He assumed the one in front was a village leader. Perhaps sixty or so years but still muscular, he had disheveled gray hair, and a few days' growth of beard. The wrinkled bags beneath his eyes made Leesil think of fungus lumps on a gnarled tree. Little distinguished him from the rest of those present, but his companion's face trapped Leesil's gaze.
He was in his late forties, unwashed hair hanging around his angular features and stubbled jaw-but only half stub-bled. One side of his face was a mass of scars up to his eye, as if a torch head had been pressed to his cheek and jaw. The injury made one side of his mouth twist into a permanent grimace, and a wisp of madness flickered in his hazel eyes.
Leesil slipped his hands behind his back, out of sight, and opened one wrist sheath's strap to let a stiletto drop into his palm.
Chap's growl returned, and the closest of the mob pulled back.
"Greetings, Yoan," Magiere said to the elder, and then gave the scarred man a nod. "And Adryan… I've come to see my aunt."
Her flat tone puzzled Leesil but not enough to distract him from studying the positions of all around them and any avenues through the crowd. Before Yoan answered, the one called Adryan stepped closer.
"You're not welcome here, you misbegotten coshmarul!"
he spat out. "You're nothing but darkness, and we've enough of that already."
Magiere had always been quick to return threats in kind. When no response came from her, Leesil turned slightly without losing sight of the two men. Magiere was calm as she stared at her accuser.
Adryan took another step, this time too quickly, and Leesil lunged at him. By the time Adryan's eyes fully widened, Leesil held the flat of his stiletto tip against the man's throat. Gasps and shouts rose among the villagers as most retreated, even those who were crudely armed. Leesil guessed the last thing they truly wanted was a fight with armed strangers.
"I don't care for your manners," he said to Adryan.
Yoan clenched his teeth and glared at Magiere, casting all blame her way. Adryan's surprise faded as he looked back at Leesil.
"And I don't care for the company you keep."
Leesil remained poised, trying to keep track of all movement around him, but he didn't start as Magiere's hand settled on his shoulder from behind.
"Leesil, don't," she whispered.
Before he could argue, a shout carried over the mob's murmur.
"Magiere?"
A plump woman in a faded purple dress pushed through the villagers, swatting and shoving them aside. Gray-streaked black hair was pulled into a braid, much like Magiere often wore. Her deeply lined, round face cast her expression in a perpetual state of ire, and from the way her neighbors stepped aside, it was likely a true enough state. At the sight of Magiere, she stopped with one hand covering her mouth. First disbelief and then joy fought her dour expression.
"Oh, my girl. Is it you?"
Leesil barely heard Magiere's shallow-breathed response. "Aunt Bieja."
"She cannot stay," Yoan said. "You know that."
The plump woman closed on Yoan with crossed arms. "And where'd you be without her? Whose coin paid for that new ox… and that steel plow blade you all been sharing since last year? You can chew on my wide leathery backside, you grizzled boar!"
Leesil blinked, too bewildered to smile over the tasteless retort. Magiere had been sending money home? He shoved Adryan back but kept the stiletto held out in warning.
Aunt Bieja slipped past him and wrapped Magiere in a fleshy hug. Magiere stiffened, but her aunt kept murmuring, "My girl, my girl," and Magiere's arms finally clasped the woman in return.
Leesil watched in silence, losing track of Adryan and the village mob for a blink. Chap ceased growling and watched, with perked ears. Wynn glanced about worriedly, and Leesil remembered she couldn't understand much of the Droevinkan being spoken. He sighed through a smile and nodded once to reassure her, then stepped closer to Magiere.
"If this is your aunt, can she cook?" he asked. "I'm sick to death of biscuits and jerky."
Bieja turned to assess him, and joy vanished into suspicion.
"My companions," Magiere said. "This is Leesil and Wynn."
"The four-footed beggar is Chap," Leesil added. "Don't let him near the cook pot."
Glancing at each of them in turn, Aunt Bieja smiled again at Magiere, cheeks pulling back to reveal deep dimples.
"They're all welcome, but I still can't believe you're here. " As she led Magiere away by the arm, she shouted back to Yoan. "I'm taking my niece home! Have someone see to their ponies… instead of standing about like witless hogs."
Leesil helped Wynn pull their belongings off the pack mule, and then Bieja led them off between two huts. No one tried to stop them. The thought of hot food and a roof to keep off the forest's drip improved Leesil's mood, but not so much that he didn't glance back.
Yoan put a hand on his scarred companion's shoulder, but Adryan jerked free to shamble away. Leesil saw Adryan's wisp-mad eyes watching them before the man slipped from sight through the village.
Welstiel awoke from the black coils of his dream patron, his thoughts upon Magiere. There was no need to scry for where she had gone. Then he realized he lay upon a bed and, across the room, Chane gathered their belongings, his gray rat crawling in and out of the pack as if playing a game.
Finding shelter from daylight became more difficult the deeper they traveled into Droevinka. Abandoned shrines and empty barns or sheds were not common, as the people here tore down anything unused for fuel or other pressing needs. Several times they came dangerously close to being caught by the dawn. As much as Welstiel detested burrowing beneath the forest's rotting mulch for protection from daylight, he preferred to avoid inns, as well. Anyone who slept all day drew attention.
On this evening, however, Welstiel awoke in a bed.
He loathed speaking to these peasants, but as the previous dawn had become a real threat, they'd chanced upon a small village. Chane proved his worth, introducing them as merchants who had traveled all night in a foolish rush to reach their destination. Professed exhaustion, offered coins, and his broken use of the Droevinkan language made his story more convincing. Chane did not use many words, but his manner won peasants over in a way that Welstiel would have found difficult to achieve. There were moments when Chane's sly nature reminded Welstiel of Leesil.
"Are you awake?" Chane asked.
"Yes. The bed was a pleasant change," he answered, sitting up on its edge. "I did not have the chance to thank you for your quick thinking. I manage well with the citizens of Bela, but the people here do not seem to trust me."
Chane continued with his packing.
"It's those white patches in your hair, and your skin is paler than mine. You act too much the noble, and you appear too much the superstitious hearth story told to frighten children. I look the part of a young, struggling merchant."
This was certainly true.
Welstiel noticed that Chane hadn't finished dressing yet. He wore breeches, but his shirt lay on the bed. The skin on his arms was smooth over long muscles, but his bare back and shoulders were covered with a mass of scars. White crisscross marks, so deep they appeared layered, reached from his lower back up to his neck.
"What happened?" Welstiel asked.
"Hmmm?"
"Your back. Our kind should heal of such things."
Chane glanced absently over his shoulder. "My father. Our bodies heal of injuries only after we're turned. This happened before."
Welstiel studied the layers of scars. Lines that crossed created lumps where previously healed wounds had been newly split open at later times. These had been inflicted over a period of years.