“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.

“Lift her higher!” the Romani snarled. “This one is a wildcat!”

“It’s for her own good that the cat purrs!” the one holding her said. “We’ll tame you, lass. Cinder-headed or no, we will.”

Phae struggled, her fear turning into anger. He had called her cinder-haired. Cinder—a word about fire. Her fingers began to tingle. The words came to her mind. Pyricanthas. Sericanthas. Thas.

The man grabbing her arms yelped when those very arms burst into flame. His cloak caught fire and the horse screamed in terror and bolted. All animals dreaded flame. Phae reached down and grabbed the man’s arms that were crushing her middle. Though protected by leather bracers, the leather blackened and hissed and the man’s skin blistered. With a howl of pain, he released her, scrambling to get back from her.

Phae turned and faced him, her hands wreathed in blue-violet swirls. Her anger seared her heart, fanning the power that flooded into her. Gone were the feelings of helplessness. Gone was the timidity and flinching. The power inside her surged like a fountain and she held up her hands, unleashing a storm of flames at the man who was tripping over his ankles trying to get away from her. He vanished into a plume of ash. It felt frighteningly delicious.

Horses shrieked in terror and bolted. In the distance, she could hear the groan of the gate as the Romani inside desperately pulled it closed. Phae stood in a half-crouch, staring at the fire licking the grass where the man had stood. Yellow tongues rippled with heat and charred the grass, spreading with the wind and causing billowy black smoke to rise in the air.