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He seemed almost to smile as he said, “Your kind is hard to kill.”
Her kind? What did he mean by that? What kind was he? Was he not, in truth, a man? She knew one way to determine that. Men died. She took the hand he offered her, but as he hauled her to her feet she snatched his knife and tried to stab him.
He wrested the dagger from her and sneered, “You’ll have to try harder than that.” He shoved her away from him and sheathed the knife.
She would try harder—later. Now, she wanted to see her people, to see Hijad, her foster-father and teacher. “Where are they?” Xhandra demanded. “Hijad? My people? Take me to them.” It was not so much a demand now, as a plea.
The man actually smiled at her. “You want to see them?” At her tentative nod, he pointed to a framework of lashed sticks. “There they are.”
The frame was piled with skulls, some bleached white, some still ivory, all human. They could not be the skulls of her people, not yet, but she knew well enough what he meant. “You killed them?” she asked in anguished disbelief. Her eyes filled with tears and she blinked quickly, unwilling to show such feelings before him. “All of them?” Not just the ones she had seen die, but all of them? Her father, her friends, her sisters, the boy Taren who liked to gather plants with her, the little children she sang to and played games with, the babies . all of them? They could not possibly have killed all of them.
But he nodded, seeming well-pleased with himself.
Xhandra stared at him, numb with a deep coldness even though the day was fiercely hot. All of them. What kind of a man killed a babe not yet old enough to walk? Great Mother, he was a monster after all! She recoiled from him, shaking.
He paid no heed to her distress as he reached over and touched the front of her gown. “Including you.” He still sounded amused.
Her hands trembled as she examined the bloodied cloth. There was a hole there, a hole made by a sword. Xhandra remembered that sword, remembering the sharp edges of pain as it sliced into her, but now—nothing. “The wound . it’s gone.” She looked at him in bewilderment. “I should be dead.”
The man with half a face said, “You live because I wish it.”
Was he a healer then? What kind of a healer also killed? But no, she should be dead. He must be a magician—a very powerful magician—to heal such a wound, to bring her back from the dead. This was a more powerful magic than she had ever seen. Maybe he was a god.
He continued, “And you stay alive, as long as you please me.” His hand went to the side of her face, then traced a line down her neck.
She slapped his hand away. He might be a powerful magician, or a god, but he was acting as a man, and she was not to be touched. Her tribe needed her to be virgin, to carry the power of the Goddess for the healing. When she had started her bleeding times, the elder priestess had opened her passageway, as she did for all the girls. But no man of her tribe had ever dared to touch her, or to look at her in such a way.
This man was not of her tribe.
She did not even see the blow that knocked her to the ground. The side of her face throbbed, and she could taste blood in her mouth.
“That did not please me.” He was not amused now. Before she could move, he was kneeling in front of her, yanking up her gown, his hand moving up her leg. “I am Methos,” he said, staring into her eyes. “You live to serve me. Never forget that.”
She glared back through tangled hair. She would never serve him. Never. He was a murderer and a monster, and she hated him.
Shouts from the other tents drew his attention, and Methos left her lying on the ground.
Xhandra hurriedly pulled her gown back over her legs, shuddering at the remembered touch of his hand. She spat in the dust after him, then shuddered again as she thought of her people. They were dead, all of them. She was alone. What could she do? Where could she go?
She could not stay here, with that face-painted monster who called himself Methos. She had to escape. The horse she had been carried on was still standing there, with some kind of seat on its back. She made her way over to the animal and allowed it to sniff her hand, hoping it wouldn’t bite her fingers off. For such a large beast, it seemed friendly. Now, how to get on?
She had almost gotten one leg up when hands grabbed her roughly and yanked her from the horse.
His arm was tight around her throat, and his voice spoke softly in her ear. “You died once today. Did you enjoy that?”
Xhandra whimpered in remembered fear and pain. She did not want to die; he might decide not to bring her back to life again.
Methos held her close against him, and in his other hand he held a knife. “Learn this lesson well,” he said impatiently. “I will kill you as many times as it takes to tame you.”
The sunshine glittered blindingly on the knife blade as he raised it, and she closed her eyes so she would not have to see it. But she felt the knife as Methos slammed it into her heart, and she tasted the blood again in her mouth, the coppery scent warm on the air. Then she felt nothing at all.
She could not move, and she could not breathe. His weight was on top of her, and his hand was over her mouth and nose. Xhandra jerked her head to one side, then managed to bite the fleshy part of his palm. This time the blood she tasted was not her own.

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