The Sword of the South - eARC (24 page)

“There’s no bond closer in all the world than that ’twixt courser and rider,” Bahzell went on. “Heart and soul, mind and life—all either of them are after being, all poured out together.
That’s
what makes a wind rider, and there’s naught but death can break that bond.”

“So they truly can speak to each other?” Kenhodan asked, and Bahzell nodded.

“Aye, but only to each other, not to another courser or another rider. Still, there’s signals—calls, you might be calling them—as every wind rider and courser recognize.”

“What sort of ‘calls’?” Kenhodan asked curiously.

Bahzell glanced at him, then grinned and closed his eyes. His mouth opened, and the sound which came from him startled Kenhodan to his feet, knowing he would remember it even if he forgot everything else he’d ever heard. It was wild and fierce, a wordless cry that mingled wind and the dusty beat of hooves with the whistle of a stallion defending his mares. Glamhandro’s head rose high and proud as he nickered a fierce reply, but Kenhodan stared at Bahzell, amazed the hradani could make such a sound.

It was an amazement that became confusion as a whistling scream answered from a closed box stall in the gloomy darkness at the rear of the stable, beyond the lanterns’ illumination. Bahzell spun toward the sound in shock, and it came again, louder and fiercer. The hradani launched himself at the stall like a thrown spear as pride and fury whistled from it yet again, followed by the savage beat of steel-shod hooves on wood. The stall’s closed door shuddered under the pounding, but its heavy timbers held, and Bahzell reached for the latch. It was padlocked tight, and he caught the lock in one hand. His wrist twisted, metal spanged and cracked explosively, and he tossed the shattered lock aside and flung open the door.

“
Phrobus!
”

That shrill, whistling cry of fury sounded a fourth time, and Bahzell snatched the hook knife from his belt and vanished into the stall. Kenhodan heard the heavy blade thunk against the heavy timbers once, twice—a third time—and then a horse prouder than morning burst from the enclosure, trailing half a dozen heavy, severed leads from a halter which had galled angry welts across a coat of gleaming black. He must have stood at least twenty hands—seven feet at the shoulder, his head towering even over Bahzell—and his eyes were fierce and dark, touched with gold under the lanterns.

Bahzell followed him from the stall, hook knife still in his hand, and the stallion wheeled to face him. He glided closer to the hradani, hooves moving delicately, each stride like newborn grace, and Bahzell sheathed the knife and raised his right hand. He extended it in front of him in an oddly formal gesture of salute, and the stallion reached out and touched it with his nose.

“Is that what I think it is?” Kenhodan breathed in Wencit’s ear.

“If you think it’s a courser,” the wizard replied softly.

“Aye.” Bahzell heard them and turned, and his ears were flat to his skull, his eyes hard. “Born on the Wind Plain, and nigh on two thousand leagues from home and herd, and he’d not have come this far without his wind brother. And that—” his deep, rumbling voice went harder than his eyes “—makes me wonder.”

Kenhodan suddenly realized that Fradenhelm was creeping for a side door and moved to intercept him. The stable master squealed and broke for the main entrance, but Bahzell caught him in three strides. His massive hand closed on the nape of the scrawny neck like a steel viper, and the little man squealed again, even louder than before, as the hradani snatched him high at arm’s length and held his toes a foot from the straw strewn floor.

“And why might it be,” Bahzell asked gently, “as you weren’t after mentioning this courser to me?”

“I-I-I—” the horsetrader gobbled in terror. Bahzell shook him gently, and he squealed again. “H-he’s sold! I-I’m just h-holding him for the buyer!”

“I’d not be wishful for you to lie to me,” Bahzell said softly. “It’s angry I’ve been known to grow when someone’s after lying to me, and when I’m angry, I’ve been known to act hasty, friend.”

His fingers tightened, and Fradenhelm’s face twisted in pain.

“No, I’d not like to think you’d be so foolish as to be trying to lie to a champion of Tomanāk, Fradenhelm. There’s never a Sothōii born as would try to sell a courser. They’d die first—aye, and so would the courser! I’ve no notion—yet—how it was as he found himself in that stall, but that’s a thing I
will
know before all’s done, and this I know already. However he came to be here, there’s not a fool in all the world as would trust you with such as he! What’s stolen once can be stolen twice, not but what you know that already. Now—once more—why was it you weren’t after telling me?”

“I-I told you! It’s the truth!”

“No, you lied.” Bahzell’s free hand gripped Fradenhelm’s left forearm. “They say as how hradani are barbarians, little man, and some tales tell true. I’m wondering how it is you’d like going through life with one arm.”

“I told you the truth!” the horsetrader whimpered.

“It’s many a year I’ve known you for a thief,” Bahzell said softly, almost caressingly, “but I was never after taking you for a fool…until now.”

The hradani’s fingers tightened, and Fradenhelm shrieked. Kenhodan stepped towards them, appalled by the expression on his friend’s merciless face, but Wencit’s tiny headshake stopped him.

Kenhodan watched in something like horror as Bahzell tightened his grip and Fradenhelm writhed. He screamed again, setting horses neighing and stamping, but Bahzell’s eyes never flickered. Tighter his hand clamped, like a vise of steel. Kenhodan knew what had to happen, but the snap of breaking bone and Fradenhelm’s howl of agony made his stomach muscles jump.

Bahzell released the broken arm, visibly bent in the middle. He gripped Fradenhelm’s other arm…and smiled.

“
All right!
” the horsetrader shrieked as Bahzell touched him. He sobbed in terror and pain as the hradani released him contemptuously to huddle in a beaten ball. Kenhodan smelled his terror, and he couldn’t blame him. For the first time, Kenhodan realized that Bahzell was truly hradani, whatever else he might be.

“Quickly, Fradenhelm,” Bahzell said quietly.

“It was…was the wizard. They told me…told me he’d pass through. They said—they said they’d pay…pay five hundred kormaks if I told them w-when he got here.…”

“And the courser?” Kenhodan barely recognized Bahzell’s icy voice.

“The…the courser?” Fradenhelm cradled his broken arm, whimpering as he looked into Bahzell’s stony face.

“This is a courser.” Bahzell spoke tonelessly, as if reciting an indictment, and his rustic accent had completely vanished. “No wind rider will abandon his courser, and no more will a courser abandon his rider. They’ll die first. So tell me, Fradenhelm—
how did you get this courser?!
”

“I-I—” Fradenhelm stuttered helplessly at the whiplash question. “I don’t know! Please, Bahzell! They brought him here! They said he’d be good bait to…trap you—”

His gobbling voice broke off in a fresh howl of pain as Bahzell backhanded him. The hradani grabbed the front of his apron and yanked him to his feet, and the hook knife whispered evilly from its sheath.

“Hear me, Fradenhelm. You can play Hirahim’s game with the local magistrates whenever you choose, but your life is mine now, little man. This courser came here with a wind rider. I’ve no idea how you got him fastened in that stall in the first place, but this I do know—you’d never have done it unless his rider was dead first. And that means someone—and it may have been you—killed a wind rider in this stable. But that wasn’t wise, d’you see, because
I’m
a wind rider. I don’t like people who kill my brothers, and himself doesn’t like those who do murder in the dark. So there’s no least reason in the world for me to leave your throat uncut. You’d best be thinking of a reason, and you’d best come up with it fast.”

The keen edge of the hook knife touched the side of Fradenhelm’s neck delicately.

“It wasn’t me!” Fradenhelm shrieked. “It was
them!
They asked after you, and he wanted to know why!
They
killed him, and one of them darted the courser with a blowgun. I don’t know what they used on him—I
swear
I don’t!—but it left him as meek as a kitten. They…they made me put him in the stall. It wasn’t my idea! I told them it was madness! I warned them the wind riders would find out! But it was done. It was already
done,
I tell you! I was supposed to get rid of him, but I couldn’t. He’s worth too much—the Purple Lords would pay a
fortune
for a courser! I didn’t even know who they were, or why they were hunting you—not at first! I swear! On my father’s life I swear it!”

“You never met your father,” Bahzell said coldly, “but that’s neither here nor there. Tell it quick and tell it true, Fradenhelm, and it might be you’ll live another hour. Who’s this ‘they’ you keep yammering about?”

“Chernion,” Fradenhelm whispered ashenly. “It…was Chernion.”

Bahzell’s lips tightened and he dropped the horsetrader with a thud, then snatched up a blanket and saddle. He turned to the coal black courser, holding up the blanket, and the courser dipped its head, touching its nose to it and then turning broadside to help the hradani throw it across his back.

“Who’s Chernion?” Kenhodan demanded, dazed by events, as the saddle followed the blanket.

“Better to ask
what
he is,” Wencit said grimly.

“Don’t you start any damned word games with me
now!
” Kenhodan snapped.

“Start—Oh, I see.” Wencit chuckled humorlessly. “I meant that the important thing is his trade. He’s the master of the Assassins Guild.”

“
Assassins Guild?!
They’re outlawed!”

“And would you be telling me what that matters?” Bahzell tossed over his shoulder as he tightened the saddle’s girth. “I’m thinking corsairs are after being outlawed, as well, but it’s in my mind as how you’ll meet them now and again. What’s after mattering is that someone’s set the best assassin of them all on us—and I’m thinking as how he’ll be here soon.”

“True. So we’d best leave even sooner,” Wencit agreed.

Bahzell nodded curtly and reached up to unbuckle the heavy halter. He hurled it away from him with an ugly expression, then bowed to the courser.

“Will you bear him, Wind Brother?” he asked quietly, and the stallion looked back at him for a heartbeat, then bent his head in an unmistakable nod of agreement.

“My thanks, and Walsharno’s as well,” Bahzell said, and turned to Wencit. “I’m thinking you’ve found the mount you were after needing, Wencit.”

“I thank you for the trust and the honor.” Wencit’s voice was deep and measured, and he held out his hand in the same gesture Bahzell had used. The stallion touched it with his nose, and Wencit bowed.

The courser started walking toward the open door. Bahzell gathered up the pack horses’ lead reins and followed, and Kenhodan shook himself and began leading Glamhandro in the hradani’s wake.

“What about—?” He jutted his chin at Fradenhelm.

“What about him?” Wencit asked. “What more harm can he do? Does he know where we are bound, or why? All he can tell them is that Bahzell’s with us, and they know that already, or they wouldn’t have murdered the wind rider. Leave him be.”

“Aye.” Bahzell paused in the open doorway and looked down coldly. “We’ve had our dealings, Fradenhelm, and it’s once or twice you’ve done me a good turn. I’m remembering that now, and you’d best be grateful. Aye, and be thankful you’re a crawling dog, for well I know as
you
couldn’t kill a wind rider even from behind. But mark me, little man. If ever I see you again, I’ll not break your arms; I’ll rip them off and feed you the stumps!”

The hradani glared at the horsetrader, and Kenhodan knew he meant it. Bahzell waited for an answer, but Fradenhelm only curled more tightly and moaned. The hradani snarled in disgust and pushed through the door.

Clouds had settled lower, and the air was moist with river mist. Kenhodan sniffed. The promised rain was close, the air was raw and chill, and breeze swirled about him, stirring his hair as he leaned against Glamhandro. Wencit swung into the courser’s saddle with a curious formality, and the huge black stallion accepted him, stamping briskly, eager to be off.

“Which way, Wencit?” Bahzell asked.

“East. Make for the Morfintan High Road. Perhaps that will throw them off.”

“East it is, then. Mount up, Kenhodan!” Bahzell’s deep bellow was rich with laughter. “We’ve some running to do.”

Kenhodan swung up on Glamhandro, and the big gray sidled sideways beneath him. He felt muscles tighten as his thighs gripped the strong barrel, and in that moment, he was a centaur. Elation pounded in his throat, and his head whirled with the staccato pace of the last few minutes.

“What about you?” he asked, looking across at Bahzell, whose head was only a little lower than his own even with Glamhandro under him.

“There’s never a horse born as can run a Horse Stealer into the ground, lad!” Bahzell laughed. “A courser, now—
he
might be after doing it, but it won’t be happening soon, and I’ve a suspicion I’ll not be stuck afoot long. You just be worrying about your own saddle sores and leave the boot leather to me!”

“Whatever you say.” Kenhodan shook his head, and Bahzell laughed again.

“Lead us, Bahzell,” Wencit said, and the hradani nodded sharply. Then he turned, impossibly quick—impossibly graceful—for someone of his towering inches and Kenhodan blinked as he disappeared out of the stable yard’s front gate at a dead run with the startled packhorses lunging into motion to keep up with him.

The red-haired man looked across at Wencit for a moment, and then—as one—Glamhandro and the courser shot forward, steel shoes sparking on the cobbles in a battering of hooves.

The night swallowed them, and they were gone. The sound of their horses died on the moaning breeze.

CHAPTER NINE

The Road to Morfintan

The sound of hooves had long faded and the moon blinked and vanished in a bank of black and silver cloud as the smell of rain grew stronger. The flooded river’s rush was a low, grumbling rush, underpinning the night, and the breeze swirled mist under the stable lantern while the sign creaked.

A dozen figures in black leather slipped through the mist. No blazon marred their black garb, and the feeble light seemed to sink into them and vanish. A concealing hood covered each face and soft buskins slithered noiselessly over the paving. The wind made more noise than they.

Their slim leader paused, head swaying as if to scent the night. An imperiously raised hand halted the others as the leader sidled up to the stable door and paused again. The unbolted panel stirred to the wind’s touch, and steel whispered. A longsword gleamed, dull in the moonlight and lantern light, as a buskin toed the door soundlessly open, and six figures filtered through like fog.

Fradenhelm huddled in a corner, propped against the wall, and clutched his arm while whimpers leaked through his teeth. An hour had passed since Bahzell dropped him, but shock and terror gripped him still, sapping his strength.

Five hundred gold kormaks had seemed a fortune, especially with half of it paid in advance, when all he’d had to do was inform the assassins when their victims appeared. Even the murder of the wind rider had been easy, for all he’d done was look the other way. Yet the rider’s death rattle had been the first whisper of his own fate, and now he knew what greed might have cost him.

He was marked. As a wind rider, Bahzell shared an obligation to kill him with every wind rider of the vast Kingdom of the Sothōii. The Sothōii had seemed safely far away at the time, but that distance had become cold comfort in the wake of Bahzell’s visit. Fradenhelm was only grateful their past dealings had created an offsetting obligation in the hradani’s mind. It gave him a chance to flee, and he must run if he wanted to live—run so far and hide so deep that no one, not even Bahzell Bloody Hand, could ever find him again.

Unless the assassins actually managed to kill Bahzell, of course. The chances of which, based on their uniform lack of success in that respect, were no more than even, even with Chernion himself taking the assignment.

None of which considered the fact that he’d violated
Chernion’s
instructions, as well, which could mean—

A buskin whispered in straw, and his head jerked up as six assassins materialized about him. His spastic effort to rise ended stillborn as a sword tip waved gently at his terror-dilated eyes.

“Greetings, Horsetrader.” The leader’s voice was low, carved from melodious, almost effeminate ice, and Fradenhelm trembled as he stared pleadingly into the dark eye-glitter in the hood’s slits.

“I received your message…tardily. You chose a poor messenger, yet he found us at last and bade us come. Behold me. Where are the targets?”

“G-gone,” Fradenhelm whispered.

“So I perceive.” The voice was gentle. “Weren’t you told to hold them here until I could attend to them?”

“I…They—”

“A simple answer is sufficient, Horsetrader,” the assassin purred.

“I tried! Bahzell was in too big a hurry for me to hold them long. I…I tried to convince them to spend the night here in Korun, but they refused! And…and I sent you word as soon as they got here!”

“You did—by a halfwitted oaf who took an hour and more to find me. But, yes, you sent word. And your messenger tells me you also kept the courser you were supposed to dispose of.” The soft voice sounded almost amused. “You know Bahzell’s a wind rider. Were you truly so foolish you thought you could hide a courser from
him?
”

“They—that is, Bahzell—”

“You told them we were coming, didn’t you?”

“Bahzell made me! He
tortured
me!” Fradenhelm shrieked.

“So I see,” the assassin soothed, “and a man has a right to tell what he knows to end the pain. Even so, Horsetrader, it may have been unwise. You’ve failed me, and no one does that twice. Redeem yourself!” The voice became a lash. “Where did they go?”

“Morfintan! They said Morfintan!” Fradenhelm offered feverishly, raising his good hand ingratiatingly. “I-I crawled to the door to listen.”

“Morfintan.” The assassin considered a moment, then chuckled. “Foolish of you, Horsetrader. Do you really believe Bahzell Bloody Hand wouldn’t guess you were there?”

The slim man nodded, and a knife whispered on leather as it was drawn. Fradenhelm shrank back, moaning as the gleaming blade was bared.

“You’re a fool,” the leader remarked calmly, “and I have no use for fools. Your greed betrayed us, and your stupidity’s allowed our targets to begin some plan to evade us. Farewell, Horsetrader.”

“
Noooooooooooooooo!
”

Fradenhelm’s scream died in a gurgle, and a small body slumped to the straw in a spreading fan of red. The leader had already turned to one of the others.

“Check the gates, Rosper. Check them all. Their destination is Sindor for the present—I’m sure of it. But I think this fool told the truth about what he heard, so perhaps they’ve chosen an indirect route. Check the East Gate well; if they
have
gone that way, we may be able to overtake them on the high road.”

“At once, Chernion.”

“The rest of you, gather our mounts and meet me in the Potters’ Square. We can ride in any direction from there.”

“Yes, Chernion!” they chorused.

“See to it. And hide your leathers until we ride.”

“Yes, Chernion!”

They slapped fists to chests in salute and faded into the mist. Chernion’s emotionless toe pushed the body onto its back, and the assassin reached into an inner pocket for a heavy purse. Gold gleamed as the Guildmaster emptied two hundred and fifty gold kormaks over the corpse.

Chernion dropped the purse and drew a tiny dagger of hammered silver, its pommel a grinning death’s head, from a wrist sheath. The killer drove it through the purse into the dirt, then turned on a heel without glancing back.

Chernion had no use for fools, but examples were another matter. Dog brothers were businessmen, and if mere murder paid no bills, executions for failure built a reputation for ruthless infallibility.

That was worth the kormaks Fradenhelm had been promised.

* * *

Two horsemen and a hradani pressed down the high road.

The hradani’s ears pricked, as if to pluck any sound of pursuit from the breeze, as he ran with the steady, swinging, tireless endurance of the Horse Stealers. Mist wreathed the horses’ knees, so that the riders seemed to float on a sea of vapor that ended at their stirrup irons. Moonlight broke the clouds occasionally, but they’d grown thick; breaks big enough for the moon had become few and far between, and a soft drizzle sifted down.

One of the pack horses stumbled, but Bahzell’s iron arm held him. The gelding recovered, but he breathed heavily as the hradani brought him back up. He was obviously still willing, but he was nearly spent, and the second pack horse was little better, although the courser and Glamhandro appeared fresh enough.

“We’ll have to rest them,” Bahzell said so abruptly Kenhodan started in surprise after the speechless hours. He glanced at the drooping gelding and nodded agreement.

“I fear you’re right.” Wencit rose in the saddle to peer through the depressing mist. The high road was wide and firm, hard paved as it sped across the moor, and a swatch of firm turf ran along either verge for horsemen. The night lay in ashes about them, but dawn was still distant, and fine drops of rain made it hard to see much.

“Over there,” he said finally, pointing into the dark. “I see the loom of some trees. We can shelter there for an hour or so.”

Bahzell looked carefully in the indicated direction and grunted, then led them through the rainy mist at a more sedate paste, followed by Wencit, the pack horses, and Kenhodan. The red-haired man was uneasy, sensing the pursuit he couldn’t see, and his hand brushed his sword hilt. He turned every few minutes to glance cautiously behind, but at least the following breeze favored them. It would carry any sound of pursuit to them and push their own noise ahead…he hoped.

Melting snow and spring’s long rains had struck deep into the soil of South March Moor, and sodden ground sucked at the horses’ hooves between tussocks of stiff grass. A dense belt of firs bulked wetly, farther from the road than Kenhodan would have guessed. They stood on higher, firmer ground, and he suspected they’d been planted as a windbreak for the high road.

He sighed in relief as he dismounted, and Wencit swung down beside him with an echoing sigh of gratitude.

“Old bones don’t take kindly to desperate all-night rides,” the wizard observed, stretching until his shoulders popped loudly.

“Old bones, is it?” Bahzell’s ears twitched at Wencit in amusement. “I’m thinking as how someone wants an excuse to be lying about while others are after doing the work!”

“You expect a poor old man to work after such a night?” Wencit’s voice quavered pitifully. “An old man, worn with his labors and hard riding?”

“Aye,” Bahzell answered with a grin.

“The gods will deal with you as you with me,” Wencit warned him.

“That’s as may be, but it’s pleased as punch you’ve been with yourself all afternoon and night, Wizard. Well, wizard’s news is for wizard’s ears, they say, so I’ll not blame you for not sharing it—though Tomanāk knows it must be after being good indeed to have you grinning like a loon with dog brothers on our heels! But if you’ll not share that, you’ll at least share the work.”

“Learn from this, Kenhodan,” Wencit said mournfully. “Never ride with a hradani. He’ll either eat your horse or make you tend it like a slave.”

The coal black courser snorted. Then his nose pushed the wizard between the shoulders hard enough to make Wencit stumble forward a full stride, and Kenhodan—already busy with Glamhandro—grinned. The wizard turned to the courser, and the huge stallion cocked his head to one side, turning it to regard Wencit with a steady eye until he reached up and laid one palm on the courser’s forehead. The stallion pushed against it, far more gently, and Wencit smiled.

“Old and feeble I may be, My Lord, but I’m sure I can dredge up at least a little energy.”

The courser snorted again, and Wencit began loosening the saddle girth.

Kenhodan already had Glamhandro’s saddle off, and the big gray was sweaty enough to need attention in the chill air. Yet he still spoiled for a run—his ears were forward, and his left forefoot dug at the damp turf as Kenhodan stroked his velvet nose, then rubbed him down briskly. He turned the blanket and replaced the saddle, then draped his poncho over the horse. The firs protected him from the rain, and Glamhandro’s overheated strength needed warmth more than he. He eased the bit from the stallion’s mouth, and Glamhandro nuzzled his ear, blowing gently before he dropped his head to crop the sparse grass.

Kenhodan listened to the sound of grazing for a moment, then turned to help the others. Bahzell was just finishing with the first of the pack courses, and he glanced at Kenhodan with a tight grin as he bent his great bow and nodded back towards the high road. Kenhodan nodded in understanding, and the hradani vanished into the mist. Kenhodan heard his boots suck in and out of the mud once or twice; then there was only silence.

The red-haired man removed the second pack horse’s pack frame and set it aside, and the weary gelding—a gray, darker than Glamhandro with black legs—blew gratefully. The red-haired man began working the rubbing cloth over the horse’s coat and glanced over his shoulder at Wencit.

The courser was big enough to make it difficult for the wizard to reach his poll without some sort of stool, but the stallion had bent his head to ease the task, and Wencit’s hands were gentle on the galled welts his imprisoning halter had left. He wore no bridle, of course. Most coursers wore ornamental hackamores, usually without reins and decorated with ornamental silver work or even gems. No wind rider would even consider putting a bit into his companion’s mouth, and no courser would ever choose a rider who might have contemplated anything of the sort. Kenhodan knew that, yet he’d still found it strange to watch Wencit cantering through the night with his hands resting on his thighs.

Now the wizard finished rubbing down the courser, and the stallion touched him with his nose again in thanks, then moved over beside Glamhandro to tear at the scanty grass.

Kenhodan and Wencit worked together, as silently and smoothly as if they’d practiced it for years, to set the picket pins for the pack animals. Wencit seemed content to trust their security to Bahzell, and after a moment or two of thought, Kenhodan discovered that he shared his confidence. The red-haired man considered what would happen to any pursuers out there in the dark and felt less anxious as he checked the picket rope and turned wearily to Wencit.

“Do we dare risk of fire? Or are they likely to be so close we really need Bahzell out there?”

“Probably not—to both questions.” Wencit’s silver hair gleamed with the fine raindrops. “For all his banter, Bahzell’s cautious. He doesn’t really expect to see anyone, but he hasn’t lived this long by ignoring remote possibilities. But why were you wanting a fire?”

“Leeana packed plenty of tea. I thought a cup or two…?”

“An excellent idea! And we don’t need a fire for that; I’ll provide the heat.”

There was a stream somewhere near, chuckling softly in the night. Indeed, it was a rare spot on South March Moor where one
didn’t
hear running water, but direction was easily lost in the mist. Kenhodan didn’t care to stray far on the fog-girt moor, so he unstoppered a canteen to fill Bahzell’s blackened camp kettle and dropped in a handful of fragrant tea.

While he did that, Wencit had drawn his sword and turned up the flat of the blade. Now he set the kettle on the inlaid steel, balancing it with his free hand. His brilliant eyes burned even brighter for a moment and a diamond-hard glitter edged the blade, bathing his features in blue luminescence. Kenhodan swallowed a muffled exclamation and moved quickly between the sword and the road to hide its light, but his instinctive protest died as the kettle began to steam. His eyes fastened on the razor edge of light, and his mind echoed with a strange humming noise.