Magic Bitter, Magic Sweet Read Online Free Page B

my own tears save me from the full brunt of the murder. I bite down on my own scream, not wanting my blood to mingle with hers. Not wanting these men to kick me out of the way as though I were a broken doll, the way they do to her.
    Three more marauders approach our huddle as the sun begins to set, throwing two more men into our ranks. Both look close to me in age. Of all of us, Barre—the man who runs the smithy near my shop—is the oldest at thirty-five. The youngest is—
    The thought flees as I recognize the bloody face of one of the men and gasp. “Tuck!” I whisper, hoarse.
    The spear-carrying marauder turns toward me, and I huddle down, hiding my face in my hands, waiting for a blow. I don’t hear it. Smoke wafts into my nostrils as the guards light torches. I lift my head to see Cleric Tuck lying on his back near me, his eyes closed, blood from his nose streaking his chin and cheeks.
    I hold my breath, searching for his. Cry tears of relief when I see his chest rise and fall.
    “Cleric Tuck,” I whisper, so quietly even I can barely hear it. I eye the two guards nearest me and inch forward on my knees, swallowing. I reach out a hand and touch his black hair. “Tuck.”
    He groans. His eyelids flutter, but when he looks at his surroundings, there’s no recognition in his gaze.
    Two rough, peachy-toned hands grab my shoulders and haul me back. A scream dies in my throat, and I kick out as the grip tugs me away from the group. I drop down to my knees, and a third hand shoves my head forward while a fourth and fifth tie fraying rope around my wrists, pinning them to the small of my back. The hand on my head shoves me onto my side, cracking my head on the cobblestone of the square, and two of the marauders go back to the circle for Barre. The blacksmith is larger than both of them but doesn’t struggle when they bind him. He doesn’t want to die, either.
    Strellis, anyone, help us , I pray, closing my eyes and thinking against the throbbing in my skull. My prayer feels weak and heavy, like it hits a glass wall not far above my beaten form.
    They tie Cleric Tuck last. I keep my head down but peer through my hair to watch him. He’s conscious, but he’s been bloodied up more than most of us. The other marauders circle us like vultures, weapons drawn. They mumble to each other, pointing at one person or another. Cleric Tuck raises his head and meets my eyes, then looks away.
    The men don’t sleep, if they’re even men at all. I don’t rest, either, though when dawn nears and more of the bandits arrive in Carmine, bearing with them loot and iron cuffs, I wish I had. They loose our ropes and cuff our wrists and ankles together, then bind us to their horses. I’m tied to a saddle with two other women. One is a farmer’s daughter, the other the governor’s wife. Cleric Tuck is fastened to one of the larger horses with Barre. He glances around, the blood on his face dried and sticky. He meets my eyes. There are words in his gaze, but I don’t understand them, and the warhorse stalks away, dragging Cleric Tuck with it.
    The thieves do not speak to us, do not comment on the tears streaming down my face. Another woman tied to a different horse begins to wail. They do not kill her, but they beat her. I squeeze my eyes shut, but the shackles around my wrists make it impossible to cover my ears. With each heavy, fleshy thump, with each startled cry, I think, Stop, stop, stop , but they don’t, and I’m too much of a coward to voice the plea.
    A bandit mounts the horse I’m tied to and kicks it into a pace I can barely maintain. The governor’s wife stumbles more than once. I try to offer my elbow, but she can’t get ahold of it. Not with the cuffs.
    As we move, I glance about desperately, forcing myself to examine the corpses we pass, trying to peer into dark windows to see if any surviving eyes peer back at me, and there are a few. None match Arrice and Franc. I should be glad for it, at least as far as the dead