—Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
Even in Stonehollow, the Romani were recognized and feared. Of all the races or people, they were distrusted the most. Phae’s insides writhed with apprehension as she saw the horsemen emerge from the gate.
“What do we do?” she asked in fear.
“They already see us,” he answered, rising to his full height and brushing his hands together before fitting on his gloves. “They expect us to run. They expect us to be afraid and to barter for our lives.” He gave her a sidelong look. “If it frightens you to be taken to the Arch-Rike of Kenatos, consider yourself fortunate not to be abducted by the Romani. You are young enough. They would pierce your ear and train you in their ways before selling you at eighteen. If you disobey, they poison you.”
Phae gasped with dread and touched his arm. “What will we do then?”
The riders closed the distance quickly and the thundering of the hooves made Phae cringe and tremble. The Kishion faced the approaching Romani and stepped in front of her, blocking her with his body.
“The horses will not trample us,” he said. “If one of the men tries to grab you, drop low. They won’t be able to reach down that far. Stay near me. I will deal with them.”
“How?” she demanded, for at least twenty approached. She pulled her pack and slung it around her shoulders.
“Just stay near me,” he said as the first rider drew up to them. “Do not run.”
“I bid you good day!” a Romani said, leaning forward in his saddle to regard the pair. He had dark hair, a charming smile, but his eyes were ruthless. Other riders slowed to a canter and filled in around them, blocking them in on all sides.
The Kishion said nothing.
“Our people have a saying that you should never bid the evil one good day until you meet him. Again, I bid you good day.”
He was met with silence. One of the horses nickered softly and others began stamping.
“He’s a rude one,” said another man, one behind them.
“It’s the quiet pigs that eat all the draff,” said another.
The first one, whom Phae presumed to be the leader, looked askance at the Kishion. “Too proud to speak, are you?”
“Everyone is wise till he speaks,” chuckled someone else.
The leader puffed out his chest, folding his arms. “He thinks that he’s the very stone that was hurled at the castle. Look at him. He says nothing. Still no words for us? No begging?”
“She has red hair,” said another Romani. His stallion came close to Phae, its dripping nose nearly grazing her arm. “Worth something this season, I think. Let me see you closer, lass.”
Phae shrank as he reached for her, pressing her back against the Kishion’s, ready to drop low. The man suddenly lunged, trying to get a fistful of her cloak. The Kishion moved like a blur, grabbing the outstretched arm and yanking him clear from the saddle. He fell so fast and hard he could not cry out before smashing on the ground. The Kishion snapped several of his fingers before whirling to face the leader again.
The Kishion’s attack stunned them momentarily and then all was in commotion. With a bark of rage, the leader shouted for the Romani to kill the Kishion and drew a tapered long sword from his scabbard.
“Stay low,” the Kishion whispered to her and disappeared. He sidestepped between two horses, his dagger whipping around and stabbing their flanks, startling them with pain and causing them to rear violently and pitch off their riders. Phae watched in awe as he moved, each step precise and measured, swaying with the rhythm of battle to avoid the clashing beasts and the sword thrusts coming down at him from all sides. He was never in one place for more than a moment, moving quickly and soundlessly, his tattered cloak fanning behind him as he stalked another victim, grabbing the reins from a man’s grasp and jerking the bridle around savagely so that the horse would react in pain.
Phae remembered in time to drop low, just as another hand reached for her hair. The man tried in vain to snatch at her, and Phae scuttled away from him, only to hear another horse coming up behind her. Her heart raced with fear and excitement. Twenty against one. Somehow, she knew the Kishion would win. He did not bluster or threaten. He did not need to.
A man suddenly grabbed her around the waist from behind and hoisted her off her feet. She had not heard him slip off his saddle and she started thrashing, trying to squirm free from his grasp. He clutched her tightly, swinging her around.
“Oy!” he called to another Romani, dragging her to the man’s horse. The rider reached for her and grabbed her by the arm. She struck him again and again, beating against his arm, trying to hit his face. The horse shied, but the rider was expert and controlled it. Fresh terror rose inside. The Kishion was boxed in by other riders. He could not see her.