Angelslayer: The Winnowing War by K. Michael Wright Page A

solemn, but Lamachus just chuckled.
    â€œAye, boy, save us from these flesh-eating calves!” At this he chuckled harder.
    â€œLamachus, what on earth is this about?”
    â€œIt is about you, your daughter, and those damned seer-speakers wandering about filling up people’s heads with idiotic ideas. Back in the old country, they would be stoned, which is what would happen to them here if not for the stinking Daath looking over our shoulders. I had a proper god when I fought in the battle of Anarch and I need not be trading him in for the drivel of the Followers of Enoch, and if I should catch any of you listening to their babble, so help me you will regret it; promise you that. Aeson, my boy, I have some strong advice—you forget all this, go in and get some sleep. We have more than enough work tomorrow in that north field.”
    Aeson tightened his jaw, then turned for his room.
    Before she could say anything, Lamachus looked to Camilla and narrowed his thick brows. She sighed and went back to washing the last of the dishes. “He did not even get supper, Lamachus,” she said.
    â€œSomething you brought on him. And no more! I am done with this nonsense, understand me? Followers of Enoch—I find one, I intend to break his nose just for giving me this day.”

    In his and Adrea’s room, Aeson leaned against the wall and slid down it until he was sitting, staring across at Adrea. Her knees were drawn up to her chin, her arms folded around them, and her eyes swollen from crying. “Adrea! Are you all right?”
    â€œI am fine. And we can all be comforted I am still marketable.” Aeson narrowed his brow. “What did he do to you? I know he did something. What was it this time?”
    â€œNothing, Aeson. It was nothing.”
    â€œSomeday I will be grown, and he will not make you cry ever again.”
    â€œHe cannot help himself. He has seen a lot of war, a lot of men die, some of them his own brothers. It changes men. Maybe it would leave you with a short temper, as well. We need to learn to be forgiving. He is still our father.”
    Aeson sighed. Then, suddenly, it came to him. The cylinder! He had forgotten all about it. He scrambled to his knees and searched the pouch of his belt, panicked that it had been lost. “Ah, no … wait, here it is.” He pulled it out, sighed in relief, and held it up. “See this?”
    She didn’t answer.
    â€œA harlot gave me this. I was in the east pasture, the baron’s land, fixing that same fence again—damn cow, maybe a rock to its head would fix that fence. But what happened is a harlot on a roan stallion came up and gave me this.” “Aeson, what are you talking about?” “It is for you!” “What is for me?”
    â€œThis!” He twirled the cylinder. It was embossed with etchings, and he was certain it was pure silver by the way the moonlight played on its surface. “The harlot, she had rings on every finger, and anklets of silver, and she smelled of myrrh. She knew you. She knew me by name and she called you the red-hair. She was Daathan, her hair was dyed silver—I guess they do that. And look here on the edge of this chamber; that is the seal of the eagle.”
    Adrea was now beside him and snatched it from his fingers before he could say anything more. “When did this happen?”
    â€œThis morning.”
    â€œAnd you waited until now to give it to me!”
    â€œI had chores, and Lamachus was watching me all day.”
    Adrea studied the eagle signet with interest. “The rider of the wood,” she whispered. Adrea closed her hand about the cylinder and crawled back to her bed mat. Aeson was watching, wide-eyed.
    â€œAll right, Aeson, you have given it to me. Thank you.”
    â€œAre you not going to open it?”
    She hesitated. She would have preferred opening it when she was alone, but she could wait no more than Aeson could. She broke