He is a shadow, lost amid the mottled shadows of the trees. The woman he hunts does not see him. She is alone, hurrying south toward Nefión. A gauntlet of imagined fears lies before her—roots to bruise her toes, windfalls to block the way, wolves within the shadows—but none of these slow her pace. They are nothing against the fear that follows behind her—and my brother’s presence she suspects not at all. He is a murderer, my Smoke. Though he’s just eighteen, at least 172 lives have ended against the edge of his sword. Maybe more. It’s likely there are slayings I haven’t discovered yet. Smoke doesn’t keep count of the dead, but I do. The Hunt Smoke crept to a vantage along a curve in the road. Peering past a veil of late summer leaves, he watched the woman approach. She carried a sack over one shoulder and held a staff in her hand. She walked south with great haste, until she was stopped at the curve by a puddle of rainwater and ox dung that stretched clear across the road.
