“I left Elwin behind in the clearing,” the centaur added hesitantly. “There wasn’t much left of him.”
“Why did the undead attack us?” Brenna didn’t understand. “They were horrid. Gods, but I feel for the people who live in this country.”
“The ghouls must have heard us talking. That attracted them,” Wynter said flatly, eyeing her and Galvin. “We were none too quiet.”
“They were quiet, though,” Galvin added.
“You could never have heard them approaching anyway,” the centaur offered. “Undead only make noise when they want to.” He smiled at Brenna, then reached a hand up to tug on his own short locks. “You’ve got too much hair, young lady, but the sheep shears I found should remedy that.”
A look of horror crossed her face. “What—what do you mean?”
“I mean you should cut it, shave it off,” the centaur instructed. “You need to look like a native Thayvian, a wealthy one if you’ve got another pretty dress.” He extended the shears to her. “These’ll take off most your hair. Galvin’s scimitar can take care of the rest.”
When the sorceress didn’t take the shears, Wynter dropped them in front of her.
The druid unsheathed his scimitar and ran his thumb along the curved blade. He stared meaningfully at Brenna’s curls.
“Oh, no, you don’t!” she cried, finally realizing what the Harpers meant for her to do. She glanced in alarm at the centaur’s cropped hair. “Shave off my hair? Do you have any idea how much time it takes to get hair to grow this long? I haven’t cut my hair in ten years.”
The druid smiled. “I’ll pose as your slave.”
“You mean you’re not cutting your hair?” she said angrily.
“Slaves have long hair.”
“Listen,” Wynter said, trying to console Brenna. “You’d make a better Thayvian than Galvin. You’ve got the bearing, the social graces.”
The sorceress puffed out her chest, angry at herself for not realizing when the Harpers had discussed this plan in Aglarond that it would come to this. She fingered the shears, crossed her legs, and sat them in her lap.
“I can make myself look bald without shaving my head,” she announced. Concentrating and chanting, the sorceress sat stock still as her face took on a magical radiance. The glow covered her hair, then disappeared, leaving her appearing bald.
Wynter sighed. “Nice try, Brenna, but it won’t work.” He stepped toward her, bent over, and reached forward to feel around her shoulders until he grabbed a handful of hair.
“I can’t see it, but it’s there,” he stated. “Amruthar’s filled with wizards. Some of them are bound to see through your illusion. We can’t risk it. You’ll have to shave it off.”
Brenna’s shoulders sagged. “I know,” she said. “I’m sorry. I should have known I was going to have to do this if I entered Thay.” She gritted her teeth, picked up the shears, and tossed her head forward. Grabbing a handful of hair with one hand and wielding the shears with the other, she began cutting.
“Look at it this way,” Wynter teased. “You’ll be right in style in Amruthar. And if we live through this and you get back to Aglarond, maybe you can start a fashion trend there.” He grimaced as he watched the shears slip in her hand and nearly nick her head.
When Brenna was finished, about a half an inch of hair remained on her head. It was uneven and looked comical, but the Harpers remained straight-faced.
The druid padded forward, knelt in front of her, and held up his scimitar. “Here, let me help.”
Brenna bent her head forward, and Galvin began to scrape the sharp blade across the back of her scalp. The druid was careful, not wanting to cut her. Wynter had told him most Thayvians prided themselves on their appearance, and he doubted that scars were in fashion. When he was finished with the back half of her head, he tilted her neck upward and started to run the knife across the front half of her scalp.
“I don’t know why Thayvians have an aversion to hair,” Wynter said. He wanted to make conversation because the silence in the barn felt uncomfortable. “They’ve been shaving their heads for more than two hundred years. It all started with a few wizards, I understand. Now only slaves have long hair. The longer the hair, the longer someone’s been a slave.”
“You mean everyone but slaves is bald?” she asked softly, looking slightly sick.
“All the wizards, everyone considered wealthy or middle-class tharchions, merchants, and even most of the peasants—they don’t want to be mistaken for slaves. Most centaurs cut their hair as short as mine. Everyone in my family had short hair,” he concluded.
“Was it hard for you to leave your family?” Brenna asked. Galvin winced at that question as he finished shaving the last of her locks. He began to run the blade across her now bald head to smooth it. He was surprised when Wynter answered.
“Yes,” he said slowly. “My family was my life, and the slave plantation was the only home I knew. I had three brothers. They took to the life there. I just never fit in. When I was old enough to make it on my own, I left. I don’t even know if my father ever went looking for me.”
The centaur stood still in the center of the barn. “I cut my ties with my family when I left Thay. I’m only here because of Harper business. When we’re done in Amruthar, I’ll leave again.” The centaur paused and looked at the councilwoman. She was rubbing her head, obviously uncomfortable with the feel of it.
Brenna stared at the pile of red curls in her lap. Ten years’ worth of hair, she thought. No use regretting it. Shrugging her shoulders, she stood up, shaking the curls off her dress.
“Beautiful,” Wynter observed.
Brenna tittered and twirled to brush the last of the hair from her dress. “At least it won’t take me long to wash it,” she said, finally smiling.
The skin on her head was an even, creamy peach tone, free of blemishes. She had a high forehead that glistened in the light that filtered through the barn. The absence of hair drew more attention to her eyes, which Galvin found himself staring into. They were large and round and ringed by long lashes.
Brenna blushed and bent to pick up an armload of hay and deposit it on top of her hair. “A pretty dress, right? That’s all I need to look like a wealthy Thayvian.”
“Almost,” Wynter said. “We’ll have to paint your head first. When you were … sleeping, I gathered some berries and crushed them. They should do fine as long as it doesn’t rain. The important people in Thay—or at least those who think they are—always paint designs on their heads.”
The centaur explained that many men permanently tattooed their heads so they wouldn’t have to bother about changing designs. But many of the women went to shops to have their heads painted, preferring to have different symbols from time to time as fashions changed.
The centaur trotted over to Brenna, carrying a shovelful of smashed blue and red berries. Brenna’s lower lip quivered, but she stood still.
“We’ll give you a dainty little barbed whip cascading over your forehead like a spray of flowers,” Wynter said as he smeared his fingers into the mixture and applied it to her head. “The whip’s the symbol of Loviatar, the Maiden of Pain, one of the regularly worshiped deities here.” Before the centaur finished, he added a lightning bolt with a ball on one end above her right ear. “That’s the Harpers’ symbol for ‘dangerous magic here,’ ” he explained.
Brenna changed into a dark orchid dress with voluminous sleeves and a rounded, lace-edged neckline. She looked striking in it, even with her bald head, and added a crystal and gold necklace to make herself fit the image of a wealthy Thayvian.
“Well, this is it for my wardrobe,” she said with a touch of disappointment in her voice. “I’ve ruined everything else.”
Wynter pushed open the barn door, which teetered precariously on one rusted hinge. The countryside appeared different by daylight. The orchards in the distance yielded the faintest fragrance of citrus blossoms. The sky was as blue as the Sea of Fallen Stars, and it stretched, cloudless, from horizon to horizon. A dirt road that had been sprinkled liberally with white gravel cut through the grass and pointed toward the east. Weeping birch and crimson maples lined the road.