The looseness in her belly shifted downward. She had only a few words of Sull and she did not know what he wanted.
"I said show me Dras Xathu" The stranger's voice turned sharp, and when he spoke something unpleasant happened to his mouth. "Now!"
The word hit Ash like a slap to the face. The only other person who had spoken to her in that way was her foster father, and she was surprised by the strong instinct to "be a good girl." Confused, she struggled to comprehend what the stranger meant. Dras Xathu? The First Cut? When understanding finally came she felt no relief. Just more confusion.
Taking a step forward, she tilted her face and raised her chin. The wound inflicted upon her many weeks ago by Ark Veinsplitter was now a rough scar. It had been an initiation of sorts, part of becoming Sull. "Before a child comes to manhood or womanhood," Ark had told her, "blood must be drawn in friendly combat. We wound ourselves so that we might deprive our enemies of the satisfaction of delivering the First Cut."
As the stranger moved forward to inspect it, Ash held herself still. She could not let him know he had upset her. A hand gloved in lizard skin grasped her chin, and suddenly she could smell him: pungent and powerfully alien. Immediately, something primeval at the base of her brain responded with a warning: You will never be one of them.
With careless force he thrust her chin up and back. A finger slid across the roof of her lower jaw, halted, then pushed up at the exact point where bone ended and soft tissue began. Ash coughed in panic. He was closing off her windpipe.
Abruptly the pressure stopped. Turning away from her, he slid the sickle knife into his buckskin tunic. 'You will travel with me from now on, Ash March. Stow your equipment and saddle the horse. We do not sleep here this night."
Ash fingered her throat. She had never seen the wound Ark had inflicted, and for the first time it struck her that the scar felt strange. The raised tissue seemed to form a shape. Briefly, she traced it with her thumbnail but couldn't work it out.
Her attention shifted when a muscular black stallion trotted into view. The animal came at Lan's command, emerging from the darkness of the cedars. Tossing its head and kicking its skirted heels high, it moved with some knowledge of its own worth. It was trapped and harnessed for a long journey, with wide belly and rump straps for hauling camp gear and a leather hood to protect its eyes. Ash had spent time with Sull horses and thought she knew them … but this one. This was one fit for a king.
"Do not touch him."
She had been in the process of reaching out her hand to let the horse sniff her, and she halted awkwardly midway. Her horse trotted past her as she stood there, its head lowered in shy submission, eager to greet this splendid new creature. Was that why he hadn't alerted her to the stranger's presence? Did Sull never warn against Sull?
"Pack your equipment."
Ash rounded on the stranger. He wasn't her foster father, she told herself. She didn't have to obey him. "I choose to travel alone, Lan Fallstar. Do not trouble yourself with me any longer." The words were a mistake-she knew that—but the stranger rattled her. His hot and cold behavior reminded her too much of Iss. Clicking her tongue she beckoned her traitorous horse. Raise camp and depart, that's what I'll do. The best direction didn't seem immediately clear, but she'd think about that later.
The Far Rider's dark eyes glittered strangely. "This Sull believes you are owed a second apology. Sull do not command other Sull." A calculated smile revealed white, even teeth. "But we are all possessive of our mounts."
He wanted her to smile with him, and even though she knew it she smiled anyway. Angus Lok, Mal Naysayer, Ark Veinsplittcr: good men all of them, but god help you if you harmed their horses.
"In my father's house we have a saying. A poor beginning is no excuse for a poor end. So forgive me, Ash March. This Sull has been on the road too long and needs to relearn good manners."
In my father's house we lie and lock people up, she wanted to reply. But didn't. Before she could form a proper response, Lan spoke again.
"Come. We must break bread before the journey." Without waiting for a reply he unbuckled a road-beaten saddlebag from the stallion's rump. Resting it on the ground, he pulled out a rolled-up carpet and an ivory box. Woven from midnight-blue silk, the carpet was old and very fine. A design of five-pointed stars and denuded trees was worked in silver thread. Ash had seen such Sull carpets before—both Ark and the Naysayer had possessed them—but she had never seen one as intricately worked as this. When she blinked the design stayed before her eyes, temporarily burned into her retinas like a light source.
"It is the skin of gods." Lan gestured to the carpet. "Sit"
Suddenly Ash felt very tired. Even her foster father hadn't switched from coldness to civility so quickly, and she placed the chance of Lan switching back as pretty high. Uncertainty is draining, she decided, sitting. At least by staying she didn't have to head off into the night, hungry and alone, with only a horse to guide her. Plus it knocked at least one uncertainty on the head: She no longer had to worry about an arrow in her back.
Kneeling, Lan unfastened the wrought-silver clasp on the ivory box and opened it. As he drew forth items he spoke, revealing that he had marked her interest in the rug. "The carpet is very old, woven by the last of the great threadsingers. It comes from Maygi Horo, the Time of Mages, when threadsingers were blinded once they had served their apprenticeships. A spool boy would prime the loom and block the colors, following the threadsinger's orders. It is said that without eyes they saw farther, though this Sull does not know about that."
As Lan spoke the word Sull he struck a light. One of the items he had taken from the box was a small pewter lamp, and as he adjusted the valve at its base the light shifted from yellow to blue. Unguarded, the flame ripped fiercely, burning mist. Peeling off his gloves, Lan bared long, well-shaped hands. A bowman's callus on the middle finger of his left hand revealed him to be left-handed. On the middle finger of his right hand he wore what Ash first assumed to be two separate silver rings, but when he turned his palms upward, she saw that the rings were fused at the back by a gristled lump of solder.
He gestured toward the lamp. "This Sull asks if you will join him in paying the toll."
Ash looked from the flame to Lan's face. The Far Rider s expression was coolly neutral, but she suspected his motives. Her gaze flicked back to the flame. An icy violet corona shivered around a core of blue fire. She had once witnessed Mal Naysayer put his bare hand into a flame and hold it there for many seconds. It had frightened her, but at least she had understood his motives. The Naysayer had been demonstrating the power of Rhal, the perfect state of fearlessness that Sull sought in times of uncertainty and war. He had not been priming a trap.
Ash shook her head. "This Sull believes this is not her toll to pay."
Lan's cold clear gaze pinned her, searching for weakness. Ash stared right back, silently praying her eyes wouldn't give her away. She didn't fully understand what was happening—neither Mal nor Ark had ever paid a toll with burned flesh—but instinct told her she had been challenged. And when challenged it was best to challenge back.
Long moments passed and then Lan nodded firmly. "It is so." Shifting his position he reached for the coupled scabbard at his waist. One fork of the sheath held his sword and the other held a dagger. Lan drew the dagger. Ice mist curled across the rug as he held the dagger's blade in the flame. Ash smelled the metal heating. Oil on the blade blackened then disappeared as the edge began to glow. The flame burned hot and clean, fueled by a substance purer than oil. When the knife edge became a wavering red line Lan removed it from the heat. Speaking the Sull words "Gods, judge me" he pushed the blade tip across his forearm. Fluid sizzled. Skin opened but did not bleed, instantly cauterized by the heat. Pumping his hand into a fist, Lan waited out the pain.