"I have told you how the necessity grieved me," said the priest.
Suddenly his voice came hard as steel, cold as winter and death:
"It is now my duty to offer you a choice. Call on your troops to
surrender, your followers in the city to desist from their treasonous
activities, and wed me this night, or--" he paused--"burn at the stake
for blasphemy and witchcraft. But first you will be tied down and every
slave in the Temple have his way with you."
"That might not be worse than leading my men into your hands," she
flared. But her face was suddenly bloodless.
"You will be surprised how much worse it will be--especially since your
men will die anyway. But I will offer you this, too: if you call on
them to surrender, those who do may go into exile."
She stood a moment in silence, and Alfric knew what a horror must be
clawing her heart. Then she nodded toward him: "What of my protector
here?"
"The heathen bandit must die in any case, that the city may know
itself safe from him and the prophecy," said Therokos. "He still has
his choice of easy hanging or slow torture. But if you refuse me,
Hildaborg, he will no longer have the choice; he will go to hell by
inches, cursing you for it."
The lovely dark head bowed. It was as if a flame had gone out. Alfric
felt ill at seeing her thus broken, given over to a lifetime's
prisoning--golden chains they would be, but no less heavy and galling.
"Goodbye, my dear," he whispered. "Goodbye, I will always love you."