The Sable Moon by Nancy Springer

the string, and Trevyn was glad of it. Even to the unspeaking, the old man provided more decent company than most. They all set out toward the distant market. The four slave traders rode shaggy ponies and led pack animals. With their whips they kept their human merchandise to a shambling trot over wild, rocky terrain. Most of the slaves went along readily enough on thickly callused feet, but Trevyn’s feet, long accustomed to boots of soft leather, had not had a chance to toughen. Before the first day’s journey was half over they had started to bleed. Trevyn’s pace slowed, and the slavers had run out of patience with him. They kept him going with the lash.
    At dusk they stopped at last, and the slaves dropped where they stood while the slavers pitched camp and built fires for themselves. After a while one moved down the line of slaves tossing each a chunk of bread and, for a wonder, a bit of cheese. But when the slave trader came to Trevyn, he only paused with a hard smile. “None for ye, bully,” he said. “By the goddess, ye’re too full of sauce to bear feeding. Bow when ye face me, sirrah!”
    He passed on, laughing aloud, while Trevyn stared. When his back was well down the line, the old man halved his portion and passed Trevyn a share. “Pride makes a thin porridge, lad,” he remarked. Trevyn was thankful that his muteness saved him the necessity of replying.
    The slaves huddled their naked bodies together through the night while their masters dozed blanket-wrapped by the fire, taking guard by turns. The next morning Trevyn’s feet were oozing pus. The slaver who brought bread noticed it and came back with a bucket of brine. He grasped at his slave, but Trevyn stepped in with high head and a level look, though the pain took his breath. The man scowled and went away, bringing no bandaging for the feet.
    That day was a nightmare for Trevyn. He could not keep the pace, stumbling and limping despite himself, and the slavers flogged him until his back was as raw as his feet. Pain and hunger made him reel lightheadedly. More than once he would have fallen if the old man had not caught him with the rope. Nearly hallucinating, he imagined that none of this was happening to him, that he was not himself at all, but Hal, facing the torturers in Nemeton’s dark and hellish Tower.… Had Hal cried out? But he was Trevyn, after all. He would not cry out.
    â€œIf ye’d only yelp once in a while, or even lower yer head a bit,” the old man whispered to him in honest concern, “I believe they’d treat ye less cruelly.”
    Trevyn answered him only with a wry smile, wishing in a way that he could take the advice, knowing that, being what he was, he could not.

Chapter Two
    In a small chamber of the royal palace at Kantukal sat the king of Tokar, Rheged by name, and his counselor Wael. Rheged was a lean, long-armed man of middle age. Sparse, flabby flesh draped his loose frame; his look was hungry. He hungered insatiably, though not for food, and he could be as dangerous as a starving wolf. Wael, his advisor, was a shrunken wizard of incalculable years, a scholar of intrigue and the arts of influence as well as a sorcerer. The two men found little to like in each other and less to trust, but their mutual greed for power bound them almost as securely as love, for the time. They hunched in council over a figurehead in form of a leaping, gilded wooden wolf.
    â€œIt seemed faultless,” Wael breathed in his soft old voice, hypnotic as the hissing of a serpent. “A young prince must perforce fancy a fairy boat of gold, and once he was on it, all was easy. I drew him here more surely than if I held him by a rope in my hand. Who would have thought it would shipwreck? Never has such a storm been seen in the spring of the year. In autumn, perhaps—”
    â€œAy, ay,” Rheged interrupted impatiently, “no one can fault your scheme, laugh though they might