As Ōbhin reined up the wagon, Grey said, “I knew your men could handle it.”
“‘Course they could,” Ust said. “My boys are the meanest pack of outlaws this side of the Border Fangs.”
“I see you were in the thick of it,” Grey said.
“The bloodfire tried to cut my head off, but he just got a lucky punch in, that’s all.” Ust glanced murder at Ōbhin.
Whiner Creg let out a cackling laugh. Hook cuffed his head.
“Well, you and your men can relax in the smokehouse. Food’s in there.” Grey stepped out from the porch, walking past Ust like he mattered hardly a whit. He gave a nod to Ōbhin as he approached the wagon, his strides long, his bearing that of a man who took decisive action. No hesitation.
A leader.
“Dualayn,” said Grey.
“You’re in charge now?” asked Dualayn. “Not your father?”
“His soul rose to Elohm’s Colours two years ago. I run things now.” He held out a hand. “Let me help you down, old friend.”
“Friend?” asked Dualayn. “You sent bandits to capture me.”
“Escort you,” said Grey. His smile was genial. “I am sorry your bloodfire felt the need to object. Rare fighter, those. The world’s lessened by his absence. I hope his soul rose up to Elohm’s bosom.”
“Still,” Dualayn said and then grunted as he stepped down, steadied by Grey.
The Brotherhood’s leader glanced at the Recorder. “Things have grown more . . . urgent. Come, come, you have to meet the others.” Grey turned to Ōbhin. “Stable the wagon in the barn. I’ll see if she’ll look at your friend.”
Ōbhin nodded. He was about to ask who “she” was when a striking woman stepped out of the farmhouse. He hardly noticed the man in the woman’s wake because of the beatific glow that seemed to radiate from the serene figure. Pure-white hair spilled like a silk waterfall past her shoulders and down the back of the dark-gray dress she wore. Though her hair held the snow of years, her cheeks were as smooth and fair as Avena’s, contrasting with the brightness of the lady’s ruby lips. Her eyes flicked to him; his back straightened.
“Oh, my,” Avena said, her voice strangled.
“Yeah,” said Ōbhin.
“What happened to his head? Are those . . . tattoos?”
Ōbhin wrenched his attention from the woman to the man standing behind her, half-blocked by her presence. He had the dusky-brown skin of an easterner. He had five tattoos, like black lightning bolts that wrapped around his bald head, points reaching for his face. They were asymmetrically placed with three on the right side. It was almost like a jagged hand gripped his head. He looked out of place in his dark waistcoat and pants. His eyes flicked over to Ōbhin.
A shiver ran through him at the scrutiny. He felt a bug before the sparrow.
Are you the watcher?
“There is a wounded man?” asked the white-haired lady, her voice fair and melodic.
“One of Ust’s men was harmed in a slight misunderstanding over the nature of Dualayn’s invitation to meet with us.”
“Ah,” the woman said.
The bald man’s hand slipped into his pants pocket, eyes staring with intensity at the wagon.
The tension mounting in Ōbhin’s shoulders, he guided the horses to the barn. Its roof still looked intact, though its large doors had broken from their hinges and lay rotting to the side, half-buried by sprouting grass and weeds.
“Who are they?” Avena asked.
Ōbhin shook his head, feeling the strange man’s eyes on him. A shudder rippled down his spine.
“I will look at him once we finish our conversation with Master Dualayn,” the lady said. “I am a great admirer of your work, sir.”
“You are most kind.”
The woman smiled and vanished inside, followed a moment later by her shadow. Ōbhin rolled his shoulders, glad to be free of the scrutiny. Avena let out an explosive breath. She rubbed her hands together, bare fingers wiggling.
“Have you ever seen someone tattooed like that?” she asked.
Ōbhin shook his head. The horses plodded into the open barn. The scent of moldering hay, dust, and old dung filled his nose. Light filtered through holes in the wall, spilling across the ruined floor. Stables for livestock lay to the right, a loft above with bales of hay still waiting to be spread.
What happened to the owners? wondered Ōbhin.
He dismounted and busied himself unhitching the horses and leading them into the stalls. He found hay that looked fresh, giving the draft horses both fodder to munch on. Avena busied herself in the back of the wagon, attending to Carstin.
Soon, she slipped to the barn’s floor. She stared at the open doors, her right hand rubbing at her left arm. He came up beside her, the sun lowering. The feeling of eyes watching grew. He glanced at the overgrown fields, thick with spring growth.
“So you work for the Brotherhood,” Avena said with an acerbic bite to her words.
He shrugged. “I was lost. They gave me a path.”
“Not a great one.”
His cheeks burned at her accusations. “No. I was resonating with Niszeh.”
*
Avena studied Ōbhin out of the corner of her eye as he stared out at the overgrown field. That itch in the back of her mind grew. The way he talked with Grey held a familiarity about it, and yet Ōbhin was subordinate to Ust.
Why do you follow that Black-stained braggart?
She sighed and turned to the field. The thick grass appeared to be wheat growing wild while several vegetable plots had the start of squash sprouting. A chill washed down her back. It was so similar to her father’s farm despite here being days from the village of Upper Kash.
