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won’t arrive in time, and that we have only hours to evacuate! How good could those orders have been?”
    “I am sorry, Scriber, I truly am.” Bryndine lowered her eyes, either ashamed or simply unwilling to meet my glare. “But it is not my place to question the High Commander’s orders. It is already done, in any case; we are wasting time. Please, go join the other villagers.”
    I opened my mouth to say more, but Sylla stepped up quickly and pulled me away from her Captain.
    “Not another word, Scriber. Just do what she told you.” She pushed me again, this time towards the crowd of villagers, now composed of nearly the entire population of Waymark.
    The crowd buzzed with curiosity. I heard Logan Underbridge’s son, Jason, telling Penni Harynson the story of the Bloody Bride—that each time Bryndine's father tried to marry her to someone, she slew the intended husband. It was obviously untrue, and I couldn’t imagine how anyone believed it. Even the King’s niece could not commit such a blatant crime and remain free. Bryndine had been betrothed only one time that I knew of, to the son of Baron Hurryd Rafynson of the Bridgefort, many years ago. The boy had died when they were accosted by bandits on an outing in the countryside, not at Bryndine’s hand, but the rumors persisted.
    There were other muttered tales as well: that Bryndine’s impure blood had driven her mad; that she was cursed by the Mother for her impropriety; that her very presence was like to bring divine vengeance down on the entire village. I let them talk, and took some pleasure in hearing the awful woman maligned, even if it was for the wrong reasons. Nothing I could have said would make them trust Bryndine even had I been willing to try; defending the infamous Bloody Bride would only have hurt any chance that they would heed my own advice.
    Logan Underbridge spotted me through the crowd and waved me over to where he and many of the men of Waymark stood. He was something of an unofficial village chief; Waymark was too small to bother choosing a true mayor, but Logan’s opinions tended to guide the rest. Unfortunately, he was a profoundly ignorant man, prone to superstition and easily taken in by rumor. I wouldn’t have been surprised if it had been Logan himself who had filled his son’s head with those stories about Bryndine.
    Logan’s usual collection of followers stood closest to him: Ashton Norgand; the tanner Iayn Gerynson, a big bear of a man; long-haired Brother Randal Ginnis in his sky-blue robe. The rest of the men crowded around the core group, listening raptly.
    Logan eyed me somewhat suspiciously. “Scriber Dennon! I seen you speakin’ to the Bloody Bride. What were you sayin’?” He had always been wary of me, worried I might try to use my “book learning” to oppose his often outlandish assertions. To Logan Underbridge, education was something to be feared and mistrusted.
    “You ain’t workin’ with her, are you Scriber?” Ashton Norgand asked. Logan’s closest friend, his role in village discussion tended to be reinforcing everything Logan said by saying it again, slightly rephrased. “Josia tole me you seen her t’other day.”
    “I can’t stand the woman,” I assured them. “She only wanted to know if there was anyone missing. She won’t be satisfied until they’ve disturbed every man, woman, and child, it seems.” If being hard on Bryndine would improve my chances of getting everyone out of the village alive, I was all too happy to do it.
    Logan clapped me on the shoulder. “That she won’t, Scriber. Yer a smart man, I always said so; glad we’re thinkin’ the same on this.” Some of the others followed Logan’s example, slapping me on the back. “We need ‘er gone; you all heard the stories,” Logan continued. “The Lord Chancellor shouldn’t never‘ve married low. King Eddyl would’ve put a stop to it if he’d been alive, Father keep him. Erryn’s blood weren’t meant to mix with