"Let them!" he snarled. "I am no sniveling townsman! I am of the hills, and my father was a renegade. Your council had no right to judge me. Now I shall judge them."
The words were spoken hotly, and he realized their folly. He expected a scornful rebuke from Mara, but she hung onto his arm and pleaded with him. He had dragged her a dozen doorways from the house of her father. Her voice had lost its arrogance and became pleading.
"Please, Asir! Go away. Listen! I will even go with you—if you want me."
He laughed harshly. "Tokra's leavings."
She slapped him hard across the mouth. "Tokra is an impotent old dodderer. He can scarcely move for arthritis. You're an idiot! I sat on his lap and kissed his bald pate for you."
"Then why did he give you a ritual phrase?" he asked stiffly.
"Because he likes me."
"You lie." He stalked angrily on.
"Very well! Go to the vaults. I'll tell my father, and they'll hunt you down before you get there."
She released his arm and stopped. Asir hesitated. She meant it. He came back to her slowly, then slipped his swollen hands to her throat. She did not back away.