Ywain’s level gaze fastened on Carse. “He knows the secret of the Tomb, Scyld. He must know it if he had the sword.”
She paused and when she spoke again her words were almost inaudible, like the voicing of an inner thought.
“A dangerous secret. So dangerous that I almost wish…”
She broke off short, as though she had already said too much. Did she glance quickly at the inner door?
In her old imperious tone she said to Carse, “One more chance, slave. Where is the Tomb of Rhiannon?”
Carse shook his head. “I know nothing,” he said and gripped Boghaz’ shoulder to steady himself. Little crimson droplets had trickled down to dye the rug under his feet. Ywain’s face seemed far away.
Scyld said hoarsely, “Give him to me, Highness.”
“No. He’s too far gone for your methods now. I don’t want him killed yet. I must—take thought to this.”
She frowned, looking from Carse to Boghaz and back again.
“They object to rowing, I believe. Very well. Take the third man off their oar. Let these two work it without help all night. And tell Callus to lay the lash on the fat one twice in every glass, five strokes.”