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the others were. Keep looking."
    Despite the way Drahl glowered at her and
clenched his fat lips into a tight hateful line, Alaysha had to know. "Who
are these people, Father?"
    He stared at her. "The wrong
people." He mounted up and nosed his stallion back towards the camp. Drahl
did the same, leaving Alaysha alone.
    The wrong people. He thought she'd got it
wrong, but she hadn't, and now she needed to know exactly what was going on.
    He wanted this village in particular
vanquished. That was nothing new, not really, except for the crones. He was
specific in asking about the markings too. Tattaus just like hers. But why?
What had these people done that set him out from his beloved Sarum hunting for
them?
    She knew of at least one person besides her
father who could answer that.
    Number nineteen.

Chapter 4
    Number nineteen was gone by the time
Alaysha had returned to the tree line, and in spite of his having wanted her to
accompany him, he'd undoubtedly left as soon as he'd seen the mighty Yuri and
Drahl ride up to her.
    It was the smart thing for him to do, no
doubt, but the most frustrating for her. Now she'd never know what he wanted to
tell her, and she had the feeling it was the same thing her father didn't want
her to know. That meant she could never tell him the crones were actually the ones
he was seeking. If the village had been the right one, he'd know number
nineteen had escaped. Better he think they had the wrong village and that the
survivor was nowhere in the vicinity.
    It had been a terribly long day. She was
hungry and tired, and worst of all, thirsty. That was never a good thing, but
so long as she wasn't afraid, and she was sufficiently exhausted, the power
could not creep on her unawares.
    So she headed back to camp only to find
that same camp being packed up. It was so like her father to break for Sarum
without wondering if she had made it back safely or not. She knew the way of
things. News just traveled. Drahl would have been given command to break and he
would set his men about the task. The sundry womenfolk: laundresses and cooks,
the children who cared for the horses and beasts, the hunters and gatherers,
all would see the camp going through the motions of packing and would do the
same without question.
    She dismounted and led Barruch to her own
encampment, a cleft of a cave in the side of a mountain about a hundred paces
from the actual camp. Yuri's daughter or no, he never allowed her too close to
his site. Too dangerous, he'd said. Drahl had merely told her no one wanted to
be in close quarters with a witch.
    She found it odd her father had been the
one to soften the blow of that news.
    She had meager belongings to collect: a
bowl and a spoon, a bed blanket made of leopard fur and a thatch mat her nohma
had woven years earlier with bits of feathers amidst the thatch to soften the grass.
It rolled neatly and tied to Barruch easily.
    She grabbed her bowl and spoon with the
intention of scavenging a few morsels to fill her belly if the cook hadn't
finished packing, then she'd take a few minutes to get some water from the
stream next to the camp. She rathered the order be switched, but the stream
would always be there waiting, while she had her doubts about the cook and his
fare.
    "Wait here," she told Barruch and
gave his rump a pat. "If I'm lucky, there'll be a stray parsnip in it for
you."
    She left him peering down at the sour grass
with disdain, and set out towards the cook's tent, trying not to meet anyone's
eye. She needn't worry; most scurried out of her path as she approached.
    Once or twice, when she encountered one of
Drahl's men, they spat on the ground when she came near enough.
    "Drink that, witch," one said,
leering and poking at his friend's side.
    "Watch it now," his companion
said. "She can have you in one swallow."
    "Brah," The first muttered,
raking her with his gaze. "She's drank already. Killed a hundred men today
already and half a dozen babies. Even a water witch can't drink