"You lie!" She spat on his face. "My father is a great warrior-prince across the sea. He is stronger than you, and his sword is wider and longer. My mother was just as strong. She never submitted to you as I did. You will forever bear the mark of her strength upon your ravaged face."

Slowly, he wiped the spit off. His hand wet with her saliva, he struck her. The blow snapped Laira's head to the side, rattling her teeth, searing her with white light. The torch crackled only inches from her, only heartbeats away from igniting the pyre.

"Half my body is burnt," Zerra said. "I think that, after I've burned all of yours, I will pull you from the flames. I will keep you half-alive, writhing and begging for death. I will heal you. For long moons, you will scream in your tent, and we will apply ointments, bandages, prayers . . . then burn you again, only to repeat the cycle. I wonder how many burnings you will survive. I will try to make it many. You will end up envying your mother."

Laira grimaced as the torch drew nearer, singing her cheek, and her heart thrashed. She gritted her teeth.

No. I will not give up. I will fight even as the fire blazes.

She gave the ropes binding her a mighty tug. But they only chafed her wrists, keeping her arms tied behind her to the stake. She tried to kick, but the ropes dug into her ankles, and blood trickled onto her bare feet.

"Yes, struggle for me." Zerra leaned forward and licked her cheek. He brought the ravaged half of his face near her eyes. "Look at my scars, child. Soon all your body will look like this."

Laira sucked in breath, chest shaking.

Use your curse. Use your disease. She ground her teeth. Use your magic.

She shut her eyes, trying to ignore the pain, to focus, to calm herself and find that inner power. At first it evaded her. The magic lurked deep inside, fleeing from her mental grasp like a mouse fleeing from reaching hands.

Zerra stepped back and raised his torch. "For the glory of Ka'altei!" he shouted. "We will burn the reptile! Shaman of Goldtusk, will you bless my fire?"

Concentrate, Laira. Grab your magic.

Shedah, the crone, stepped forward. Strings of human finger bones rattled, hanging around her neck. Among them hung the silver amulet of Taal—the amulet of Laira's fallen mother, now the crone's prize. The wizened old thing, frail and covered in warts, raised her staff. The painted skull of an ape grinned atop it.

"I name her a cursed thing!" cried the shaman, voice shrill.

Laira reached down deep inside her. She found that secret pool and fished out the warm strands.

The magic flowed through her.