a stop just short of the captives, doing a flying dismount to confront them. Such was the fury in his face and manner that the group backed away from him.
In one of those irrelevant observations that can occur even in moments of crisis, Sharra noted that gray hairs marred the brown of Haligon’s fine Gather clothes. Horon, taking a belligerent stance next to his brother, was equally untidy.
A group of blue-clad Harpers, led by Masterharper Sebell, arrived on foot, to increase the force. The cart, driven by N’ton and crammed with holders, some clutching clubs, nearly rammed into them. With an enlarged audience, the prisoners renewed the volume of their defiant messages.
“Destroy all the Abomination’s devices.”
“Purity for Pern!”
“Turn to Tradition.”
“Avoid abominations!”
The holders began booing from the cart as they jumped down, clubs raised threateningly. Those in Healer green continued to where Sharra and Oldive stood on the top step.
“See what damage has been done, Keita,” Oldive ordered in a low voice to the Healer journeywoman who rushed to him. A convulsive shiver ran through him. “Check the infirmary first.”
Sharra was wracked with compassion for him. “A cloak for Master Oldive,” she added urgently, suddenly realizing that she was feeling the cold seep through the adrenaline rush of the last few minutes.
“Harpers!” Sebell said, gesturing for his men to help. “Assist Keita.”
Over these orders, the chant continued in rabid cadence—until Lord Groghe reached the scene. As well his mount had been saddled, Sharra thought, just as someone threw a fur-lined wrap over her shoulders, for Groghe was no longer agile enough to ride bareback like his sons.
“Abomination away!”
“Restore our tradition!”
“
Shut up!
” Groghe bellowed, the volume of his voice as intimidating as the powerful runnerbeast he pulled up just short of knocking the leader down. The man rocked back and it was then that Sharra noticed that he, and the rest of his vandals, had the effrontery to be wearing green: not the genuine Healer green but close enough to answer how they had been able to gain access to the Hall.
At his most fearsome, face suffused with fury, eyes protruding, Groghe stared down at the man. He looked larger than life, fine in his Gather clothes with a cape billowing out over his mount’s rump.
The silence was palpable. Then it was broken by a plaintive moan.
“I’m bleeding,” one of the women said in a mixture of outrage, shock, and horror as blood dripped from her face to her upheld hand.
“You can bleed to death for all I care,” Sharra snapped, furious.
“Head wounds invariably bleed freely,” Oldive said, descending the wide steps. Sharra hurriedly followed. Throwing back the corner of the cloak someone had put on his shoulders, Oldive reached into the belt pouch that he always carried and drew out a bandage to staunch the wound. Although the woman shrank away from him, her eyes wild, he was able to assess the long gash on her head. “It will require stitching.”
The woman went white with shock, a look of absolute horror on her face before she folded in a faint.
“
No
!” cried the leader, dropping to his knees to shield her body. “
No
! No abomination! Spare her that!”
Groghe let out a contemptuous oath, his mount dancing nervously. All the onlookers echoed Groghe’s reaction and cries of“shame” were loud and angry. Oldive, however, turned a look of mixed compassion and rebuke on the protester and sighed with genuine regret.
“Let her bleed, Healer!” someone advised.
Others around Oldive mockingly repeated “No, spare her, spare her.”
“Healers have been stitching wounds as needed for the past two and a half centuries,” Oldive told the leader with quiet dignity. “Still, she is unlikely to bleed to death.”
“More’s the pity,” was the quick gibe from a spectator.
Oldive held up his hand and the crowd turned respectfully
In one of those irrelevant observations that can occur even in moments of crisis, Sharra noted that gray hairs marred the brown of Haligon’s fine Gather clothes. Horon, taking a belligerent stance next to his brother, was equally untidy.
A group of blue-clad Harpers, led by Masterharper Sebell, arrived on foot, to increase the force. The cart, driven by N’ton and crammed with holders, some clutching clubs, nearly rammed into them. With an enlarged audience, the prisoners renewed the volume of their defiant messages.
“Destroy all the Abomination’s devices.”
“Purity for Pern!”
“Turn to Tradition.”
“Avoid abominations!”
The holders began booing from the cart as they jumped down, clubs raised threateningly. Those in Healer green continued to where Sharra and Oldive stood on the top step.
“See what damage has been done, Keita,” Oldive ordered in a low voice to the Healer journeywoman who rushed to him. A convulsive shiver ran through him. “Check the infirmary first.”
Sharra was wracked with compassion for him. “A cloak for Master Oldive,” she added urgently, suddenly realizing that she was feeling the cold seep through the adrenaline rush of the last few minutes.
“Harpers!” Sebell said, gesturing for his men to help. “Assist Keita.”
Over these orders, the chant continued in rabid cadence—until Lord Groghe reached the scene. As well his mount had been saddled, Sharra thought, just as someone threw a fur-lined wrap over her shoulders, for Groghe was no longer agile enough to ride bareback like his sons.
“Abomination away!”
“Restore our tradition!”
“
Shut up!
” Groghe bellowed, the volume of his voice as intimidating as the powerful runnerbeast he pulled up just short of knocking the leader down. The man rocked back and it was then that Sharra noticed that he, and the rest of his vandals, had the effrontery to be wearing green: not the genuine Healer green but close enough to answer how they had been able to gain access to the Hall.
At his most fearsome, face suffused with fury, eyes protruding, Groghe stared down at the man. He looked larger than life, fine in his Gather clothes with a cape billowing out over his mount’s rump.
The silence was palpable. Then it was broken by a plaintive moan.
“I’m bleeding,” one of the women said in a mixture of outrage, shock, and horror as blood dripped from her face to her upheld hand.
“You can bleed to death for all I care,” Sharra snapped, furious.
“Head wounds invariably bleed freely,” Oldive said, descending the wide steps. Sharra hurriedly followed. Throwing back the corner of the cloak someone had put on his shoulders, Oldive reached into the belt pouch that he always carried and drew out a bandage to staunch the wound. Although the woman shrank away from him, her eyes wild, he was able to assess the long gash on her head. “It will require stitching.”
The woman went white with shock, a look of absolute horror on her face before she folded in a faint.
“
No
!” cried the leader, dropping to his knees to shield her body. “
No
! No abomination! Spare her that!”
Groghe let out a contemptuous oath, his mount dancing nervously. All the onlookers echoed Groghe’s reaction and cries of“shame” were loud and angry. Oldive, however, turned a look of mixed compassion and rebuke on the protester and sighed with genuine regret.
“Let her bleed, Healer!” someone advised.
Others around Oldive mockingly repeated “No, spare her, spare her.”
“Healers have been stitching wounds as needed for the past two and a half centuries,” Oldive told the leader with quiet dignity. “Still, she is unlikely to bleed to death.”
“More’s the pity,” was the quick gibe from a spectator.
Oldive held up his hand and the crowd turned respectfully
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