“Ah, yes. She has always been drawn to the world of make-believe. I believe it is the graymind.”
“That’s just it,” Son continued. “I can’t figure out if I’m seeing her graymind or irksome behavior.”
Dulnear snickered quietly. “You are seeing Maren. That is all that matters,” he said. “She is unique, bright, imaginative, frustrating, and loved enough by the three of us that we would risk much to find her and set her free.”
Son smiled and looked into the night. “I suppose so. It’s just that she is harder to love at times.”
The man from the north chuckled under his breath, “As are all of us, Son. As are all of us.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Open Sores
Late the next morning, the three travelers arrived at Lahald, one of the villages scattered along the outskirts of Ahmcathare. They had been there only a year before to purchase Faymia’s freedom from the slaver Tcharron. The scent of the town dug into the woman’s scars, releasing pain and shame that she had believed to be at rest since her marriage to Dulnear.
They approached the tavern where she once served drink and pleasure to loathsome men. As they did, the world seemed to spin around the former slave. She felt dizzy and her breathing became shallow.
Halting their horses outside, the man from the north noticed the change in his wife’s disposition. “Are you okay, my love?” he asked.
“I didn’t expect…” she said before wiping a tear from her eye. She looked at the large wood and iron door to the pub, then up at the window of the rented room above.
“You do not have to go in,” the warrior broke in. “Son and I can speak to Tcharron ourselves.”
As Faymia looked into the eyes of her husband, she experienced something unexpected. She looked at his broad shoulders, the hilt of his sword peeking out from underneath his fur coat, and the iron fist that Son had made for him when his hand was taken by his fellow northerners. She also remembered his resoluteness in doing what was right, even when peril was a certainty. She became emboldened by his example and replied, “I know I don’t have to, my layoak. I’m going in anyway.” She took inventory of her quiver and then dismounted her horse.
Son also leaped down from the horse and tied it to a post. He checked the buttons on his coat and felt for his weapon several times. “What should I do?” he asked Dulnear.
The man from the north replied, “Just stay behind me, and listen.”
“What should I listen for?” the boy asked.
“Details of words spoken, metal being drawn, heavy steps. Let your surroundings speak to you and keep your hand close to your sword,” he said. He then swung himself off of his horse and faced his young friend. “It is going to be all right, lad,” he assured. “I will not allow any harm to come to you. Just be vigilant.” He then turned toward Faymia and spoke. “And you, precious, are as brave and strong as they come. You could slay a hundred men if you chose.”
The words her husband spoke had a strange effect on her. She felt both bolstered and like weeping at the same time. She pushed back the tears and gathered fortitude from his encouragement.
“Tcharron has no claim to you and no power over you,” he continued. “You are not merely a former slave. You are beautiful, cunning, and powerful. Let us go in and see what we can learn about Maren.”
Side-by-side, Dulnear and Faymia stepped into the pub, with Son trailing close behind them. The sounds and odors of the establishment threatened to overtake the confidence the woman had just gained. Knowing exactly where to look, she could see Tcharron standing at the end of the bar.
Son’s fists curled into steel spheres as he followed his friends toward the back of the pub. There was a long bar counter there and well-dressed, cologne-drenched men stood around it smoking and cackling about matters he had no understanding of. His heart beat against the inside of his chest as if it were trying to find a way out, but he did his best to do as the man from the north said and listen with utmost vigilance.
“Tcharron!” he heard Dulnear call out in a deep, confident tone.
Immediately, the cackling ceased and all eyes were on the warrior and his bride. At the end of the bar stood a man with oiled, black hair. He wore a well-groomed mustache and beard, and reeked of an air of condescendence. He looked up with an annoyed expression. Then his eyes widened as he exclaimed, “Well, you must be kidding me.” He then stepped away from his companions and approached the trio. With a broad, insincere smile he continued, “I never expected to see the two of you again. Did you come to return her to me?” he quipped. “I’m sorry to inform you that all sales are final.”
The room erupted with laughter, but Dulnear’s countenance remained unchanged. “You might say that we are passing through—” he began.
Before he could continue, Tcharron interrupted, “Then perhaps you should move along. You’re not welcome here, unless you’ve brought me more of your northern gold.” He glanced around for approval and the men at the bar sniggered as they stood up straight.
The hair on the back of Son’s neck felt like needles as his mind rehearsed worst-case scenarios and proper defense maneuvers.
“You do not amuse me,” the warrior continued with a dead expression. “We are simply here to ask a question and be on our way.”
“Okay, mighty goat,” the slaver jabbed. “What is it that—” Stopping himself in the middle of his question, he threw his gaze at Son. “Wait a minute. Who’s the boy?” he asked.
Dulnear’s
