Brynne had never known her parents. They had died while she was still an infant; she and Sallax had been brought up in an orphanage in Estrad. The elderly couple who ran the orphanage died fifty Twinmoons later, while Brynne was still a child, so Sallax found a job clearing tables and cleaning trenchers and goblets at Greentree Tavern. It did not pay much, but Sybert Gregoro, the tavern owner, had taken a liking to the siblings and they were given a small room of their own, behind the scullery.

When Brynne was old enough, she began working in the tavern kitchen, preparing food and baking bread for evening meals. She had never been to school and learned to read from an older boy who also worked in the kitchen. His name was Ren and Brynne was smitten with him: the first boy she had ever had a crush on. But Ren had other plans for her.

One night, a wealthy Falkan businessman caught sight of Brynne through the scullery doors. He stayed drinking near the fireplace until the tavern was about to close, then signalled unobtrusively for Ren. When the merchant retired to his room, Ren went back into the kitchen and called Brynne over.

She had no idea what was happening, but Ren grinned at her and gestured that she should follow him up the stairs. Sometimes, when the inn wasn't full, he'd sneak her into one of the guest bedrooms so she could sleep on a luxury pallet. He was her friend and she had no reason to fear him.

When Ren arrived at the door to the merchant's room, he knocked once, softly. Cracking the door slightly, the merchant handed Ren a small leather pouch and the boy promptly pushed Brynne into the room, pulled the door shut and disappeared down the stairs.

Brynne's memory of the night that followed was still clouded by terror. She had spent her life trying to repress the violation; even now, many Twinmoons on, she was confounded by the fact that she had never screamed. Sybert would have heard; she knew he would have come quickly to help. Sallax had been downstairs sleeping in their small room; he might have heard her cry for help.

All she remembered was quietly repeating, 'No, please,' over and over again while the Falkan businessman held her tightly by the throat. 'Let you go? Such a toothsome little morsel, just ripe for the plucking I think not, my sweet little whore,' he whispered, ignoring her pleas, and took his time abusing her until sunlight broke through the chamber window. Seeing dawn arrive, the merchant dressed, tossed her a silver piece and left the tavern.

Later that morning, Sybert found her. She had not moved from the floor where the man had thrown her after he had finished raping her. She was lying silently, staring up at the ceiling. Her dress had been ripped away from her body, revealing the depths of degradation her attacker had subjected her to: her slim legs were scratched from thigh to ankle, her barely grown breasts were torn and bitten, bloody toothmarks empurpling her pale skin. Tears trickled silently down her still-terrified face, which was as battered as the rest of her frail body.

The publican groaned out loud, then tore the coverlet off the bed and wrapped her gently in it. He summoned a village woman skilled in healing arts, who nursed her back to health over the next few Twinmoons. Sybert himself made sure Brynne was recuperating, refusing to let her take up her duties until he was certain she had healed.

Several days after Brynne's rape, Sallax and Ren were sent across the village to purchase flour, eggs and venison for the evening's meal. Sallax suspected Ren was responsible for taking his sister to the Falkan's chamber, but he had no proof until that morning, when Ren insisted they stop at the cobbler's to look at a pair of fine leather boots displayed in the window. Sallax laughed at the older boy: the boots cost more than either of them made in three Twinmoons, but Ren brandished a heavy leather pouch and insisted on trying them on. When he was sure they fit well enough, he pulled out a handful of silver coins and paid the shoemaker.

As they left the shop, Sallax turned to Ren. 'If you've got silver, there's something else you should see.' He led him down a side street to a secluded square, empty of onlookers.

Ren looked around. He couldn't see what Sallax meant then, for the first time, he began to wonder if he had been a little stupid pulling out his money in public. But it wasn't silver Sallax was interested in. Instead, he pushed the older boy up against the wall and, before Ren realised what was happening, Sallax slipped his knife up under Ren's ribs and into his lungs. Blood, deep red, almost black, flowed from the wound and Sallax sat for several moments savouring Ren's laboured breathing as his lungs filled with fluid and he died there on the street.

Working slowly and carefully, Sallax removed the leather purse from Ren's tunic and pulled the boots from the dead boy's feet. He returned them to the cobbler, saying his friend was too embarrassed to ask for a refund, but the silver belonged to their employer. The cobbler was not happy, but he returned the fee, threatening to take the matter up with Sybert himself if either boy ever tried such a thing again.

When Sallax returned with the provisions, he told Sybert he'd last seen Ren disappearing into an alehouse. When he didn't return for the evening meal, the innkeeper shrugged. He too had his suspicions about how the merchant had lured Brynne upstairs.

Seeing the look in her brother's eyes, Brynne knew he was lying about Ren's disappearance. Strangely, it didn't make her feel better; she felt empty inside. The thought of Ren lying dead, somewhere in the village, left her a little remorseful.

Although she recovered physically, Brynne's youthful innocence was gone for good. She never saw her rapist again, but in nightmares she remembered his thick, sweaty jowls, the long half-moon scar across his wrist, and an ugly brown, bulbous mole that grew from one side of his nose. A toughness emerged in her, almost overnight, and it wasn't long before men throughout Estrad knew better than to proposition the lovely but deadly young woman. Twinmoons in the kitchen and scullery had made her quick with a knife, and more than one tavern patron had cause to regret reaching for her bottom as she served drinks. Brynne never maimed them: she just marked them, leaving a half-moon scar across their wrists, a permanent reminder of the man who had so violently destroyed her innocence and broken her spirit.

Thirty-five Twinmoons later, Sybert Gregoro died in his sleep. Brynne sent word to his estranged son, a farmer in northern Falkan, who replied in a careful script that she and Sallax should send along his father's personal effects and savings but should consider the tavern their own. They kept the letter closely guarded in a strongbox under the bar and left Sybert's chambers empty for seven full Twinmoons before they felt comfortable taking over.

It was a longer time before she and Sallax started calling Greentree Tavern their own. For many Twinmoons, Brynne expected Sybert's son to arrive and claim his inheritance, but he never had, and the people of Estrad Village were glad the old man had left his business to the hard-working siblings he had fostered.

It was dark by the time Steven, Mark and Brynne reached the edge of Estrad Village. Steven was glad of the darkness: it would help camouflage their strange-looking clothing.

'If we're going to be around here for any length of time, we ought to get some other clothes,' he observed. 'Your red sweater stands out like a beacon among all this homespun fabric.'

'You're right,' Mark said, appearing to notice his pullover for the first time all day. 'But before that, we have to do something with her. Look for something we can use to tie her up.' Steven pulled the belt from around his waist and, taking his friend's lead, Mark did the same.

'What do you mean?' Brynne implored. 'Are we not going to my tavern? I can get you food, and Sallax has clothing there that will fit both of you.'

'Into the lion's den, my dear?' Mark asked sarcastically. 'Don't be ridiculous. We'll find food and clothing and be back to get you. We need to meet Gilmour, because he's the only other person who seems to understand we're not here to overthrow the damned government, or to infiltrate your resistance efforts, but I certainly don't trust you enough to follow you into town.' Mark felt a pang of sadness as he watched her frown with disappointment. She was lovely. He fought the urge to gently push her hair back off her face.

'I don't want anything to do with you two either,' she spat. 'Why will you not trust me to take you to Gilmour now?'

Steven said, 'Because we don't believe you know where he is. None of you were expecting that attack this morning, so I don't suppose your friends are all snugly tucked in their beds. We'll find food, steal some clothing and be right back for you.' Brynne struggled against the bonds that held her firmly to a handy tree trunk. They were still several hundred paces from the edge of the village and although screaming would do her no good, Steven was taking no chances; he tore a sleeve from his shirt and tied it tightly across her mouth.

'Try to relax,' he whispered as he and Mark turned to make their way stealthily into the village. 'We'll be back in a tick.'

Unable to respond, Brynne's eyes clouded with anger and she lashed out at the foreigners, but her kick sailed wide of its targets.

'You think she was lying?' Steven asked a short while later.

'I'm sure she was lying.'

'That's too bad. I've always wanted to meet a woman who owned her own bar,' Steven mused.

Mark chuckled. 'Yeah, me too, but I was hoping mine would be on 17th Street in Denver.'

'Maybe we can find Gilmour at Greentree Tavern,' Steven guessed. 'Why else would she want to get us there?'

'Sallax,' Mark commented dryly.

'Oh, you're right. He does tend to shoot first and ask questions never, doesn't he.' Steven spoke in hushed tones as they approached a row of single-storey stone buildings with clay-tiled roofs. 'I say we risk it. Maybe he won't try to kill us if he knows we have her tied up somewhere.'

'Let's find clothes first. We certainly can't ask for directions looking like this.' Mark crept alongside one of the buildings and peered through an open window to where a family was sitting around a fireplace, talking and laughing together.

'Not this one,' he whispered. 'Let's keep going.' They moved to the next window, through which Mark could see a family making preparations for their evening meal.

'As great as it smells in there, I say we keep looking,' Mark said.

Steven's mouth watered at the aroma emanating from the warmly lit kitchen, but he nodded in silent agreement.

Crawling on all fours, they discovered the windows in the next house were covered with pine shutters. Through a small crack between the wooden blinds Steven watched a burly, powerful-looking man don a wide-brimmed hat and exit out the opposite side of the house into the muddy street. Steven watched for a full five minutes, in case the man returned quickly, or other family members turned up. From his vantage point at the window he could see clearly through two rooms, but he wasn't sure about the rest of the building.

Mark grew uneasy waiting. 'What do you see?' he whispered at last.

'Nothing,' Steven answered. 'One big guy went out the front, but I haven't seen anyone since.'

'All right, let's go in.' Mark began making his way around the side of the house. The front door was made of wood, with a length of hide hanging from a small hole drilled through the centre board. No locks. Pulling down on the leather strap, Steven felt a latching device inside come free and the door swung open easily on its leather hinges.

The two men made their way rapidly through the house collecting food and clothing. It was sparsely decorated but comfortable, with a small stone fireplace in the bedchamber, a pile of logs and kindling next to it.

Mark spotted the straw mattress and, acting on instinct, lifted a corner of the bedding to find a small pouch and a long narrow sword in a smooth leather scabbard. He emptied the contents of the pouch into one hand: silver coins. Although different sizes, they all bore an image of the same man embossed on one side, with an inscription Mark was unable to read on the other.

'Well, thank God for us some things don't change,' he said. 'People are the same everywhere: the family fortune is stashed under the mattress. I guess they can't trust the banks here in Rona either.'

'Hey, you can trust my bank,' Steven retorted.

'Sure, the bank you robbed.' Mark laughed, then changed the subject. 'I'm taking this sword, too.'

'What are you going to do with a sword?' Steven asked, belting a long tunic around his waist and stuffing what food he could find into a cloth pack.

'Hopefully, protect myself from lunatics like Sallax. You should find some kind of weapon as well, my friend. He doesn't seem terribly fond of you either.'

Mark moved through the back room towards a row of windows facing the forest. On a plain wooden table was a long hunting knife similar to the one he had taken from Brynne. 'Here,' he said and handed the weapon to his roommate. 'Take this one. I'll keep Brynne's.'

Finding nothing more to pillage, Steven and Mark returned to the front door.

'We should leave him something. I feel bad. We've taken everything this guy has,' Steven said guiltily.

'C'mon, let's just go.' Mark gripped Steven's shoulder. 'Of course you feel bad. We're thieves. We just robbed this guy's house. It's not right, but with his help, we might just live through this nightmare.'

Steven moved back through the house, removed two ballpoint pens from his pocket and placed them on the table. 'There, he can make a fortune inventing the disposable writing instrument.'

'Compliments of the First National Bank of Idaho Springs, I assume?'

'Home of the lowest interest small business loans on the Front Range,' Steven said, as if reading a cue card.

'Great, leave him the phone number. Howard will appreciate that.' Mark opened the wooden doorway a few inches and peered into the street beyond. 'We're clear. Let's go.'

'Right.' Steven moved outside. 'Now we have to find Greentree Tavern and, hopefully, Gilmour.'

'If he's still alive.' Mark sounded dubious.

The roommates asked directions of an elderly woman, who spent several minutes explaining how to find Greentree Square. Once he'd grasped the directions, Mark tried to interrupt her, but she continued talking as if the two foreigners were the first people with whom she had spoken in half a lifetime.

Steven was feeling stifled, despite a lingering Twinmoon breeze and the evening's cooler temperatures. He was beginning to regret wearing his tweed jacket under his newly stolen tunic he'd remove it as soon as they were alone, but for now he had to listen, somewhat impatiently, to the garrulous old woman while sweating through his layers.

Her directions, although lengthy, were easy to follow and they soon reached a busy main street that appeared to run north. Mark suggested they stick to the side streets that parallelled the wide thoroughfare, to avoid Ronan freedom fighters or Malakasian soldiers who might be searching for them. It wasn't long before the road opened into an expansive trade and commercial area, bigger than they might have expected for a village. Even though night had fallen, carts of dried meats, fresh fish, cheeses, tanned hides and wine still lined the small village common: it looked like a tiny grass island in the centre of a divided highway.

Greentree Square.

The evening breeze caused torches illuminating the area to flicker as if the light itself were alive, and shadows cast by those hurrying through town seemed to move in unnatural ways. Greentree Square bustled with activity, much of it caused by Malakasian soldiers moving deliberately through the buildings and back streets, obviously searching for someone, and the Ronans steering clear of occupation forces by taking shelter in any building that would allow them a quick entry through bolted doors. Locals working their carts raised collars, pulled hat brims down or stepped into shadows as Malakasian patrols crisscrossed the streets.

Mark looked out on the bustling activity for several moments before melting back into the shadows where Steven waited. 'We can't go out there,' he whispered, 'they're checking everyone.'

'Let's get Brynne,' Steven said through a mouthful of Ronan bread and cheese he'd pulled from a pocket. The bread was hard, but full of flavour. 'At least the food's edible. We can find someplace to spend the night, eat properly, get some sleep, then come back here tomorrow.'

Mark considered the suggestion briefly. 'You're right. We have food. We just need a safe place to get some rest. I think-'

Steven abruptly reached out to cover his friend's mouth as several villagers hurried along the street away from the common. Mark was relieved to see one of them was black. Apparently he was not the only person with dark skin in the village. From the shadows, the Coloradoans could easily overhear their conversation.

'Well, didn't you see the smoke?' a villager asked. 'It was higher than the tallest spire at the palace, as if the whole place was on fire.'

'I smelled it all the way down at the alehouse. It was burning pitch, I'm certain,' another said confidently. 'I know that smell from that stint I did in the shipyards. It may be Twinmoons ago, but it's not a smell you forget.'

'I hear there were grettans in the forest as well, and that that's why the rutting horsecocks abandoned the siege.' The first villager laughed, adding, 'Their horses were tethered in the forest, a right perfect breakfast set out just for them.'

'Grettans, Dakin?' a third voice asked dubiously. 'You've had too much wine again. There are no grettans in Rona and you shouldn't go on spreading such rumours.' The voices faded as the Ronans moved on and Steven motioned that they should begin heading back the way they had come, away from Greentree Square.

They turned a corner into a dark street that ran between two rows of small businesses, all closed for the evening. This small street was much older, an indication of when Estrad Village had first been built: the buildings were similar to the house they'd burgled out near the edge of the forest, stone, with clay-tiled roofing, but here the foundations had sunk unevenly into the ground. In the darkness, they looked like a row of untended gravestones that had shifted haphazardly in a heavy rainstorm; several had sunk forward, as if they were slowly falling on their faces. Steven looked up: their roof peaks nearly met over his head.

Despite the darkness, Mark knew this street faced south because as soon as they turned the corner, he felt a cool breeze blowing in from the ocean. It struck him in the face and brought some small relief from the humid evening.

'Pass me another piece of that bread,' he asked softly.

His roommate complied. 'The food isn't too bad. That cheese is strong, but not so horrible if you eat it with something. Preferably a decent port. I wonder if they even have drinkable wine in this godforsaken pit?' There was a short pause as Steven sniffed a piece of dried meat, trying to determine what it was. 'I've no idea what animal this came from I'll wait for Brynne to tell us before I try any.'

'Who knows? Maybe it's grettan,' Mark said, echoing the villager who happened by them earlier.

In the distance, two figures entered the side street and turned towards them. One carried a small torch and Steven could see they were shadowed by a large, mangy dog. Even in the dark it looked undernourished. 'Oh, no,' he groaned.

'It should be all right,' Mark assured him. 'We're dressed the part. We can speak the language. We'll wish them a good evening and continue on our way.'

'You're right, I guess.' Steven was afraid. He had the hunting knife, but he already knew he would never be able to stab anyone. Firing a bow from a distance into a group of attackers, perhaps he could manage that, but just straight-out stabbing someone would be a more difficult undertaking. His life would have to be in immediate danger for him to use a knife in his own defence.

As the two Ronans approached, Mark slowed his own stride noticeably.

'What's wrong?' Steven asked.

'I don't know,' Mark answered, staring into the evening wind. 'Something seems strangely familiar.'

'I don't know what you're talking about. There's nothing about this place that's familiar to me at all.'

Mark shrugged. 'Maybe it's the sea breeze. It's been a long time since I've smelled a sea breeze.'

Steven sniffed the air as well, stopped and sniffed again. 'You're right,' he said, 'there is something.'

The strangers were almost upon them when Mark turned suddenly and whispered, 'The old man's tobacco.' He looked anxiously down the street to where the slowly advancing figures had begun to take on a more definite shape. 'Shit, it's Sallax and Gilmour.'

Steven started twitching in fright. For a moment he thought of turning to flee, but Mark gripped his upper arm, holding him fast.

'It's okay, Steven. We needed to find them.'

Sallax and Gilmour were about twenty paces away when Mark cried, 'Wait right there!'

Sallax drew his rapier in a fluid motion and was about to charge when Gilmour put a hand firmly on his chest, holding him back.

'No, Sallax, put that away,' he said calmly. The tall Ronan thought for a moment about defying the old man, then returned the blade to its scabbard.

'We mean you no harm,' Gilmour offered in near-perfect English. 'Actually, as I started to mention this morning, I have been waiting for you for some time now.'

'You speak their language?' Sallax was in shock.

'Of course,' Gilmour answered, 'although it is a difficult language to master: too many odd rules one must break too frequently.' He turned back to the foreigners. 'Please, let us approach,' he asked in English.

'Come on slowly,' Mark called back, 'but remember, we have Brynne.'

'Of course, of course, my friends,' Gilmour said genially, 'I'm certain she's fine. Please, let's find a place where we can talk. I will explain as much as I can for you.'

'Can you get us home?' Steven asked, feeling more confident.

'I can help you get started, but the path back home for you will be long.' As the Ronans drew close, Gilmour reached out one hand.