The speaker was an old woman. She was short, the top of her head barely reaching Dahr's chest. She walked hunched over, which made her appear even shorter. In her left hand she carried a gnarled, oaken stick, which she used to support her weight. She spoke with the gravelly, severe voice of one who has seen a great many winters. Her hair was thin and white, and she wore it pulled back in a tight bun. Her eyes were vibrant blue, but cloudy around the edges.

Despite her appearance, the old woman had a strength that belied her diminutive size. She commanded such a presence that she seemed to tower over them. She stared at Jeran, a small, amused smile painted on her lips, as if she knew more than she cared to let on. Jeran bowed his head respectfully.

"Good evening, Greise Alwen," he said. "This is my friend, Dahr. I met him by the stream. He helped me catch these fish and I invited him to the farm to share dinner with us. He has no home, and I thought Uncle Aryn might be able to find some work for him."

Jeran silently chastised himself. He had not wanted to tell Greise Alwen so much, but hiding the truth from the old woman was difficult. She had a way of getting the answers she wanted, sometimes without you even realizing it.

She stared at Dahr, barely sparing a second glance at Jeran. So intense was her gaze, her eyes seemed to glow with their own light. They roved from his head to his toes, her gaze boring through him. She examined him like a horse trader would appraise a stallion or a soldier would study a fine weapon.

Finally, her inspection finished, she locked her eyes with Dahr's. His expression became one of pure terror. "I have not seen one of you in a long time," she began, speaking slowly, as if unsure whether or not Dahr would understand. Or perhaps weighing her words carefully, so as not to offend him. "A very long time. Not since long before anyone in this village was born."

She paused, and her eyes acquired that appraising quality again. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "But I do not feel you are a threat. You have your secrets, but I suppose everyone, even a child, has secrets. Do not cause trouble here," she cautioned, wagging a finger in his face, "and do not bring trouble to this village, else I will make you wish you had not."

The old woman's statements confused Dahr. He opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Greise Alwen turned her eyes to Jeran. "You, little Jeran," she added, "must be more careful in what you choose to bring home. Life is not a game, although the young often believe it to be, and it does not last forever. Perhaps you have conveniently forgotten, but strangers are often dangerous. Slavers have stolen more than one child since I have lived here."

Jeran felt his stomach tighten at the mention of the slavers. Dahr dropped his head and visibly shuddered. The slavers were another group, like the Darklord, used to frighten children into obedience. Jeran did not think anyone had been abducted from Keryn's Rest since he was born, but Greise Alwen had lived here much longer than he had.

"You were lucky this time," she added, leaning in close, "for I do not believe your new friend is a threat. But someday, even your luck may run out."

She stood there silently, her eyes shifting between the two of them. "Now be on your way," she ordered, "before your uncle starts to worry!" She turned, surprisingly quickly, and began to hobble away.

They stood silently, gaping at her. Without turning around, she yelled back, "Did I not tell you to be on your way?" As one, Jeran and Dahr turned and ran, Greise Alwen's cackling laughter following them through the village.

They did not stop until the north end of Keryn's Rest was far behind them. As they rounded a sharp bend in the road, the Odara farmhouse became visible in the distance.

Slowing to a walk, Dahr asked between panting breaths, "That woman . . . Who was she?"

"Her name is Alwen," Jeran explained, hanging his head low to help him catch his breath. "She's one of the oldest, and scariest, people in the entire village. Uncle says she's lived in Keryn's Rest a long time. She's the only one who's been on the village council longer than him. She's old, no one knows how old for sure, but I don't think she lied when she said she was born before anyone else in this village. Not even old Timian, and he was alive when King Mathis' grandfather was king."

As they drew near, Dahr looked at the farm. To the left of the house was a large barn, its back nestled against a steep hill. On one side of the barn sat a pen where pigs rolled noisily in the mud. From the far side of the barn came the sounds of chickens and turkeys. Several small gardens lined the hill, ordered rows of plants dotting the steep incline. A fence ran along the top of the hill, outlining the edge of the plateau. East of the house grew larger gardens and a huge field of golden wheat.

The house itself was large, larger than it needed to be for two. It was large enough for a real family. The townspeople often complained of such a large house being wasted on Jeran and his uncle. "Uncle Aryn used to claim that he wanted a larger family," Jeran explained, "and he built the farmhouse with that thought in mind." It was three stories tall, though the third floor was an attic, and had a root cellar too.

After Jeran's father died, and Aryn had taken him in, he changed his mind. "One child is enough!" he had said on numerous occasions. "You're more trouble than I can handle by myself, and I doubt I could find a woman willing to live with either of us, let alone both!"

Jeran was sure there was more to the story than Uncle Aryn was willing to tell, but he loved his uncle dearly and never questioned him on the subject. Any number of the village women would marry Aryn if he showed any interest, with or without Jeran. Jeran did not care whether or not his uncle was inclined to marry. He was more than content to have the farm, and Aryn, to himself.

Jeran led Dahr through the front door, calling for his uncle. At this time of day, Aryn would often be cooking in the kitchen, or writing at his desk. Jeran had never seen a farmer write as much as his uncle. Aryn wrote at least two letters each season. One letter always went to Lord Talbot in Portal. Jeran had once asked why his uncle wrote to Lord Talbot so often.

"Gideon Talbot and I fought together in the Tachan War," Aryn had explained. "We've remained close friends since those days." Aryn was more tight-lipped concerning the other letters. Jeran tried time and again to discover to whom his uncle wrote.

Despite his efforts, Aryn never divulged the ident.i.ty of his other friend. Aryn kept a journal, which he wrote in every day. He had been writing in his journal since long before Jeran was born. Five or six large volumes lined the shelves of the library, each filled with Aryn's flowing script. Aryn had forbidden him to read the books, and Jeran knew better than to go against Aryn's wishes. He a.s.sumed his uncle wrote so much because he was head of the village council, but as far as he knew, none of the other council members wrote at all.

Jeran opened the door to the library.

Several hundred books sat in neat rows on the shelves, making this library the largest in the area, except perhaps in Portal Keep, the center of House Odara.

Aryn sat at his desk, busily writing in his journal. Jeran's uncle was tall and broad of shoulder, thickly muscled, a common occurrence when you spend your life working on a farm. Aryn had blue eyes, lighter than Jeran's, and blonde hair where Jeran's was black. He had a prominent nose and well-cut features.

"Uncle," Jeran said, entering the chamber, "I met a boy by the stream today. He helped me catch some fish, and I thought he should share them with us for dinner."

"That's fine, Jeran," Aryn said in a deep, friendly voice. "Just make sure his family knows he's here." Aryn did not look up, but when he noticed Jeran still there, said, "I need to finish this, Jeran, so if you don't mind . . ."

"Uncle, Dahr isn't from around here," Jeran tried to explain. "He has no family. He's been on his own for over a season now. I know you're always complaining about the amount of work we have to do. I thought maybe you could find something for him to do on the farm."

Aryn frowned, and Dahr took a step back. Jeran put a restraining hand on Dahr's arm. In a quiet voice, Dahr said, "If you have no work for me, I understand, Sir. Maybe you could tell me where I can find some. Jeran says you used to travel a lot."

Aryn's frown deepened, and he looked up from his writing. Jeran had expected his uncle to frown, Aryn often frowned while thinking about something, but he was not ready for his uncle's reaction when his eyes settled on Dahr for the first time.

Aryn stood so quickly that his chair fell over behind him, clattering loudly as it hit the floor. In an instant, he had a knife drawn and held it toward Dahr as if expecting a fight. From the look on Aryn's face, he would have drawn his sword if it had not been locked in a trunk upstairs.

Jeran had never seen his uncle's eyes so hard and expressionless, nor had he ever heard Aryn speak in a voice so cold and commanding.

"What do you want here?" demanded Aryn, his eyes never leaving Dahr's. "This is a house of peace, Hunter. I do not wish to kill you, but I will defend my own." Jeran did not understand his uncle's words, but he more than understood the tone.

Dahr looked as if he were about to bolt through the door. His eyes danced wildly, and he trembled in fear. Just then, the wind blasted through the chamber, slamming the door shut and cutting off their only means of escape.

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