her shift. The weaver stepped to the basin and splashed herself with her hands, not wanting to touch his bloodstained rag. She fumbled for the pocket of her folded skirt and drew out a sprig of dried lavender, which she wetted with the water and also rubbed over herself. There was no soap, but at least she would smell fresh now.

"I would rather be a full wife, but I understand." She was quiet. "I cook well at home; but you should eat someone else's food until I learn to make what you eat. It will not be good at first." The girl splashed her face, not looking at him. "I can weave and sew very well, however. And I try hard. I will just need time."

There wasn't much more she could do to delay this. Renna lifted the damp and bloodied rag sitting beside the basin, then wrung it out ouside the door. She spread it carefully out on one of the blankets, then looked at him and lay down so her hips were resting on it. "This is my first. I'll bleed."

Izotz stared at her. She was so calm--so matter-of-fact. He sat back on his knees and watched her take off layers of clothing. The interlopers wore so many clothes, it was no wonder their women could do nothing useful, and their men could hardly steer their own horses. Even her final cotton garment covered her more than the tunics Baskari women wore every day.

He could, however, make out the faint outline of her body beneath the worn fabric, and it was arousing. Her placidity put him off, but... it was a little amazing. Brave, even, he could call it. Izotz was not used to imagining himself in another's position, but were he in hers, raised by weak, stupid interlopers, he would not have reacted as well.

She sat down on the dirty cloth, and he frowned for a moment. Her explanation was a good one, but it was still wet...

He rummaged through his pack and drew out another cloth, this one at least dry; he handed it to her, motioning that she should set it beneath herself.

"More comfort." For some reason, he couldn't meet her eyes. It helped if he just looked at her body, the faint hint of her nipples beneath the thin cloth, the dark outline of her body. He moved toward her, undoing his trousers, and found that he wanted to kiss her. Leaning over her, one leg between hers, the other holding him up, he did so. "You are brave," he said, watching her, and began to lift the hem of her shift. "That's good. You need to be, to be Zerui."

They all did. Even he himself.

It hurt.

Renna's hands clawed into the skins at her side, gripping them as if they were the only things anchoring her to Earth. If only he'd kissed her and left it at that! To have him kiss her and call her brave would have been almost nice. It certainly wouldn't have been humiliating and terrifying to the extent this was.

The girl kept her eyes screwed shut. She wouldn't look at him while he did this to her, while he ruined her future and murdered her childhood. It made it even worse that there was pleasure as he claimed her. How could she consider this all his fault if she had enjoyed moments of it? It might have been only her body reacting to his, but it was -her- body. She was supposed to be able to control it.

At last Izotz had his fill of her, and the moment he withdrew she fled from him, darting across the tent to curl up in the corner. Renna snapped her legs together and flipped onto her side, putting her back to him. She shuddered a moment, trying to regain her breath, then buried her face into the blankets and released muffled but violent sobs.

Her body was rigid under his, and while he tried to make it more comfortable for her, he knew there were some things you couldn't foce. Unless a woman were willing, she wouldn't feel pleasure in the act. He tried to finish quickly, and felt almost ashamed at the rush of enjoyment her helpless fear brought him. That was wrong, something deep in his gut told him, but there it was... later he would spill blood to Eguzki to make up for the enemy blood he had spilled, hers included. Pain could be pleasurable. Others' pain could be, too. Was that wrong? Hibai said it was not, but what would Zeru, who spoke for Eguzki, say...? But Zeru did not...

When he had finished she shrunk away from him and scurried to the side of the tent. Her garment was already stained, and he wanted to offer her the water again, for washing, but he didn't speak to her while she was crying. He washed himself again, and folded up the cloths laid on the floor. There hadn't been a lot of blood, but it made him oddly uncomfortable anyway.

"Eguzki bless," he said awkwardly, not sure if the goodnight saying translated at all well. Izotz contemplated saying she shouldn't cry, then decided there was only so much you could ask from an interloper woman. He made his way slowly toward her, and slid under the part of the furs she hadn't taken. Before he fell asleep, he turned away from her... and made sure to keep his hand on the hard-metal knife at his belt. Captives had been known to murder their captors, and though the girl crying at his back sounded meek, you could never be too careful.

The sound of her sobs eventually sank into the background, but penetrated even his dreams. The man he had killed rose up, empty eyesocket full of writing maggots, mouth stretched wide in a taunting wail. He dreamed he killed a small, vulnerable white rabbit and ate its entrails. He dreamed of his father, laughing at him, mouth opened wide enough to swallow him whole.

When he awoke, he found he had cut his hand on the blade of his knife without noticing.