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And then came Black Leclère, to lay his heavy hand on the bit of pulsating puppy life, to press and prod and mould till it became a big bristling beast, acute in knavery, overspilling with hate, sinister, malignant, diabolical.
"I could say I'm Lord Rahl's brother," the man said, keeping a tight grip on the bit in the mouth of Zedd's horse, "but that doesn't make it so."
Hawk held her gaze for a long moment, then eased the pressure on the bit to let the horse go forward at a quick-stepping walk.