Blaine stood at the top of an unfamiliar ridge and inhaled the fresh, crisp air, breathing in the pure joy of living, so full of it she just had to share it with—
But when she turned, smiling, there was no one there. Who had she been expecting?
Suddenly she didn't know.
A howl sliced the air, and Blaine whirled to catch a glimpse of something white, moving fast and awkward but evading her gaze just the same.
"Blaine!" From behind her again, and again she whirled, finding Dacey clinging to a thick tree, his eyes blank.
"Don't worry, Sissy. I'll help."
She spun to the voice, feeling dizzy. Rand stood before her—Rand who never called her Sissy as he did Lenie and Sarie—his hand outstretched. "I'll help," he said, and smiled. She reached for him—
Another howl smacked her ears from behind, made her lose her balance, step back and away. Danger, it whispered, trickling into her conscious thoughts and turning into fear. When she looked back, Rand was no longer there, and the outstretched hand belonged to the smiling leader; in it was a black, sticky bolus—a horror.
"Blaine!"
First Dacey—then the howl, shouting, Blaine!—and then the leader, laughing. Laughing. Laughing, "Blaine . . . Blaine . . . ."
Before supper, Rand went to his daddy and did his best to accomplish it all—protecting Blaine's solitude, and finding a way to tell of her predicament.
It didn't include mentioning men with swords. He still couldn't believe that one, himself.
He found Cadell in the barn, sharpening the plow blade. "Daddy," he said, "I ought to have told this before, but . . . Blaine and I had a little fuss, an' she lost her head and ran up the hill."
Cadell lifted his head from the plow, brows raised.
"I wanted to give her time to come back on her own—I figured she'd be back quick enough," Rand said, and that much had certainly been the truth. "I'm about to get worried, though." No, I'm long past worried. What if she had been caught in the storm, and slipped in a bad spot? Plenty of those, in these hills.
"Well," Cadell said, and left it at that a moment. "That girl is a certain-sure one for making trouble. I ought to have drawed the line with her a lot sooner than this."
Not the reaction Rand expected, and he couldn't find a response, nothing but, "It'll be dark soon."
"She's got to be ready for marryin'," Cadell said, slowly applying the whetstone to the plow blade. "And she ain't noways near it. She's got too many notions in her head." He frowned, and looked up at Rand again. "Could be this is a good thing, son. Maybe a night in the open will calm her down some, so she'll act as befittin'."
"She could be hurt—"
"Can't imagine so. She gets along better off the farm than she lets on, Rand. I seen her sneakin' around, now and then. And some of those berries she brings back, they ain't from along the creek where we send her. No, son, I think she's took a real hissy fit, and thought to hare off to some life other than the one she's got. If she ain't back first thing of the mornin', we'll go lookin' for her. I'll get Jason's dogs on the trail—he likes to brag about how they found Bayard the Younger's boy last year."
"If she ain't back by then, I'll take to lookin' for her while you get Jason," Rand said.
"You always were the one to spoil her," Cadell said, a smile in the corners of his mouth. He turned back to the plow. "I'm surprised you didn't come to me before this."
"I was trying to save her some trouble," Rand said. "Now I wish I hadn't." That was the certain rueful truth, and it rang in his voice. He hoped Cadell heard it, hadn't been put off by what of the fibs might have shown on his face. In looks he was closer to Lenie, with the same, squared-off sort of features they'd both gotten from Cadell. Blaine had the lean features that went with her lean body, and aside from a faint resemblance to her mother, looked like no one else in the family. But Rand had always felt closer in spirit to Blaine, who listened to his thoughts instead of scoffing them off like Lenie did. Like he'd done to her. Could have gone with her, even if it was a dream.
"Don't worry yourself," Cadell said. "She's upset, sure, but beneath it all, the girl's got a good head on her shoulders."
Rand was glad his daddy had turned away, and was unable to see the surprise on his face. Why don't you ever tell her that? Out loud, he simply said, "Yes, sir," and went to wash up for supper.
Morning came with no sign of Blaine, leaving Cadell puzzled but Rand unsurprised—and glad to be out in the yard when Lottie cornered Cadell on the porch, showing a temper the children rarely saw.
"Only a crazy man would leave his girl out there all night. There's no tellin' what she could have run into and you know it!" Her eyes sparked anger, showing the inner fire Blaine never seemed to know to bank.
"Now, Lottie . . ." Cadell shifted back against the porch rail, looking just as cornered as he was.
"Now nothin'!" One hand on her hip, the other aiming an index finger at him, she said, "You ought to have gone out last night when Rand told you of this! Just because Blaine's the only one of our children to show a little gumption, to have some idea of what she wants for herself, you've got the notion it's your job to pound it out of her. Well, you can just let her be when she comes back! If she comes back." Lottie's voice broke, and she turned suddenly away. "You ought to at least have tried last night."
"Ahh . . . ." Cadell ducked his head. "All right, honey. Don't take on so. I'm on my way to Jason's, and Rand's goin' out to look for her right now—ain't you, son?"
Rand eased back a step, not happy to have been pointed out. "I'm leavin' now, Mommy."
Lottie had her back to them, a good, sturdy back that suddenly seemed too slight for this worry, and she stared off the porch to the seeded garden patch past the front yard. Abruptly, she turned to the house, her face hidden, but her voice as revealing as ever—this time, determined that things would turn out well.
"You just wait a minute, Rand. You'll need a lunch, and a little extra for when you find her." All practicality and back to the Lottie they knew, but Rand wondered at the little bit of Blaine he thought he'd seen in that moment of confrontation with Cadell.
Blaine woke with an immediate feeling of trepidation, unsure which parts of the previous day had been real and which were merely memories of the night's intense dreams. She lay with her eyes closed and determined that she was numb and almost too stiff to move, and that, yes, she really must have had the adventures she remembered. Dacey had already risen, leaving her with the luxury of all the blankets to herself—though she'd slept hard, and didn't remember him coming to rest at her back, or even that he'd been there at all.
Finally, she ventured a look around. Although the weather had faired and the sky was clear, the sun hadn't yet breached the opposite mountain, and everything was damp, including Blaine. To her relief, the big ticked hound was nowhere in sight. His warmth at night was one thing—confronting his big face during the day was another. She sat and stretched painfully, straightening her skirts from where they had rucked up around her knees—not that they were much longer than that any more anyway. She thought of the new set she'd been working on, folded neatly in the trunk at the end of her and Lenie's bed, and wondered if she'd ever finish them.
She'd thought she was alone, but then she heard Dacey's low chuckle. It was a warning—for Blue was trotting into the rough camp, an offensive vision of bloody, drooly hound. A giant lump of smeary brown fur hung from his big jaws, and Blue, minus a small chunk of nose, had blood dripping from both his ears, tinting his chest pink. He stopped in front of her and gave the furry blob a proud little shake; the offering swung heavily in his jaws.
"He ain't goin' to hurt you," Dacey assured her, not moving from his spot somewhere behind her.
That was a matter of opinion. Blaine drew her feet in close.
Blue dropped the fur at those feet; it struck the ground with a dull thump and rolled limply over to reveal itself as a groundhog, a large fellow already fat with early spring greens. Blue plumped his bottom to the ground and watched her expectantly.
"I believe he's got a crush on you," Dacey said, amusement in his voice.
"That's silly." Blaine was not amused. "I ain't that fond of dogs."
"Maybe not, but a dog's got a way of looking into a person's heart, and ole Blue must've liked what he seen. Now tell him he's a good fellow or he'll sulk all day, and I don't have time for that."
Uncertainly, Blaine regarded the dog. Too much encouragement and he might come closer, smearing her with that gory face. She offered, "Good boy, Blue. Nice dog."
How that tremulous praise could have meant anything, she didn't know, but the ticked hound thumped his tail on the ground, and his jaws fell open in a happy pant.
Dacey gave a grunt of satisfaction and interrupted the scene by scooping up the groundhog. He looked much better today, his face healed up more than she ever would have thought possible, his movements easy. It worked. The tea worked, just like the blinder.
"Atta boy, Blue," he said with satisfaction, and quickly field-dressed the groundhog. He fed the liver and heart to the dogs, the rest of whom had wandered in after Blue, wrapped the carcass, and stowed it in his bulky pack. "Ready to go?" he asked.
"Go?" she replied blankly.
"They're gonna be lookin' for us today. And even if they can't track worth nothin', they've got enough men they could stumble on us by chance."
Blaine staggered to her stiff legs and excused herself into the brush. On the way back she shook some wet rhododendron leaves off on her hands and scrubbed her face, a crude washing up that nonetheless made her feel better—and gave her time to think. Dacey and the five hounds were waiting, more or less patiently, when she returned to the camp. Waiting to leave.
"I ain't so sure I want to go a-traipsin' off with you," she said, trying to look him in the eye and ending up with her gaze on Mage instead. "It's one thing to avoid my daddy's farm. It's a big 'nother one to go further off than we already are."
"Blaine . . . we done gone over this."
She fidgeted with the end of her braid, and burst out with, "I don't know you, Dacey Childers! I don't know nothin' about you. I only helped you 'cause no man deserves what those strangers did. I don't even know why they were doin' it! But . . . my daddy's got to be warned of 'em."
"I've done warned your daddy—I told you that." Dacey shifted the pack against his back. "You do know somethin' of me, Blaine. You know I come from the seers' line. You know I ain't mean to these dogs, and that I never come near you last night." His voice made a subtle leap from its sensible tone to intensity. "And you know you was seen when you got me loose—mebbe all they seen was skirts and braids, but that'd be plenty. Those men'll be looking for us, and it won't go easy for neither of us, should we be found." He gave her a moment to think about it. Then he said, "Best you come with me, Blaine. I can't stay, and I can't have your harm sitting on my shoulders."
"I guess . . ." she said faintly, and then tried again in a stronger voice, "I guess maybe I will."
Rand didn't even try to find the signs from Blaine's flight behind the barn; yesterday's storm would have washed them clean away. Instead, he picked up the trail behind the springhouse. Blaine was in the habit of taking that dog path, and he didn't need to follow exactly how she'd gone the day before, as long as he ended up at the same place.
A quarter way up the slope, the trail hit a fork along the hillside. Both paths, he knew, got a body to the other side of the mountain, where she said she'd been—but at vastly different endpoints. He was betting she made a habit of taking the easiest.
He struck out on his own, glancing only occasionally at the signs of her previous passages. Once he reached the rock she had sometimes mentioned—it couldn't be anything else, not that brute—he saw a new trail, one left by bigger, clumsier feet than Blaine's, a new trail that had survived even the storm. Full of sudden foreboding—Rand, there's men, over the ridge—he slowed his pace, stopping often to take note of the forest. A few jays screamed above his head in occasional alarm, but he heard and saw nothing else that seemed disturbed.
The new path led him straight to a camp.
She'd been telling the truth.
Men. Men with swords.
But there was no sign of them now; no sign of Blaine. Cautiously, he moved closer.
Within the camp area, last fall's leaves were shuffled and cleared in spots for fires. Rand started in the center of the camp and spiraled outward, moving slowly, carefully. He made a slow inspection of the area and found signs of horse or mule, temporary latrine areas, and game-cleaning spots. One fire pit still held considerable heat. Startled, he instantly crouched to scan the trees.
No, he was alone. He must be. But where had so many men gone, unnoticed? Cautiously, he continued his spiral, gradually passing to the edge of camp. Recent sign there indicated that the whole group had retraced the path they'd come in on, toward the creek at the bottom of the hollow. Travel was easier on the ridges; only men who didn't know the hills would travel the creek, which they could follow to the river branch and thereby not go astray.
And after then, where? And why?
He wondered if Blaine knew. He wondered if she was with them. And much as he hated the thought, he almost hoped that she was, because otherwise . . .
It took him a moment, then, to uncurl his fingers from clenched fists, and continue his search. He walked a few circles past the camp perimeter until he happened on a tangle of threads the color of Blaine's winter wool, snared in greenbriar.
There was no other sign of her.
He stopped, wiped his hands over his face, and thought. Daddy and Jason would be trailing Blaine soon enough, and the dogs would find sign that Rand walked right over. But he was the only one who knew of the strangers.
So rather than walk the ridge hollering for his sister, Rand took a deep breath and made his way to the creek—and then stood there frowning at the still-muddy water. The strangers were heading for the river branch all right, and from there they could easily find their way to the river and the settled creek mouths. Those families needed to be warned.
He didn't hesitate, not any more. He headed for home. It was time to come clean about Blaine's wanderings and his part in covering for her . . . and what she'd said about Dacey and the strangers.
He half expected to hear Jason's dogs sounding before he made it back, but the hills remained silent; he made it back to the final slope above the springhouse without sighting any other searchers. Strange.
The farm looked quiet; the children were nowhere to be seen, not even Willum—who, at this time of day, was usually the color of grime and possessed of a collection of insects, dead and alive. Then he remembered that today was a quilt party at the meeting house. All his family was there, except for his daddy; even Lottie had decided to go, hoping to spread the word about the search for Blaine.
Good. It would be easier if he could talk to Cadell alone first.
But his relief was short-lived. As soon as he rounded the house, Rand discovered the men grouped about his porch. Neighbors all, and some he hadn't seen since winter set in. Why, there was old man Bayard, who had declared years ago that anyone with something to say could just walk down to his little shack and say it—and iff'n they didn't see fit to visit an old man, Bayard didn't see as they'd be good company anyway.
But now he was on Rand's porch, commanding the cushion on the swing. Rand mounted the steps to the porch and went unremarked as the loud buzz of talk continued.
"I don't see how you could have heard the same dogs, seein's how you're two hollers away from us," Wade was saying to Cadell, who answered with a shrug.
"I didn't ride that mule all the way over here to talk about who heard dogs and who didn't," Bayard said, his voice as overloud as usual. "Things don't seem quite right around here, and it's that we've got to talk about. Don't reckon I'm the only one to note the northern sky some days back!"
Only Jason nodded—sandy-haired Jason, standing at the outside corner of the porch with two of his big brindle hounds on lead; the others looked baffled.
"Bayard, you put too much on them old eyes," Wade said. "Sky's been the same as always."
"I seen it." Jason lifted his head, a challenge to Wade. "Funny kind of haze over the northern ridges, a downright sickly, dark thing."
Cadell surprised Rand by adding, "My middle girl—the one that's gone missing—she said the same."
"Any of you have any sense, you're thinking of the Takers." Bayard tamped his walking stick on the porch in emphasis, looking right justified in it.
Cadell gave him a startled look; Rand saw uneasiness mixed in, as well. No one else seemed to note it.
"The Takers are dead," Wade said. "And the sky is fine."
"Don't try to tutor me on the Takers, young man. You should reckon well enough that I'm the only one in these parts to know my granpappy and hear of his time on Anneka Ridge. I've certainly told you all enough times!"
At this unintentional confession there were low snickers all around, and Bayard let them pass. "Let me tell you, I heard often enough myself about that battle. Sure those men thought they'd cleaned up the Takers for good. But for all the times you've heard about the battle, how many times have you heard about the only sure sign that came before? The purple-like sky in the north. Comes off o' their magic, I was told, and it ain't no wonder can't all of us see it—how many boast a seer's blood, these days?"
Silence—an admission of sorts—greeted his remarks. Finally Cadell spoke, and his voice was tired. "All right. Supposin' we're dealing with more Takers. Just supposin'. What then? We ain't got a seer to point out which of 'em, and maybe which of our neighbors, are Took. And if it is like the tales we've heard, they'll come here with a passel o' men—too many for us to fight without the Takers gettin' to us. Our only chance is to tell who's Took, according to what I've heard, an' kill those men first."
"Or those women," Bayard said grimly, adding a dimension to the history they'd never heard before.
"Not women!" Jason, wed within the year and already waiting for his first child, stiffened.
"Or children," Bayard said firmly. "You know all it takes is a touch on flesh for a Taker to put some of its power in you. Then you might as well be dead, an' better off, too, because you can't stop from hurting your neighbors and kin. What better way for them Takers to get close to us? Be a woman, and the menfolk don't think to be wary of you. Or a child, cryin' in the dirt. Go to pick it up and comfort it, and you're one of them."
"So what do we do about it?" Cadell repeated—slowly, distracted. Thinking of something he hadn't owned up to yet.
"Find us a seer?" Jason said hopefully.
"Quit scarin' each other like little ole women," Wade scoffed. "Start payin' attention to raisin' crops an' children and not our hair."
"Might be best." But Jason sounded tentative, even if most of the men nodded at his words.
Cadell's jaw set, a thinking look. Rand knew it. Knew his father wasn't happy about what he was about to say.
Knew he'd be even more unhappy about what Rand had to say.
"Daddy," he said, stepping the rest of the way up to the porch.
Cadell didn't let him get anything else out, showing an anxiety he hadn't revealed that morning. "Rand! Did you find your sister?"
"No. But I found something else, and I think these men'll care to hear it." He hesitated, and Cadell nodded him to continue. "Yesterday at noon, Blaine came down from the hills and told me she'd seen some men in that wild hollow over the ridge."
"Fiddlehead Holler? No one lives there, not since that seer family was burned out in the Taker fighting," Bayard said.
"Blaine don't go that far into the hills," Cadell said, but he'd turned to wariness, one that spoke of his own lack of conviction. He believed it already—he just didn't want to.
"Meanin' no disrespect, but she does. She always walks the hills, to get away from—" Rand glanced at his uncle, sitting there beside Cadell, and changed his wording to "—Lenie's teasing." Cadell knew well enough what he'd really meant. "She's never been in the barn like you all figured, an' I—well, I didn't figure it was my business to tell hers. By the time I found out about it, she already knew the hills well enough to take care of herself."
"So what's the point?" Wade said.
"Yesterday she came and told me about these men, all ruffled up about it. She wanted me to come see, but . . . well, you know how she gets these things in her head sometimes." He shrugged, unable to meet anyone's gaze. "I figured she'd just dreamt something. So she headed back up the hill—she was trying to get me to follow. And . . . this morning when I followed her trail, I found signs of a big camp. Horse sign, too. Fresh, from earlier today. They'd left out towards the creek, headed downstream." He looked at Cadell. "I couldn't find any trail on Blaine. Just enough to know she'd been there. But listenin' to your talk, I thought this was something that concerned more'n just us."
There was silence then, as the men considered the significance of the Takers sky and the presence of armed strangers; even Wade had sombered.
Rand sat on the porch rail to face his father. "Y'know, she said something about that Dacey fellow. Said they had him tied, and she was afraid for him. She said they had swords." He gave his daddy an apologetic look. "That's why I thought she'd been dreamin'. Who's even heard of them being used around here?"
"Dacey?" Bayard said sharply. "Ain't no one by the name of Dacey hereabouts."
"From the family of Childers, down south of us. Old seer family. Came to my place a few nights back with trade for a meal and dog scraps." Cadell hesitated. "I wasn't sure how to bring this up before, but . . . he done gave me a warning before he left. I didn't take no stock in it at the time . . . ."
Rand gave his father a sharp look, suddenly afraid of what he was going to hear—more afraid, even, than of what he'd already found.
"Spit it out, Cadell!" Bayard demanded.
Hard and sudden, Cadell did. "Said he'd had seein's. That he was here because them seein's told him the Takers were coming back."
There was silence. They were on Cadell's homeplace; no one wanted to offend. And as they took that moment's hesitation, their skepticism turned to the same mixture of half-believing wariness that still rode Cadell's features.
Jason was the first to break the silence, his brows bunched up over his strong forehead. "Say it's so. What're we gonna do about it? A stranger touches you and quick as that you're his? We're needin' a seer to tell who's safe? It's so, an' we're all in a mighty bad place."
"Sit in our homes and make damn sure no stranger sets foot on our land," Wade snorted, looking pointedly at Cadell.
"Quit yer bullin' at Cadell, Wade. We'd had no talk of the Takers when he made this Childers fellow welcome, an' he's the only one with a daughter missing." Bayard stuck his chin out at Wade, who subsided. "Now that we've had some talk about the situation, I expect we'll all be more careful . . . an' the first thing we got to do is track down those men." He trailed off to squint down at the end of the yard. "Cadell, ain't that your oldest girl a-runnin' up the lane?"
Cadell turned to spot Lenie as the girl's run turned into an exhausted stagger. Once she stumbled to her knees. "Rand!" he snapped, but Rand was already sprinting to meet her.
"Oh, Rand," she sobbed, barely coherent. She must have run all the way from the meeting hall. Her hair straggled from its usual neat bun and the sweat on her face marked a long run made in panic. Rand scooped her up and jogged back to the porch with her, where she slid out of his grasp to reach for Cadell. Unused to embracing this daughter who had outgrown him, Cadell nonetheless put his arms around her in an awkward, protective hold.
"Hush, Lenie," he said after a moment of her hysterical crying. "Try to calm a bit, girl. What's the problem? Has one of the children took sick or been snakebit?"
"Men, Daddy," Lenie gulped. "Men."
Rand straightened his back and looked Cadell square in the eye. It seemed, then, that they were in for some trouble.
An entire communal house made from suktah, and the humans didn't even seem to comprehend its value. Why, if they'd had warding of even the weakest kind, inside that building they'd have been untouchable.
But they didn't, and now they were in the hands of the Annekteh, to serve their new masters as the Annekteh chose. Perhaps even to tear down this structure to use the old suktah for the nekfehrta the annektehr needed before they could truly establish themselves here.
Nekfehr surveyed the site, and the terrified women and children held within their own place of safety. A beautiful setup for Breeders . . . The annektehr contemplated it at length, simply to torment his vessel, and to experience the results of the man's emotional memories. Nekfehr being Taken, chosen, torn from his family—from within a Breeder camp, where such things were never supposed to happen. But Nekfehr had caught their attention with his thoughtfulness, his quick intelligence—even his devotion.
All of these things served the annektehr well—at first, by the intensity of anne-nekfehr the man provided, separated from his family and community. And later, when his natural quickness and drive provided answers and incentive for the Annekteh . . . solutions the Annekteh applied toward the management of his own kind.
Human betraying human despite himself.
So the annektehr within Nekfehr now drove his thoughts to Breeders and children and family, and greedily lapped the frisson of the vessel's anguish. And, after a regretfully short moment of that sweetness, released him from those thoughts; Breeders were not what they needed here—not yet—and they could not afford to waste time and concentration on irrelevant matters.
What they needed was cooperative labor . . . and Feeders, from which to taste the senses, for some of the nekteh among them craved the perception of human pain and fear—strong, intoxicating experiences—called anne-nekfehr—that the Annekteh could not encounter without the use of a vessel.
Nekfehr suspected there would be opportunities for such. People like these, long out of touch with the Annekteh, thought themselves defiant, and willing to fight for their freedom. For their families.
They never thought such for long.
As a group the Shadow Hollers men walked down to the creek, following its well-worn path to the river at its mouth—where the flat if narrow flood plain made the walk to the meeting hall, several hollows south, an easy one. Old Bayard, the only one mounted, had to check his mule frequently, and often muttered that he should just go on ahead. Cadell finally put Lenie on the mule behind him, and that slowed the animal enough for the men to keep up.
Lenie hadn't told them much—she hadn't known it to tell. A score of men arrived suddenly, spent a few moments terrorizing the women and children in the hall, and then sent her and other youth out to gather the men from their houses.
"They sent for us?" Rand puzzled as they paused, the meeting hall in sight. "Don't make sense."
"Makes sense if they figured they've already got us beat," Bayard said ominously. He was not perturbed when the others rounded on him with words and glares. "Hellfire, men! What were we just talkin' of? Takers! And they don't have any call to be scairt of us! Prob'ly just makin' sure we all know they've moved in on us!" He gave his mule an unkind kick in the ribs and guided it boldly into the hall yard, stopping just before the row of unfamiliar pack and riding animals, and next to several other Shadow Hollers men.
Cadell and Rand exchanged a quick look—not wanting to expose themselves by leaving the creek brush, unwilling to have Lenie and Bayard out there without them. Cadell nodded, grim and unhappy, and they stepped forward, leading the others out into the yard.
"Excellent." A voice spoke with confidence, drawing their attention to the hall, and the voice alone was enough to tell the men that this was a stranger, without the drawling speech of their own. He spoke over his shoulder into the hall. "This should be just about all of them."
Rand found the tall man in the hall doorway, quickly taking in the high, shin-padded boots and the peek of mail from beneath a shiny leather shirt and rough cloth pants. At the man's side was a long sheath, a foreign shape to Rand's eye. No wonder Blaine had been alarmed. And I called it a dream, wouldn't even follow her.
The open door allowed some view of the hall within, where the day's quilt lay scattered in limp shreds and the women and children crowded into the far corner by the fireplace. The two men watching them stood well back, relaxed—one sharpening a dagger, the other leering now and then at whoever happened to catch his eye. There was another man there, ignoring the women as he spoke quietly to several others. He was shrouded in a dark cloak, and when he came out and stood in front of the hall, Rand could see the cloth was a fine, expensive weave. Not a man used to rough living.
A voice echoing from the nearby barn told Rand where the rest of the strangers were, but the cloaked man—the leader, Rand had no doubt—paid them no mind. Instead, he watched as inside, someone spoke sharply to the quiet huddle of women and children.
Frightened and unsure, the women just stood there, and men moved forward to haul them out of the safety of the crowd and shove them at the door. Rand stiffened as little Sarie stumbled and fell, and he caught Cadell's arm in restraint, though he wanted just as badly to rush forward. Jenna, one of Blaine's least favorite cousins, caught the child and swung her up into the safety of adolescent arms as she herself hurried for the door.
"It will be more comfortable out here," the leader said. His hair and eyes were dark, like black ice, and his voice made Rand shiver inside, especially when the man smiled as though he was offering them the hospitality of a neighborly porch. "I'm afraid you'd find it quite crowded in there, and I very much want you to be able to pay attention. No distractions."
He gave them time for families to unite and waited until they had settled, little nuclei of defiance and fear. Then he left his spot beside the door to stride out before them, the casual set of his body telling them more of their situation than anything else they'd seen. Mystified and intimidated, the same mountain men who would growl back at a wildcat merely stood and waited.
"I'm impressed," the leader said. "I'd been told it was harder than this to quell you people, but I think this is going to be easy on both of us. My name is Nekfehr; I command here. Please listen closely as I explain how things will be from now on."
Lenie's hand crept into Rand's; he took it gladly.
"We're from the plains to the north of you, although I think most of you know that already. We run things there, and we're very good at it." Nekfehr smiled—a slow, chilling smile. "Originally, we came from north of the plains, but we find the living more entertaining in the flat lands. More people there. More for us to do. And now we have needs that your mountains can fulfil. Conveniently for us, you're here to help us meet our goals, and to satisfy our needs."
Rand glanced at his father, and then at the others, seeing narrowed eyes and tensed jaws—hearing the same message he did. You people are our playthings. Our slaves.
With his next words, Nekfehr as much as told them so. "You're nothing but tools to us. Work for us, and we'll treat you well enough. Fail to serve us, and . . . well. One throws a hopelessly broken tool away, does one not?" He adjusted his fine black gloves, pulling them more snugly over his fingers, apparently unconcerned about his audience—but Rand saw him watching them, a surreptitious gaze. The eyes of a man—a creature—who enjoyed the power he held over them. "For the moment, you will serve our purposes by providing labor. It's certainly too bad for you that you're so isolated in these mountains. Some of you might have gotten away, had you been forewarned." He affected another smile. "But oh, yes—you've lost all your seers, haven't you? No warning at all. Now it's too late, I'm afraid."
Rand's back stiffened in denial and defiance; the minute gesture echoed throughout the gathering, a collective of stubborn-looking faces. Rough faces, some of the men freshly shaved of winter beards, some of them still fuzzy and untrimmed, everyone in work clothes—unlike the women, who had put some effort into their appearance for the quilting party. Mountain faces . . . determined to keep the mountains their own.
Nekfehr seemed not to notice—but suddenly Rand was sure he had, that he'd deliberately evoked the response, and was now enjoying it. Playing them, like trout on the line. "To start with," the man said, crisp and uncompromising, "we have a need for suktah—that is, sassafras wood. We'll be searching for your groves. We'll also be starting extensive logging of other trees—your trees have properties you don't seem interested in exploiting, but we have no such weaknesses."
He waved a hand at them, his gesture encompassing them all. "The women will work the farms, aside from a select few who will watch the children—here, at this building. My men will be here at the hall also—you may consider your children hostages for your honest efforts.
"The men will be logging. We will assign you to crews and areas, and you will work at a reasonable pace or we will come to terms about it. Negotiations will not be pleasant." The man smiled emotionlessly, and at once Rand hated him.
"The younger boys," the man concluded, "will provide fresh meat and other forageables. I assure you the whole system is simple and workable, and I expect to have no trouble."
Rand shifted back on his heels and caught Cadell's eye—and could see his father's thoughts favored his own. The invaders were outnumbered; they were underarmed. What weapons they did have seemed to be for close-distance fighting—there was nary a bow to be seen. And maybe these mountains were isolated by the very nature of their structure, but that could be an advantage, too. There were always places to slip away to, plans to make . . . these heavily armored and bulky-weaponed men could never keep up in a pursuit, and hostages could always be freed. For a moment, lulled by the leader's calm attitude, the community thought of rebellion. As a whole, their faces were hard, hateful and defiant.
"What about my girl?" Lottie said, her voice sudden and low. "Blaine, my middle child. What have you done with her?"
Rand gave her a startled glance, surprised she had put it together so fast. But when the man seemed unlikely to respond, despite the raised eyebrow he bestowed upon Lottie, Rand backed her up. "She went to help Dacey Childers. We know you had him."
His statement started a stir of surprise and murmuring, people leaning over to hiss questions at Cadell.
The leader shrugged, uncaring. "She's dead. So's the man."
"No," Lottie whispered.
Rand did more. He'd been to that campsite; he'd seen no bodies. "Prove it!"
"Prove it?" That dark gaze held sudden danger. "Prove it? Never would you say such a thing, had you any memories of our history here. Prove it? I can see we need to remind you of those days. Perhaps we did ourselves a disservice, last time, by destroying your seers' records so thoroughly. But," he said, giving them a suddenly calculating gaze, "we can rectify that error." Nekfehr gestured to his men and pointed toward the gathered families, jabbing his finger once at each end of the crowd. Charlane Prater was yanked away from her family—while Willum, who'd been squatting in research on a bug, gave one surprised squall and found himself in front of the crowd. He offered the insect to the man who held his arm.
The man slapped it away.
Willum understood then; this was more than just some odd game. He tore loose and Charlane, rather than risk the ire of the leader, snatched him and gathered him close before her, her arms crossed over his chest to offer what protection she could. Willum watched fearfully as Nekfehr approached and laid his hand on Charlane's shoulder. Then his eyes widened, for Charlane's grip tightened visibly. He wiggled in protest, whimpering, casting questioning eyes on his mother.
"Hold still," Lottie whispered, her command strained, thinking, it seemed, the same as Rand . . . if he didn't fuss . . . if he was cooperative—
Too much of a chance. "I'm the one done said it," he said, stepping out—only to be brought up short by one of the men, one he dared not let touch him. "You got something to do, you do it to me."
Another man stepped forward, drawing his knife. He smiled at Charlane—and Charlane smiled back, genuine as anything.
"I'm afraid this is more effective," Nekfehr said, and nodded at Willum.
The plainsman drew his blade across Willum's throat.
It happened so fast Rand wasn't at first sure of what he'd seen—and then they all knew, frozen in horror as blood sprayed high in great heart-driven spurts, as Willum's astonished little face gathered itself for one last cry that he never had the opportunity to voice. As his eyes drained of life and his body sagged, as Charlane held him tightly without a hint of regret, as Lottie whimpered and fell against her husband, Rand's chest clutched with a fury and grief he knew he didn't dare express. Could only vow to avenge . . . while at the same time realizing there was very little chance he'd ever get the opportunity.
Nekfehr smiled his terrible, dead smile. "Take note. I could have made any one of you do that. His mother, his father, another child his age. And if you give me cause, I will."
His touch on Charlane's shoulder released her. She looked, aghast, at the body in her arms and the blood on her sleeves, and began to scream.
Nekfehr turned away, his face filled with cold, alien satisfaction.