He's one of yours, and he needs your help." She stood in the lee of a small hill among many small hills, on shreds of redgrass, which were cropped to the roots and dying. A heavy wind drove across the sky, not touching her, but sweeping and snapping the patchwork cloak of the warrior who stood on the crest above. Rowan's sword lay on the ground at her own feet, hilt to the right, as she waited for a reply. It was long in coming. The warrior shifted stance, paused as if in great thought, shifted again, then studied Rowan with eyes narrowed. "Averryl was lost four days ago," she said. Rowan noticed her gaze flick to Rowan's right, and guessed the next words before they were spoken. "Warrior, at three by you." It was a lie. From Averryl's description of his war band's deployment, and its likely rearrangement after his disappearance, the nearest warrior should arrive from the opposite side. Rowan quashed a brief rise of anger; this woman knew nothing of the Steerswomen's traditions, nor could she recognize Rowan as a member of the order.
