Sweetwater searching for their prey.
“Just ain’t right,” she said, looking up into Torgon’s face. “Nobody should kill nobody for no reason.”
“I certainly won’t argue with you,” he replied. He touched his forehead, wincing slightly. “Some things are even too dark for a lout like me.”
“Don’t think you be a lout,” she protested. “Now keep quiet in here. Sorry for such a boring place.”
“Boring’s good when the alternative is facing frustrated assassins.” His eyes met hers. “You need to take care. Go about your business as if it was a day like any other. And don’t hover around the barn. I’ll be all right. If anyone passes by, forget you ever saw me.”
The sun hung low on the western horizon when two men rode into Sweetwater, to all appearances travelers headed in the direction of Sunhame. Beckor watched them from the front door of the chapel. Big men both, clad in leather and fully armed. Oddly enough, they led a riderless horse. Then, from his vantage point, he could see one of them had his right thigh wrapped in a torn rag.
Beckor murmured a prayer to Vkandis Sunlord. The game had begun, and he hoped he had prepared a proper ending to it. Something strange had been set in motion when Sosha had found Torgon wounded by the side of the road. And he couldn’t discount the dream that had come shortly before sunrise. He had seen Sosha standing next to Torgon, and between them, tail curled around front paws, sat a large golden cat. Golden? For a brief moment, the cat had grown in size, to be transformed into a Firecat! Words that were not words filled Beckor’s mind:
Dusk approached, and he entered the chapel to prepare for the sunset service. He clad himself in his vestments, slipped the heavy gold chain of a sun-priest around his neck, and returned to the altar, waiting for the villagers to assemble. One by one, they filed through the open doors and took their accustomed places. He sought and found Sosha, met her eyes and nodded. But arriving last of all, the two assassins entered the chapel, quiet and respectful as any resident of Sweetwater would be.
Beckor tensed at the sight but turned toward the altar, the words of the sunset service coming easily to his lips. Inwardly, he voiced another prayer for the God to grant the villagers safety and to protect the man and woman his dream had revealed as being somehow of great importance.
Sosha arrived at the service later than she would have liked, as Zaltos’ father had taken to bed with a slight fever. After dosing him with willow-bark tea, she left him to the care of his wife and hurried toward the chapel. Torgon had eaten his fill earlier, not stirring from the barn all day. He seemed a different person, clad now in a homespun shirt, patched pants, and scuffed but serviceable boots. Only his eyes were the same, startling blue against the tan of his face. She had been unable to keep her mind from him all day. Through all her chores—gathering eggs, feeding and watering her horse, and pulling weeds from the garden—she kept thinking of him.
And now, from her vantage point at the rear of the chapel, she saw two burly men take their places among the villagers. Strangers happened by infrequently but were generally welcome to stay the night at the tavern. One of the two men shifted position, revealing his wrapped leg. Her heart gave a lurch.
She fixed her eyes on Beckor’s back as he faced the altar, trusting in him and the Sunlord to make things right.
“Sun-ray, a few words with you?”
Beckor nodded, facing one of the two strangers who had lingered after the sunset service and the lighting of the Night Candle. Sosha had left immediately after the benediction, so he assumed she was out of harm’s way. And now, what happened lay firmly in the Sunlord’s hands.
“I see you’ve been injured,” he said, pitching his voice to obvious concern. His hands trembled slightly and he hoped the stranger did not notice. “Do you need my aid?”
“No,” the man responded. “Well, maybe. My friend and I ... we’re looking for someone. A fellow traveler. Ruffians in the fields beyond your village attacked us. We’re hoping you might have seen him or heard word of his whereabouts.”
Beckor met the fellow’s eyes, noting that they missed very little. “What does this man look like?”
“Tall, dark-haired, blue-eyed. He was armed with a sword and wore a green tunic.”
“Sunlord bless,” Beckor said, bowing his head. “Someone found a man fitting your description yesterday.” The man stiffened slightly, leaning a bit forward. “He’s dead.”
“Dead? You’re certain?”
Beckor nodded his head. “I should be. I’m the local healer as well as sun-priest. I buried him yesterday.”
The intensity of the stranger’s gaze sharpened. “Dead in the fields?”
Beckor’s stomach clenched. “No,” he said. “Dead not that long thereafter.”
“You buried him where?”
“In the field where all our people are buried. The Sunlord demands honor be paid to those who have joined him.”
“Ah. Perhaps we might go and pay our respects. He was a friend.”
Though the words spoken evidenced concern one traveler might have for another, a coldness lurked beneath. At that moment, Beckor felt the chill of death not far away. Sun-priest or not, what happened next could easily turn violent. He had no doubt these men were ruthless enough that nothing would stop them from finding Torgon, or at least discovering evidence they had completed their task.
Sosha slipped through the barn door, her heart racing. “Torgon? Be you here?”
A rustle from the straw. “I’m here.”
“Get you up into the rafters if you can,” she said, glancing over her shoulder. “Those men you told us about ... they be here!”
Torgon stood, muttering curses under his breath. He bent and picked up his sword.
“Vkandis protect! You be in no condition to fight. Hide in the hayloft, man! If they come here, it be dark enough they won’t see you.”
He wavered, caught between fight and flight. Finally, he sheathed his sword and eyed the ladder he would have to climb. “You’re right. For the God’s sake, Sosha, be careful! Those two will stop at very little—”
The sound of voices raised in anger silenced him. Sosha turned to the door. “Oh, Sunlord! Get up that ladder! Now!”
She slipped out of the barn, not waiting to see if Torgon complied. Standing by the henhouse, she could see Papa Lorndo at the back door to her house. Confronting him was one of the men she had seen in the chapel. Swallowing convulsively, she slowly walked across the yard.
“Nobody be here but me, my wife, and my dead son’s wife,” Papa Lorndo said, propping himself against the doorjamb. “Don’t know who you lookin’ for, but you won’t find nobody ’round here but us.”
“That’s not what the smithy said. Said he saw your daughter-in-law bring a man into town. That’s the man we’re looking for.”
For a moment, Sosha thought her legs would crumple. “I surely did,” she said in a small voice. The stranger whirled around and faced her. “Near dead when I found him.”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “And where is he now?”
“Don’t know,” she replied, begging Vkandis’s forgiveness for the lie. “Took him to our priest.”
“Then that’s where we’re going,” he growled, grabbing her arm. “Get moving!”
“Take your hands off her!” Papa Lorndo sputtered. “You can’t—”
“Keep your mouth shut!” the man snapped. “Be glad I’m in a good mood!”
He propelled Sosha around the house and down the road toward the chapel. In the early twilight, she could see the harshness of his face, the glint of his eyes.
His worst fears surfaced when Beckor saw the other stranger coming toward the chapel, one burly hand wrapped around Sosha’s upper arm. The poor woman looked both terrified and utterly determined. The moment was now. It all came down to the plan he had put in place the night before.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he exclaimed, putting all the outrage he could into his voice. “You don’t treat young women like that!”
