eyes narrowed, and she tilted her head. "The scars on your face. Did you earn them in battle?"
Koyee stiffened. She didn't like people staring at her scars, let alone discussing them, but then again—every one here had scars of their own. She growled at Longarm.
"I battled a nightwolf. I slew him, but not before he gave me these. I now wear his fur as my tunic."
Longarm placed a finger under Koyee's chin, raised her head, and turned her cheek into the moonlight. She nodded in approval.
"I will name you Halfsmile," she said, "for your scar raises your lips in a smirk."
Koyee bared her teeth. "I have a real name. I am—"
"You are Halfsmile," Longarm said. "We have no real names here. You will be one of us. You are fast and brave, and you carry sharp steel. We need more fighters." She gestured at the younger children. "These ones are sneaky and fast, but only the twins and I know how to fight." She turned toward Whisper. "Start a fire! Cook these crabs. Halfsmile will eat with us."
The last thing Koyee wanted was to remain in a graveyard, surrounded by thieves. The first thing she wanted was to eat. Hunger overcame her fear, and soon Koyee found herself sitting by a campfire, filthy thieves around her, eating boiled crabs and drinking icy water.
"I'm not one of you," she mumbled through a mouthful of crab meat. "So stop calling me Halfsmile."
But the children only reached out, touched the scar raising the corner of her mouth, and laughed.
"Halfsmile, Halfsmile!" they said. "Welcome to the Dust Face Ghosts."
Koyee swallowed and sighed. She decided to stay for only a while longer, only until the city elders agreed to see her. She ate among the graves, her sword across her back, and thought of home.
Had more Timandrians emerged from the dusk? Were her fellow villagers safe? Oshy seemed so far away, a different world, and the old Koyee—the fisherman's daughter—seemed a different person.
I miss you, Oshy, she thought. I miss you, Father.
She reached for another crab, huddled closer to the others for warmth, and let nothing but thoughts of food and fire fill her mind.
CHAPTER EIGHT:
CLOAKS AND ARROWS
Torin was standing on the Watchtower when trees creaked below, howls rose, and robed figures burst out from the dusk.
His heart leaped into a gallop, and he fumbled for his bow and arrows. He cursed as the bow slipped from his fingers to clatter against the battlements. The yelps rose below, wordless battle cries, the sound of rabid dogs. Fingers shaking, Torin lifted his bow, pulled an arrow from his quiver, and nocked it. He leaned across the battlements, aiming his arrow below.
The four figures raced from the shadowy trees, heading toward Fairwool-by-Night. They wore black robes, and hoods hid their faces. Each man held a bow with a flaming arrow, and swords swung upon their hips. They shouted as they ran, clearing the trees and racing across a rye field toward the village.
"Elorian soldiers," Torin whispered. It was as he'd feared. They wanted revenge for their burnt brother.
Torin closed one eye, aimed at a man, and fired.
His arrow whistled down, flew by an Elorian, and slammed into the earth.
Torin cursed. As he drew a second arrow, he shouted down the tower.
"Bailey! Bailey, where are you? Elorians attack!"
He fired another arrow, missed again, and growled. The Elorians were only heartbeats away from the village now. Torin spun toward the western merlons. Fairwool-by-Night lay in the valley below. A few villagers had heard the shouts; they emerged from their cottages and looked around, confused.
"Elorians attack!" Torin shouted. "Village Guard—to the rye field!"
He spun back toward the field; it lay south of him between the tower and the river. The four Elorians, clad in their black robes, stood among the rye stalks. They tugged back their bowstrings, aiming their flaming arrows.
They fired.
Torin cursed and shot his own arrow.
His missile flew true. It slammed into the chest of an
Koyee stiffened. She didn't like people staring at her scars, let alone discussing them, but then again—every one here had scars of their own. She growled at Longarm.
"I battled a nightwolf. I slew him, but not before he gave me these. I now wear his fur as my tunic."
Longarm placed a finger under Koyee's chin, raised her head, and turned her cheek into the moonlight. She nodded in approval.
"I will name you Halfsmile," she said, "for your scar raises your lips in a smirk."
Koyee bared her teeth. "I have a real name. I am—"
"You are Halfsmile," Longarm said. "We have no real names here. You will be one of us. You are fast and brave, and you carry sharp steel. We need more fighters." She gestured at the younger children. "These ones are sneaky and fast, but only the twins and I know how to fight." She turned toward Whisper. "Start a fire! Cook these crabs. Halfsmile will eat with us."
The last thing Koyee wanted was to remain in a graveyard, surrounded by thieves. The first thing she wanted was to eat. Hunger overcame her fear, and soon Koyee found herself sitting by a campfire, filthy thieves around her, eating boiled crabs and drinking icy water.
"I'm not one of you," she mumbled through a mouthful of crab meat. "So stop calling me Halfsmile."
But the children only reached out, touched the scar raising the corner of her mouth, and laughed.
"Halfsmile, Halfsmile!" they said. "Welcome to the Dust Face Ghosts."
Koyee swallowed and sighed. She decided to stay for only a while longer, only until the city elders agreed to see her. She ate among the graves, her sword across her back, and thought of home.
Had more Timandrians emerged from the dusk? Were her fellow villagers safe? Oshy seemed so far away, a different world, and the old Koyee—the fisherman's daughter—seemed a different person.
I miss you, Oshy, she thought. I miss you, Father.
She reached for another crab, huddled closer to the others for warmth, and let nothing but thoughts of food and fire fill her mind.
CHAPTER EIGHT:
CLOAKS AND ARROWS
Torin was standing on the Watchtower when trees creaked below, howls rose, and robed figures burst out from the dusk.
His heart leaped into a gallop, and he fumbled for his bow and arrows. He cursed as the bow slipped from his fingers to clatter against the battlements. The yelps rose below, wordless battle cries, the sound of rabid dogs. Fingers shaking, Torin lifted his bow, pulled an arrow from his quiver, and nocked it. He leaned across the battlements, aiming his arrow below.
The four figures raced from the shadowy trees, heading toward Fairwool-by-Night. They wore black robes, and hoods hid their faces. Each man held a bow with a flaming arrow, and swords swung upon their hips. They shouted as they ran, clearing the trees and racing across a rye field toward the village.
"Elorian soldiers," Torin whispered. It was as he'd feared. They wanted revenge for their burnt brother.
Torin closed one eye, aimed at a man, and fired.
His arrow whistled down, flew by an Elorian, and slammed into the earth.
Torin cursed. As he drew a second arrow, he shouted down the tower.
"Bailey! Bailey, where are you? Elorians attack!"
He fired another arrow, missed again, and growled. The Elorians were only heartbeats away from the village now. Torin spun toward the western merlons. Fairwool-by-Night lay in the valley below. A few villagers had heard the shouts; they emerged from their cottages and looked around, confused.
"Elorians attack!" Torin shouted. "Village Guard—to the rye field!"
He spun back toward the field; it lay south of him between the tower and the river. The four Elorians, clad in their black robes, stood among the rye stalks. They tugged back their bowstrings, aiming their flaming arrows.
They fired.
Torin cursed and shot his own arrow.
His missile flew true. It slammed into the chest of an
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