“Jaharo?” “Tall,” Jinx murmured, staring up at the man. He removed his hat to reveal short-cropped hair that had faded from a rich brown to a dark gold. Then he smiled—not with his lips, but with his eyes. Golden eyes. “Yes,” Hawkwing said, replacing his hat. “I am happy to see you both again.” His eyes fell upon Jinx, and the thief extended a dirty hand—the same hand that had been marked. Jinx quickly switched hands. “Tall,” he murmured, staring up at the man. Hawkwing was tall—very tall and lean. He was clean-shaven and straight-shouldered, but he wore attire that boasted not of wealth nor poverty; his jacket and hat were worn but not shabby. He was like an oak—weathered but fittingly so. He had a faint scent of leather, pine, rain, and earth—all in one—but not unpleasant. “I confess I am confused,” Arcturus said. “You are the same man we met at the caravan. Are you not Jaharo Halensa?” “For me, names are stories,” Hawkwing said. “Jaharo Halensa has lived for centuries, a name handed down by my father and his father and so on.
