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raven means.”
    She stared at him as if he made as little sense to her as she had to him. “You are Bard,” she said again, but this time there was a wobble in her voice.
    He took a good look at her. It might have been rain that wet her cheeks, but he’d bet his good knife that there would be salt in the water. She was little more than a child and she’d just lost her brother under appalling circumstances. It was the middle of the night, she was shaking with cold, and she’d held up to more than many a veteran soldier.
    â€œI’ll dispose of the body,” he said. “Neither of us will get any sleep with him out here attracting carrion-eaters. You get out of the rain and into dry clothes. We’ll talk in the morning. I promise that no one will harm you until morning at least.”
    When she was occupied getting her baggage out of the cart, he led Skew to the body and somehow wrestled the dead man onto the horse’s wet back. He had no intention of burying the man, just moving him far enough away that whatever scavengers the body attracted wouldn’t trouble them. It occurred to him that Wresen might not be alone—indeed, it would be odd if he were because noblemen traveled with servants.
    But all he found was a single grey horse tied to a tree about a hundred paces back down the trail and no sign that another horse had been tied nearby.
    Tier stopped beside the animal, and let the body slide off Skew’s back into the mud, sword still welded to his hand. Skew, who’d borne with everything, jumped three steps sideways as the body fell and snorted unhappily. The grey pulled back andshook her head, trying to break free—but the reins held. When nothing further happened the horse quieted and lipped nervously at a bunch of nearby leaves.
    Tier rifled through the man’s saddlebags, but there was nothing in them but the makings of a few meals and a pouch of silver and copper coins. This last he tucked into his own purse with a soldier’s thrift. He took the food as well. There was nothing on the body either—except for a chunky silver ring with a bit of dark stone in it. He deemed the ring, like the horse and the man’s sword, too identifiable to take, and left it where it was.
    In the end, Tier found no hint of who Wresen was, or why he’d been so intent on getting Seraph. Surely a mage wouldn’t have the same unreasoning fear of Travelers that the villagers here had.
    He took his knife and cut most of the way through the grey’s reins near the bit. When she got hungry enough she’d break free, but it wouldn’t be for a while yet.
    By the time he rode back to camp, Tier was dragging with fatigue. Seraph had taken his advice; he found her huddled under the tree.
    A second oilskin tarp, bigger and even more worn that his, increased the size of their shelter so that he might even be able to keep his feet dry. His saddle was in the shelter too, the mud wiped mostly off. He rummaged in the saddlebags and changed to his second set of clothing. They weren’t clean, but dry was more important just now.
    Seraph had turned her face away while he changed. Knowing she’d not sleep for the cold on her own, nor agree to snuggle with a stranger—especially not in the present circumstances, he didn’t bother to say anything. He wrapped an arm around her, ignored her squeak of surprised dismay, and stretched out to sleep.
    She tried to wiggle away from him, but there wasn’t much room. Then she was still for a long time while Tier drifted into a light doze. Some time later her quiet weeping woke him, and he shifted her closer, patting her back as if she were his little sister coming to him with a scraped knee rather than the loss of her family.
    He woke to her strange pale eyes staring at him, lit by sunlight leaking through morning clouds.
    â€œI could have used this on you,” Seraph said.
    He looked at the blade she held in her