Agnarr, the man who had stolen her life when his blade took the lives of Devin and Devlin. Her whole body tensed with the desire to kill this man, to revenge herself and all her people. Cowan, from the west, had perhaps discerned this. He had stayed at her left side as she was treating the invader. While pretending to lean in to see her stitching, he had slipped her knife right out of the rawhide sheath at her waist. Angry, she moved to stop him, but his knowing look stopped her instead. “Wait,” the son of Branieucc had cautioned her almost silently. “Wait. I have a plan.” Then the big, hairy leader had barked something and Cowan spread his hands to soothe their captor. Devin would have strangled them both, Charis thought. And then she had to clench her eyes shut to the pain. Her hands stilled but then resumed their work. “Charis,” her new patient growled gutturally at her as she took a needle to thread the man’s skin flaps together. Charis wanted to pretend she didn’t understand, but her own name was difficult to avoid.
