Several days after Brynne’s rape, Sallax and Ren were sent across the village to purchase flour, eggs and venison for the evening’s meal. Sallax suspected Ren was responsible for taking his sister to the Falkan’s chamber, but he had no proof – until that morning, when Ren insisted they stop at the cobbler’s to look at a pair of fine leather boots displayed in the window. Sallax laughed at the older boy: the boots cost more than either of them made in three Twinmoons, but Ren brandished a heavy leather pouch and insisted on trying them on. When he was sure they fit well enough, he pulled out a handful of silver coins and paid the shoemaker.
As they left the shop, Sallax turned to Ren. ‘If you’ve got silver, there’s something else you should see.’ He led him down a side street to a secluded square, empty of onlookers.
Ren looked around. He couldn’t see what Sallax meant – then, for the first time, he began to wonder if he had been a little stupid pulling out his money in public. But it wasn’t silver Sallax was interested in. Instead, he pushed the older boy up against the wall and, before Ren realised what was happening, Sallax slipped his knife up under Ren’s ribs and into his lungs. Blood, deep red, almost black, flowed from the wound and Sallax sat for several moments savouring Ren’s laboured breathing as his lungs filled with fluid and he died there on the street.
Working slowly and carefully, Sallax removed the leather purse from Ren’s tunic and pulled the boots from the dead boy’s feet. He returned them to the cobbler, saying his friend was too embarrassed to ask for a refund, but the silver belonged to their employer. The cobbler was not happy, but he returned the fee, threatening to take the matter up with Sybert himself if either boy ever tried such a thing again.
When Sallax returned with the provisions, he told Sybert he’d last seen Ren disappearing into an alehouse. When he didn’t return for the evening meal, the innkeeper shrugged. He too had his suspicions about how the merchant had lured Brynne upstairs.
Seeing the look in her brother’s eyes, Brynne knew he was lying about Ren’s disappearance. Strangely, it didn’t make her feel better; she felt empty inside. The thought of Ren lying dead, somewhere in the village, left her a little remorseful.
*
Although she recovered physically, Brynne’s youthful innocence was gone for good. She never saw her rapist again, but in nightmares she remembered his thick, sweaty jowls, the long half-moon scar across his wrist, and an ugly brown, bulbous mole that grew from one side of his nose. A toughness emerged in her, almost overnight, and it wasn’t long before men throughout Estrad knew better than to proposition the lovely but deadly young woman. Twinmoons in the kitchen and scullery had made her quick with a knife, and more than one tavern patron had cause to regret reaching for her bottom as she served drinks. Brynne never maimed them: she just marked them, leaving a half-moon scar across their wrists, a permanent reminder of the man who had so violently destroyed her innocence and broken her spirit.
Thirty-five Twinmoons later, Sybert Gregoro died in his sleep. Brynne sent word to his estranged son, a farmer in northern Falkan, who replied in a careful script that she and Sallax should send along his father’s personal effects and savings but should consider the tavern their own. They kept the letter closely guarded in a strongbox under the bar and left Sybert’s chambers empty for seven full Twinmoons before they felt comfortable taking over.
It was a longer time before she and Sallax started calling Greentree Tavern their own. For many Twinmoons, Brynne expected Sybert’s son to arrive and claim his inheritance, but he never had, and the people of Estrad Village were glad the old man had left his business to the hard-working siblings he had fostered.
It was dark by the time Steven, Mark and Brynne reached the edge of Estrad Village. Steven was glad of the darkness: it would help camouflage their strange-looking clothing.
‘If we’re going to be around here for any length of time, we ought to get some other clothes,’ he observed. ‘Your red sweater stands out like a beacon among all this homespun fabric.’
‘You’re right,’ Mark said, appearing to notice his pullover for the first time all day. ‘But before that, we have to do something with her. Look for something we can use to tie her up.’ Steven pulled the belt from around his waist and, taking his friend’s lead, Mark did the same.
‘What do you mean?’ Brynne implored. ‘Are we not going to my tavern? I can get you food, and Sallax has clothing there that will fit both of you.’
‘Into the lion’s den, my dear?’ Mark asked sarcastically. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. We’ll find food and clothing and be back to get you. We need to meet Gilmour, because he’s the only other person who seems to understand we’re not here to overthrow the damned government, or to infiltrate your resistance efforts, but I certainly don’t trust you enough to follow you into town.’ Mark felt a pang of sadness as he watched her frown with disappointment. She was lovely. He fought the urge to gently push her hair back off her face.
‘I don’t want anything to do with you two either,’ she spat. ‘Why will you not trust me to take you to Gilmour now?’
Steven said, ‘Because we don’t believe you know where he is. None of you were expecting that attack this morning, so I don’t suppose your friends are all snugly tucked in their beds. We’ll find food, steal some clothing and be right back for you.’ Brynne struggled against the bonds that held her firmly to a handy tree trunk. They were still several hundred paces from the edge of the village and although screaming would do her no good, Steven was taking no chances; he tore a sleeve from his shirt and tied it tightly across her mouth.
‘Try to relax,’ he whispered as he and Mark turned to make their way stealthily into the village. ‘We’ll be back in a tick.’
Unable to respond, Brynne’s eyes clouded with anger and she lashed out at the foreigners, but her kick sailed wide of its targets.
‘You think she was lying?’ Steven asked a short while later.
‘I’m sure she was lying.’
‘That’s too bad. I’ve always wanted to meet a woman who owned her own bar,’ Steven mused.
Mark chuckled. ‘Yeah, me too, but I was hoping mine would be on 17th Street in Denver.’
‘Maybe we can find Gilmour at Greentree Tavern,’ Steven guessed. ‘Why else would she want to get us there?’
‘Sallax,’ Mark commented dryly.
‘Oh, you’re right. He does tend to shoot first and ask questions never, doesn’t he.’ Steven spoke in hushed tones as they approached a row of single-storey stone buildings with clay-tiled roofs. ‘I say we risk it. Maybe he won’t try to kill us if he knows we have her tied up somewhere.’
‘Let’s find clothes first. We certainly can’t ask for directions looking like this.’ Mark crept alongside one of the buildings and peered through an open window to where a family was sitting around a fireplace, talking and laughing together.
‘Not this one,’ he whispered. ‘Let’s keep going.’ They moved to the next window, through which Mark could see a family making preparations for their evening meal.
‘As great as it smells in there, I say we keep looking,’ Mark said.
Steven’s mouth watered at the aroma emanating from the warmly lit kitchen, but he nodded in silent agreement.
Crawling on all fours, they discovered the windows in the next house were covered with pine shutters. Through a small crack between the wooden blinds Steven watched a burly, powerful-looking man don a wide-brimmed hat and exit out the opposite side of the house into the muddy street. Steven watched for a full five minutes, in case the man returned quickly, or other family members turned up. From his vantage point at the window he could see clearly through two rooms, but he wasn’t sure about the rest of the building.
Mark grew uneasy waiting. ‘What do you see?’ he whispered at last.