Evening came early to the Ravenlands, where the dales and valleys were only briefly touched by the sun, and Willym and Waltyr made their way in the fading light along the paths that led to home, leading the tired mules.

The boy had always been quiet, even before his mother had gone on to the Coming Light, but now his silence had a tone of . . . something that Willym couldn’t quite recognize.

“Something bothers you, lad?”

The boy was silent a little while longer, before he said, “I don’t know why you didn’t ride with Lord Calilis’ men. Everyone says—even Brylan Suninon,” dislike was clear in his young voice, “that you were the finest firstrider our lord ever had. You killed hundreds of Pental; I’ve seen the banner you took at Lakeswood.”

Willym frowned at the words. “You think me a coward, son?” When no response was quick in coming, he added, “When I went south to fight the Pental, I had no family. I was as wild and flown as your brother is now, and I only feared for myself. Now . . . now, I fear for you and Morgyn.” He eyed the boy out of the corner of his vision. “And who told you I killed hundreds of Pental?” he demanded, enough scorn in his voice to make it clear it wasn’t true. Not entirely.

The boy flushed but didn’t answer.

“I loved and hated the stridsefttand, and I killed men. I hope to never again,” Willym said carefully. “Don’t ever make that sound like a boast.”

Ahead of them, there was a spot of light from a window—their house. A rectangle of light appeared, as Morgyn opened the door. She waited for them, patiently standing in the doorway. With the light to her back, shadowing her face’s features, Willym thought she looked like a slightly taller version of her mother, and the thought made him smile a little. As they grew closer, however, the illusion was shattered when her gray eyes met his. Dana’s eyes had been bright as sapphires.

“Some riders came by today, Pa,” she said. “Calilis men.”

“Did they bother you?” Willym asked, handing the animals to Waltyr, who began walking toward the barn.

“No,” she responded. “Stopped and asked where you were, that’s all.”

He nodded and grunted. “Well, they found me.”

Dinner was collard greens and chives with melted fat poured over it, and venison cooked with wild onions. The cornmeal was being saved, or they would have had a pan of cornbread too.

It would have been a rich dinner to any of their neighbors, who labored on as sharecroppers for their lords, but a former firstrider of a ravenlord didn’t pay into a clan like that. He had paid for his plot of land with his sword-arm and musket in years gone by, and owned nearly all he grew.

When dinner was done, Morgyn cleared the dishes away while her father sat in a wooden chair, leaning it back on its two hind legs. He held a book open on the table, slowly scanning the pages. The spine was nearly worn away, and the edges of the paper were no longer sharp, but had been rubbed smooth from frequent use.

Waltyr sat in a corner of the house, looking like he was falling asleep, despite his best intentions. A book of arithmetic, that had been old when his father had been a boy, was beginning to slip out of his hands. Willym didn’t understand all of that book, anyway.

Very little had been said during supper, and once Morgyn had washed the dishes, with water Waltyr had brought up to the house before the sun went down, she dried her hands on her skirt and sat beside her father. He didn’t look up from his book.

Morgyn sighed, twisting a bit of her skirt in her hand subconsciously. “Those Calilis riders said they were looking for more riders,” she said.

Her father looked up at her. “Yes,” he said. “Men with debts to pay, mostly, and boys hoping for fortune.”

“But you wouldn’t go with them to fight the People.” Willym’s eyes narrowed very slightly, and he set his book down carefully on the table, taking care with the worn binding.

“Waltyr told you?” he guessed.

Morgyn glanced at her younger brother, but he had succeeded at falling asleep and was snoring softly. “Yes,” she said, assured that her brother wouldn’t hear her. “He doesn’t understand why you didn’t go.”

“Do you?”

“I don’t know.” Morgyn looked down, still twisting the fabric in her fingers. “I suppose.”

“The People have raided as far as Lablon, in the past,” he said, knowing in his heart that wasn’t the reason. Not all of it, anyway. “We’re only a few days from the sea; I dare not leave you or Waltyr here alone. Not with People sweeping down the coast.” His voice was low and gloomy, but his lips pulled upward in a smile after he’d finished. “That and I don’t trust Brylan Suninon to not run off with you while I was gone.”

Morgyn smiled just a little, though the touch of a blush reached her ears. “I wouldn’t run off with him. He’s just . . .” she bit her lip. “He’s just nice to talk to, sometimes.” Her voice sounded sad for a moment. “It’s nice to talk to someone else.”

Willym was quiet, thinking of that, and wondered if he would have done better to lease his land and live in one of the towns, after Dana had passed. For the sake of his children, at least. The one who was already flown had always been quiet and reserved, but Morgyn should have had girls her age around her, growing up. . . .

“You wanted to go, didn’t you?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.  “And that’s why you didn’t.”

He didn’t need to ask what she was talking about, and pursed his lips as she found her way to the truth. Finally, he said, “You take your brother to bed,” the thought of lonely children and the joy of war still haunting him. “We’ll be working tomorrow, and he needs proper sleep.” He gestured to where Waltyr was sleeping in his chair.

“Yes, Pa.” She got up and kissed her father’s cheek softly. Her faded skirts swishing behind her as she crossed to her brother, and gently took the book from his listless fingers. Shaking his shoulder, she roused him.

Willym got up too, walking to the door and taking his musket from where it had been hung over it. He wasn’t as old as his father had been when he died, but he felt every one of his years, and already needed to find the outhouse again before he crawled into bed.

Heading out of the house and into the cool nighttime air, he closed the door behind him, letting his eyes adjust to the moonlight.

The outhouse stood a few hundred paces from the house and barn—for the smell mostly—and he began making his way toward it. He’d dug the pit downhill, away from the well, so as to not poison the water, though he had come to regret the long walk as he grew older—especially when his bladder was close to bursting.

As he made his way down the hill, he let the musket rest in one hand, balanced naturally around the lock. He’d left his gifttand hanging in its sheath at the door, and not having its weight at his waist felt unnatural . . . he frowned at himself. Maybe it was the result of so many years riding in wars, or maybe it was the stridsefttand calling to him. He hoped it was the former, but somehow knew it wasn’t.

He heard the faint sound of a click, and it seemed to split the night open . . . just before it was lit by a burst of fire. An ear-shattering explosion cut through the air, and something kicked Willym hard.

He fell back to the hard ground, his musket swinging up automatically, years and years of instinct and experience taking hold. His blood sang. He couldn’t see anything to shoot at, but, without any conscious thought, his hands pointed the barrel where the flare of light had come from. The hammer was drawn back and released in a single smooth action, the flame from the muzzle lighting the night a second time. In the moment of flashing light, he saw a Man of the Moon holding an ill-maintained musket, crouching in the patches of knee-high grass. The man’s pale face was turned into an ‘O’ of surprise as Willym’s musket ball, the size of his thumb, tore through his chest. He fell to the ground a moment later, blood staining his bright-colored sash.

The echoing thunderclap of musket shots rolled down the draw, silencing everything that chirped or clicked. Willym felt funny, and when he tried to get to his feet he found there was a dull, throbbing pain in his chest.

Oh, Morgyn, he thought as he heard a woman’s shriek come from the house.

He blinked against tears of pain that came when the shock wore off, trying again to push himself up. The stridsefttand no longer called to him; it was in him, sweet and hated.