Scal’s people were always patrolling. Circling, cycling, looking for danger. Looking for prey.
They were looking especially for the preachers who had killed Beston, for Vatri had sworn they would find the preachers and give justice to all the dead villagers. But there was no sign of the preachers, no guess at the direction they had gone, no word in any of the other towns of passing preachers.
Within three moon-passes, it was clear that they would not find the preachers. They would not bring justice to the villagers.
It made Edro furious. He screamed at the scouts, and screamed loudest at Deslan, who had become something like the leader of the scouts. No one had asked her to, and she had not taken or been given any title. It was only that when she spoke, others listened. Deslan bore Edro’s anger with tight-lipped silence.
Scal could not bear it. He stepped between Edro and Deslan, facing the little lordling. They were almost of a height, but Scal was taller. He said, “Enough.”
Edro pushed him. Hands flat against Scal’s chest, and his anger bursting forth from his arms. Not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough that Scal stumbled back a step.
It was silent in the camp. Silent as a village of the dead.
Vatri had told him once, Anger is a foolish, prideful thing. A man who is quick to anger should be trusted with caution.
Scal took a step forward, retaking the ground he had lost. It put his face close to Edro’s, close enough he could smell the man’s fury, see the creases anger had drawn in his skin. Scal said, “Enough.”
He thought, for a moment, that Edro might hit him. He tried to decide which would be better—to hit the man back, to hit him until his face was nothing but red lumps, until Vatri would not want to look at his face; or to walk away, and show that he was better than Edro’s petty rage. He knew which he should do, but he also knew which he wished to do.
But Edro did not hit him. He spit in Scal’s face, and turned on his heel, and stormed into his tent.
Scal wiped the spittle from his face. His eyes found Vatri’s across the camp. She frowned at him, and she looked away, and she followed Edro into his tent.
Deslan frowned at Scal as well, but there was more anger in hers. She looked like she had been making the same calculations he had been, if Edro had hit Scal. He thought it likely that she had come to the same decision.
“Come,” he said to her. “We will scout again.”
Three parties went out into the woods, different directions, different ground. None of them were likely to find anything, for they had already covered the same paths, again and again. Scal and Deslan and the three others of their party walked in silence. Even angry, Deslan’s steps made no sound, and her longbow stayed tight around her shoulder, disturbing no more trees than she did. In time, her anger faded, drawn into the night sky like smoke.
She stopped, and so smoothly Scal did not see it until it was done, set her bow and drew an arrow back to her ear.
The others froze as well, and then Scal heard the footsteps approaching, and a soft voice running constantly as a stream. The others drew their weapons, soundless.
What emerged through the trees before them were ghosts.
One of them yelped, which covered half of Deslan’s polite, “Your names and business?” They did not answer, for the one who led them simply stared openmouthed at Scal.
It was not often that ghosts followed Scal from one life to another. The last time it had happened had been Iveran, and then he had killed Iveran.
Joros closed his mouth with a click that was loud in the forest quiet. “I see you survived,” he said to Scal. “How fortunate for us all.”
Deslan’s eyes darted to the side. “You know them?”
“I do,” Scal said.
“Friends, or fodder?”
“I do not know yet.”
“Scal?” The other ghost, Aro, stumbled forward and fell to his knees a dozen paces from Scal. He was pale, pallid, and far too thin. His hands were spotted with dry blood. “Is that really you? Is this real?”
Scal did not step forward to meet him. There was something wrong about him, something very wrong that made Scal’s stomach churn. He hardly looked the same person Scal remembered—a ghost, indeed.
Aro began to cry. “Please,” he said softly, “please tell me if it’s you. Tell me if this is real or not.” One of the others of their party moved forward, her empty hands raised pointedly toward Deslan, and knelt down beside Aro. One hand to his shoulder, the other rubbing his back, murmuring soft comforts that did nothing to calm him. “Please. You have to tell.”
“It is me,” Scal said softly, and Aro’s replying sob made his stomach turn again. The boy curled against his comforter’s shoulder, wetting her shirt with his tears.
Scal looked to Joros, who gave him a tight smile that was not truly a smile. “The boy has gotten rather sick, since the last time you saw him. Can you lower your weapons? We’re no threat to you. We’re only looking for someone.”
Deslan did not lower her bow, though Scal could see the faint tremors in her arm from holding the arrow drawn for so long. She would hold it, though, until Scal told her not to. And he did not tell her not to yet.
Joros made a noise in his throat. “Perhaps you can help us, then. We’ll leave and never see you again. Just tell me if you know how to find someone called the Nightbreaker.”
The tip of Deslan’s arrow dipped, and the uncertain look she gave Scal lasted far longer than a flicker. The others of his scouting party shifted, too. Their habit was to welcome any who sought the Nightbreaker. Anyone who passed through the woods and spoke the name in seeking was at least granted an audience. Was welcomed in, if they were found worthy. Until now, the name had been like a key.
“Why?” Scal asked. Deslan righted her arrow. She would follow him, in anything. Her unshaking faith made him nearly as sick as seeing Aro in his state.
“I believe the Nightbreaker would make a powerful ally.” Joros smiled again. “We could all use more friends in these trying times.”
“Where are the others?” Scal asked. “Rora. Anddyr.”
“They’re safe. This is Aro’s venture—he wished to show the world what he’s capable of.” Joros rested a hand on Aro’s shoulder. It was a mockery of support, of fatherlike pride, but Aro brightened beneath it. “I’m only here as a guide. But Rora and Anddyr are resting safely among friends.” Joros shifted his jaw with a crackling noise, and eyed Scal sidelong. “Your merra. She left us some time ago. I can’t tell you where she’s gone. Doubtless terrorizing some other poor souls.”
“She is not mine.”
“I have to find him,” Aro blurted suddenly. His back went board-straight, his chin tilting up so high he almost was looking up. “The Nightbreaker. He can help. He can save us all, that’s what she said. He can help us, and he can help me. I have to find him.”
Scal made motion to Deslan, and she dropped her arrow. Released it from the string and returned it to her quiver. She did not sling the bow back over her shoulder—she was not quite that trusting of these people who were strangers to her. Scal said to Aro only, “Come with me. I will take you.”
Aro’s eyes grew wide in his face. “You know him?” he whispered.
“Come,” Scal said again. He had spoken only to Aro, but he was not surprised when Joros and the others in his group came as well. He did it for Aro alone. Aro, who thought the Nightbreaker could fix whatever was wrong with him.
Scal led them, with Aro and Joros at his back, and their people at their backs. Scal’s scouts ranged in a loose circle around them, an escort. Scal had learned, in the span of his lives, the fine difference between an escort and a guard, and the difference lay mostly in the tightness of the surrounding circle. Escorts led, and would protect if needed, but escorts did not plan to be needed. Guards were protection. Guards meant danger—from without or within. Scal had taught the scouts how to walk, when guiding potential new followers.
He wanted to tell them to walk a tighter circle, now. But there was no way to do it without drawing suspicion.
Aro walked close to Scal’s shoulder, truly a ghost from a lost life. The last time he had traveled with Aro, the boy had been full of energy and eagerness, often at Scal’s side chattering. Scal had enjoyed his company. He chattered now, too, though his words were wild and uneven, as though his thoughts were leaves tossed in a wind. “I’ve heard the Nightbreaker is a mighty hero. As tall as two men, and he takes care of everyone he meets, and he’s never afraid. Scal, how did you find him? How . . . how did I find you? They say the Nightbreaker’s sword can cut through stone, and he can see the truth inside your heart. Will he help me even if he can see the truth? I just want to show Rora . . . Have you seen his sword, Scal?”
Scal walked silent. Deslan, close to him in the loose-ringed escort, was silent, too, but Scal could feel her eyes hard on him. Confusion floating off her in waves. But Scal said nothing, and so his people said nothing.
The camp, when they returned, was restless. All were unhappy about not finding the preachers, and a confrontation between two of their leaders had not helped to settle their minds. Those they passed greeted Scal’s return with terse nods, or with smiles of relief, and looked with interest at the newcomers. Scal spoke to one of them, in a low voice that the others would not hear, and the young woman went off in search of Vatri.
“These are his people?” Aro asked, staring around in wonder. The camp was nothing to wonder at, but Aro looked at the tents as though they were castles, the people as if they were lords.
For all the wonder Aro showed, Joros showed disdain. “I’d expected something more . . . fitting.”
Deslan snorted. “We can hardly live in manors, doing what we do. If we’re easy to find, we’re easy to kill.”
Scal gave her a slow-blinking look, and she turned her face away, cheeks going red. Though Joros tried to pull more answers from her, the first who had told him anything, Deslan said nothing more.
“Well.” Vatri’s voice cut through the quiet of the forest. Cut through the tension in the camp, and shattered it into a thousand sharp and brittle pieces that pierced and scraped. When Scal turned with the others to face her, she stood with arms crossed and a grin creasing her face, but there was a hardness in her eyes. There was a fire, in her eyes. “What an unexpected surprise.” Edro, at her side, frowned. Hand resting on the hilt of his sword as he eyed the newcomers, as he tasted the sharp strain in the camp.
Joros sputtered. It was, perhaps, the first time Scal had seen him caught truly off guard. He spun to face Scal, fists at his sides. “What is this?” he demanded. “I came to see the Nightbreaker, not some—some dried-out traitorous shrew—”
Edro stepped forward, and the smooth sound of his sword drawing cut off the rest of Joros’s words. “I think that’s enough,” he said, even so.
“It’s all right, Edro,” Vatri said, stepping once more to his side. Still smiling. “Joros is an old, old friend. An insult from him is a sign of the utmost respect.”
“Hello,” Aro said, meek, nervous. He raised his hand in a wave that stopped halfway, and fell. Vatri ignored him.
She went on, “You came to find the Nightbreaker, then? Of course you did. You can’t keep away when there’s a whiff of someone whose power you can twist, can you? Scal.” She turned her dagger-point smile to him. “If you promised to show them the Nightbreaker, then show them.” She knew. Knew he had wanted to hide it from them, and knew why. Her smile stayed in place.
And so Scal drew his sword, and its fire lit the night, and he did not look at any of their faces. He could not.