The guards thrust them into a cell, little more than a cave chipped out of the hill's heart, and locked their chains to staples in the walls. They were held barely able to move, facing each other with a few scant inches between—miles between, a world between, thought Alfric wearily—he would never kiss her again—
The guards clanged the door shut and left them in utter darkness. Hildaborg's voice trembled, but she spoke bravely: "What can we do?"
"Nothing, now." The barbarian strained against his chains, felt their solidity, and relaxed. "Wait for a chance, maybe. Otherwise—die."
"I don't want to die, Alfric. I want to live, I want to see the sky and feel the wind and bear your sons."
"I don't enjoy the thought of death either, dearest. If we had fled to Aslak—"
"But we didn't, and for myself I am still glad. Though that you should die too—" Her voice broke, and he heard her quiet sobbing in the dark.
He tried to find words, but they were awkward. So he fell into silence.
Presently the door opened again. A man came in with only two torch-bearing Temple slaves accompanying. Alfric looked at his magnificent robes and knew him for Therokos the High Priest.
He was tall, stoop-shouldered, a little on the fat side but well muscled underneath. His face was wide and heavy, sallow under the high shaven forehead, the mouth hard and thin, the eyes small and black and glittering-cold. When he spoke, his voice was wondrous, a deep organ which he played like a master musician.