“House Akestas was a smoking ruin, black and hideous in the rain. It stank of burning and of charred flesh. Jehan stood in the half-burned garden, cowled against the drizzle. His face was as bleak as the sky. “Sometimes,” he said to it, “it’s perilously easy to hate my own people.” His escort of Flemings prowled through the rubble, pausing now and then to take up something of interest, skirting the occasional beds of coals. Even in the rain the embers smoldered unabated, as if they disdained to ...die. A shout brought him about. Part of the stable stood intact, set apart from the house as it had been. His squire struggled with someone there, a scarecrow figure, very small and very black. Jehan strode toward them. Odo’s captive was a boy, ragged and covered with soot, who struggled and bit and cursed in half a dozen languages. Even the squire’s hard blow neither stilled nor silenced him; but when he saw Jehan he froze. To his wide eyes, the priest seemed a giant. Odo shook him roughly, nursing a bitten hand.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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