On the surface Murchad’s dream seemed much like the sort he often had. He was naked and shame-faced in a public place, and aside from forgetting his pants, he knew he had done something terribly wrong and dreaded being discovered. Eirik was there, too: ever a sure sign of his imminent humiliation in life as well as dreams.
Qatal’s hands slapped over his face as soon as he stepped into the room—even before he understood what had horrified him. His terror of his sadistic master was so primal as to be a reflex, and he hid his unmasked face as he might have snatched his hand out of a fire.
The harder Father Faelan tried to stomp the slush off his boots, it seemed, the more gluey mud they picked up from the floor. The flagstones of the low entry of Acanweald Keep were so thickly crusted that a handsome half-circle had been swept smooth over them by the swinging door, in the style of snow angels.
“What do you want?” Kraaia groaned. “Did you know that it is rude to shout at people and tell them to come here?”
Wherever Lady Gwynn might be, there was Condal certain to be found—and Lady Gwynn was in Malcolm’s hall.
“Ladies! Put down your… what sort of princess is it today?” Estrid demanded.
“So!” Estrid said conclusively to Astrid. “After that walk I wager you’re hungry enough to eat a dozen sweet buns.”
Diarmait’s young wife had been waiting for him. He had felt the chill of her stare in the cold iron of the door handle. He felt it on his face as he entered. He felt it on his shoulder as he passed.
Sleep seemed a cold, dark lake, and Kraaia bobbed just at its surface, afraid to let herself drown.
The girl’s body was achingly still but for the bird-stir of her fluttering heart and the panic of her panting breath. Her frigid bravery shamed Vash a little, for he thought her fright would seem as shameful as nudity to her had she known he could hear. He was ashamed he had told her not to be afraid.
“I feel an emergency binding coming on.”
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