“Stop!” said the woman, using the power of Command, the same command that Moonhawk and Priscilla had killed a woman with. “Stop!”

“—Sylvette Anna Ringwald? It isn’t required. Moonhawk is walking away from your ken for now, leaving your necessity behind for this generation. Remember that she is in every Temple, and will know how you deal!”

They beat her then, with rods of metal and gems, and each touch was an agony, as if her soul were being drained, and they twisted her arms and spoke Commands and Spells.

When they twisted her arm again she screamed, and when they twisted further, she screamed again, calling out for Moonhawk and Lute. For a moment she felt as if Lute were at the door, drawing sword—

“No!” came the word in Priscilla’s head. “He can’t stand against so many Names yet! He stirs, though, girl—he stirs! I must find him—live your life. You will not be forgot!”

Within Priscilla there was a sigh, and a relaxation of will: Moonhawk could not save her, Lute would not save her. And Moonhawk was elsewhere now.

A jubilant cry sprang from a close-eyed woman in the back of the room: “Gone, sisters, the false Moonhawk is gone!”

THEY LEFT HER after awhile, in the darkness, having exhausted an amazing amount of magical energy on her. They took with them the wooden bench, and they burnt her hair where it lay, that she’d not have influence over any holder of it, should her false magic return.

She lay naked on the stones, and cried. She was going to die now, or very soon, and badly. The bruises and scrapes ached at her soul. What had she gotten in this life? What right had any of them—all she’d really wanted was to live a good life, in Balance, to honor the Goddess, to live well. What could she do now—The noises she’d heard before came closer now. Rats? Bats? There was a clatter. And another. The sound of wings. More clatter. Something fell on her thigh, jerking her sharply awake. She reached—