Rathma
“Well, look what we’ve got here.” The words were in the language of the northerners and sounded too fancy to be spoken by bandits.
The man who’d spoken them had a voice that was smooth and low, and he looked as though he had a few years’ experience of stopping people on this particular road. He walked over and yanked back the hood that hid Rathma’s red hair.
“A Farstepper.”
There were murmurs of excitement from most of the men—Rathma counted six—but one of them was looking at him with a puzzled expression.
“A what?” he asked. “You’re not making sense, Evram.”
Evram, the one who had pulled Rathma’s hood off, was clearly in charge, despite the recusant tone of the other man. Though all six men wore dark tunics, Evram’s was lined with elegant traces of silver thread, running up and down, which made it look like a gloomy lake catching the sun.
“A Farstepper, Denk. They’re worth money. That’s all you need to worry about.”
Denk, a shorter man, shrank away at his leader’s chastising.
Evram turned to Rathma, eying him closely, and Rathma got a better look at him in return. He had coal-black hair that was parted on the right, coming just below his jaw, with a neatly trimmed mustache that framed a patch of beard covering his chin. He had a devilish smile that aired arrogance, with something hiding behind his eyes that made Rathma uneasy.
“I know what you are,” Evram said in a voice just above a whisper. His closed-lip smile reminded Rathma of a snake about to strike. “And what you are is worth money.”
Rathma scowled. He needed to think fast, since he suddenly found himself unable to use the power he’d known since he was young. Fortunately, one of Evram’s men did the thinking for him.
“I thought Farsteppers were special,” said a voice from the back. “Able to move through the air and whatnot.” He made a few gestures with his hands, slicing them around wildly.
“What’s your point?” Evram cut back, not taking his eyes off Rathma.
“Well . . . I mean . . . why is he still here?”
Evram narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips in thought, lightly scratching the patch of hair on his chin.
Rathma didn’t give him the chance to answer. “Your man is right,” he said as he crossed his arms. “A Farstepper would never let himself be caught.” He was keenly aware of the fact that all of his weapons were missing, and their absence felt heavier and heavier as the men closed in around him.
“But your hair and eyes say otherwise,” Evram countered. “No man this side of the Otherworld has eyes like that.” Turning to one of the others, he said, “Tie him up. We’ll see what kind of price we can fetch for him in Théas.”
Rathma felt several pairs of rough hands forcing him to his knees as his hands were bound behind his back. Great, he thought. This again.
“But what good is a Farstepper who can’t farstep?” Rathma asked from his place on the ground. It was as much for his captors’ benefit as for his own.
Evram had been walking back to the path, but Rathma’s words stopped him fast. From over his shoulder, he answered coldly, “We’ll see.”
It was the last thing Rathma heard before a sharp blow to the back of his skull made the world go dark.