He had spent quite some time working on his horse, scrubbing away the sweat stains, checking practically every hair for damage. Apparently he found none. The horse was saddled again, drinking water from a waxed, oil-cloth bucket. He sat upon a spread blanket. No saddle to lean against this time, as it was on top of his horse again. He was cross-legged, staring out across the grasslands at the rising moon, nearly full. His harness sheath was empty. The sword lay on the sand next to him. “How’s that cut doing?” I asked. He looked at the forearm where Khalid had sliced him. No longer bandaged, a shallow ridge of stitched tissue was visible. He made a fist, flexed the arm. “It still works.” It probably hurt much worse than he was letting on. I leaned against the wagon’s tailgate, folded my arms across my chest. “I don’t think they’ll be back. Not tonight. But—” He cut me off: “It’s best to be prepared. I know. You’ve made that very clear. Numerous times.” He had not yet looked at me.
