Red Magic

Six

Brenna’s charmed guide continued to lead the trio through the well-maintained orchard, pointing out imps and other less predictable creatures as they journeyed. Traveling was easy, since the ground was level and the grass short and well tended. The strong, cool breeze rustled the branches of the citrus trees and refreshed the Harpers and the sorceress, whipping the hair away from their faces and catching the enchantress’s dress so it swirled madly about her ankles. The bald guide eyed the woman. Even in the starlight, he could watch her curves as the wind tugged her dress back and forth. Trying to gain her attention, he paused to point at a dozen soft yellow lights in the trees to the north. The lights resembled giant hovering fireflies.

“Pretty, huh?” he whispered into Brenna’s ear. “I like to sit and look at ’em.”

“Beautiful. What are they, uh … I’m sorry. I don’t know your name.”

“Elwin. My name’s Elwin. C’mon. I’ll take you closer so you can see ’em. But be quiet. We don’t want to bother ’em.”

Brenna cautiously urged Elwin forward, keeping an arm’s length from him. The Harpers followed close behind. The fireflies’ glow became lanterns hanging from branches, illuminating the trees so the forty or more slaves working there under the watchful eye of armed orcs could see to pick the fruit. Suddenly Wynter stopped, and for a moment, Galvin worried that the centaur would try to free the obviously mistreated group.

“If we start leaving a trail of dead guards and missing slaves, they’ll be onto us,” Galvin whispered.

“I know,” Wynter said in as soft a voice as he could manage. “I was just watching. It brought back some old memories.”

It was late when Elwin directed them to a small but thickly wooded area behind an abandoned barn. It stood a few miles from the orchard, and he claimed there was a clearing inside. Traveling in the darkness had slowed their progress. They weren’t as deep into Thay as they had expected to be.

Brenna suggested staying in the barn; she envisioned sleeping on a pile of soft hay. But Elwin insisted that patrols watched empty buildings carefully, because runaway slaves were drawn to them. She sighed and reluctantly agreed to accept the patch of trees. The vegetation was overgrown, and Elwin had difficulty climbing through it, but he seemed to know what he was doing. The leaves of the trees and bushes were wet; the drops of water shone in the starlight. It had rained here recently, perhaps only an hour or two before.

The centaur followed the guide, making a thrashing sound as his massive form disappeared into the foliage. Following him was relatively easy, Brenna discovered, since he had made a small path through the brush. By the time she reached the center of the clearing, she discovered that Galvin was already there. She had assumed he was behind her. Irritated at his speed and quietness, she muttered something under her breath, not caring at the moment if he heard her.

Patches of tall grass were scattered in the clearing. Elwin made a show of stomping them down for Brenna. He gallantly waved his arms, indicating she should sit.

“This place should be safe,” Elwin announced. “I’ve used this spot before when I skipped out on patrol duty. We’re not too near a road. The orcs’ll stay away because of all the bugs and ’cause it’s so wet. It rains a lot here ’cause of the orchard.”

Brenna scowled and fell to her knees, reaching out with her hands to find some place that was dry. “You mean it rains because of the Red Wizards.”

The enchantress was frustrated that she couldn’t find a dry spot to sit on, but she was too tired and proud to complain about it aloud. Rummaging in her smaller bag, she pulled out a heavy linen cloak and laid it on the ground under an elm. She sat unceremoniously on it, no longer caring if she wrinkled or ruined her clothes. Letting out a low moan, Brenna gingerly removed her antelope-skin slippers, leaning forward to accomplish the task. Her legs hurt too much to move them closer to her torso.

“Gods, I’m tired,” she said, and she began to rub her feet. They were blistered and sore, and for a moment she wished there was enough moonlight filtering through the trees so she could look at them.

“Want me to do that for you?” Elwin offered.

Wynter tapped the guide on top of his bald head. “Why don’t you get some sleep now?” The centaur was surprised when Elwin complied without argument. The guide leaned back on the ground, stretched, made himself comfortable, and began to snore softly.

Galvin sat spread-eagled in the center of the clearing, watching Elwin. Satisfied the guide wouldn’t pester Brenna, the druid began to search through his satchel. He had difficulty finding the correct root in the darkness, but eventually his efforts were successful.

“Here,” he said to Brenna, tossing her an object that looked like a misshapen carrot. “Rub that on your feet. It’ll help get rid of the blisters. Crack it first so the juice oozes out.”

Wynter glanced at the druid, about to comment on his friend’s compassion, but Galvin glared at him. Don’t say anything, the druid warned with his look.

Wynter smiled. “I just wanted to point out we should stay here in the grove tonight. We’d be wise to wait until the morning slave crews start before we move on.”

Galvin nodded then turned his attention back to Brenna. “Wrap your feet. Amruthar’s not going to be a short hike.”

“Thank you for being so concerned,” she snapped.

“I am concerned,” the druid said simply. “I can’t let you slow us down. I don’t intend for this mission to take weeks.”

“Slow you down?” she fumed, rising to her knees. “With a spell, I could fly to Amruthar!”

“Provided you knew where the city was.”

“I know where it is.”

“And you think that would be a good idea?” Galvin posed. “A great accomplishment, flying off on your own. More like a great liability.”

“Don’t talk to me about liabilities. At least I know how to talk to people. I know how to be civil. But you—” she sputtered, waking Elwin and drawing his attention. “You’ve got less manners than an orc!”

“I’m honest with people. And at least I don’t shout at them,” Galvin returned evenly, wishing he had never offered her the root.

“No, you don’t have to shout,” she taunted. “You can insult them just fine without even raising your voice. Ever try to be nice to someone?”

“I was trying to be nice to you.” Galvin grimaced.

She propped herself into a sitting position and picked up the root. “Oh, go talk to a bullfrog or something,” she groused.

“Hey, pipe down, willya?” Elwin broke in. “I had a long shift before the trip here, and I’m trying to sleep. I can’t guide you anywhere tomorrow if you keep me up all night.” The man dropped his head back into the grass. “Sheesh! Do they always fight like that?”

“No,” the centaur replied, watching Galvin and Brenna glare at each other. He was relieved to see that the sorceress was using the root on her feet. “In fact, I thought they were just starting to get along.”

“If that’s getting along, I wish they’d get along somewhere else,” Elwin grumbled.

“Elwin, you’ve got me curious,” the centaur said softly. “Your name means ‘friend to the elves’ doesn’t it? There aren’t many elves in Thay, so that must mean you’re not a native Thayvian.”

“You’re pretty smart, centaur,” Elwin mumbled, sitting up and brushing the grass and dirt from his side. He yawned, displaying his broken teeth. “I’m originally from the Sword Coast… worked on a pirate ship. A few years ago, our ship started hauling slaves to Thay. I got to like this place, so I stayed.” He winked at Wynter. “The orchard patrol pays well, and I do a little slaving on the side—children.”

Wynter was losing his patience with the evil man. “Elwin,” he said evenly, “does your slaving operation ever take you into Amruthar?”

“It takes me a lot of places,” Elwin answered, sounding businesslike. “Amruthar’s only one of ’em. Largest city around here. Two or three times a week, slaves are shipped in and put up for sale. They’re cheaper than cattle.”

“Amruthar,” Wynter pressed angrily, not wanting to hear another word about Elwin’s slave practices. “What is the city like now? Are the streets patrolled? Can slaves on missions for their masters walk freely? Who rules the city?”

Elwin sighed. “I’ve never been hassled much in the city. If you haven’t done anything to offend a wizard or tharchion, you should be all right.”

“Are there many centaurs?”

“Like you? Not many are as big as you,” Elwin said, “but there are plenty of your type walking around.”

The man sickened Wynter. The centaur believed every being had a right to choose his or her own course in life. Elwin had chosen his course long ago, but the slaves he and others in Thay dealt in could not choose. And Elwin seemed to think of them as nothing but a commodity.

“We’re looking for a Red Wizard who’s supposed to be in Amruthar,” Wynter continued.

“A Red Wizard? There’s plenty of ’em in Amruthar. Plenty all over Thay, for that matter,” Elwin said with a snicker.

“His name’s Maligor,” Galvin interjected. “The gnoll said the Red Wizard Maligor was staying in Amruthar.”

There was silence in the clearing. The charmed man nervously rubbed his scarred chin and looked at each of his companions.

“You’re in over your heads,” Elwin said. “Maligor’s a zulkir. I ain’t taking you to no zulkir. But I’ll take you to the outskirts of Amruthar.”

Wynter’s right front hoof pawed at the ground. “Go to sleep, Elwin,” the centaur stated.

In a few moments, the man was snoring again. Exhaustion also overcame Brenna, and a few minutes later her head fell to the damp, mossy floor in uneasy slumber.

Galvin and Wynter talked quietly for a while, discussing the best route to the city. They were hopeful they could move into Amruthar, get the information the Aglarond council and the Harper organization wanted, and then move out within a day or two.

In a short time, the Harpers decided it was time for them to rest, too. They discussed who should take first watch; neither Harper felt comfortable about leaving the small group unprotected. In the end, Galvin decided he would stay awake. But as the centaur chose a spot to sleep, his keen nostrils picked up a disturbing, almost imperceptible smell, reminiscent of something from his childhood. The breeze was carrying the scent of rotting flesh into the clearing. Finally, with a jolt, he recognized the smell.

“Galvin! Undead!” Wynter called, alerting the druid and waking Brenna and Elwin.

The druid’s eyes peered into the darkness, searching. He smelled them first, then saw their decaying bodies coming ever nearer. At first glance, the figures appeared human, and in life they might have been. But now their flesh was gray and decomposing, and it clung to their bones like tattered sails on a mast. Their hair appeared wirey, tangled, and bug-ridden, and their deep-socketed eyes, seemingly devoid of intelligence, bore straight ahead into the clearing. They were moving in through the trees, slowly making their way past the tangled branches.

“They’ve surrounded us!” the druid called. He cursed himself for not hearing their approach. How could he have been so careless? The undead were halfway through the brambles and would be on the group in moments. In the darkness, Galvin couldn’t be certain how many there were, but he guessed there were at least a dozen. Grimly he drew his scimitar.

Out of the corner of his eye, Galvin saw the centaur move toward the shambling corpses on the other side of the clearing, his staff thrust out in front of him as if to keep them at bay. Brenna was rising and reaching into her small bag, no doubt planning to use some magic on them. He hoped it would work.

“Elwin, wake up!” the sorceress ordered as she continued searching through her bag. Her hands shook terribly. Brenna had heard and read about the undead, but she had never expected to meet any of them. She glanced over her trembling shoulder. The petrified slaver was awake and was pulling two daggers from the strap around his chest, crouching to meet the charge of the undead.

The creatures stumbled through the trees and bushes, the pale, rotting flesh on their bones catching and clinging to the branches. The stench from the walking cadavers was overpowering and made the Harpers and Brenna dizzy.

Most of the corpses’ hands were intact; their fingers were bony and ended in long, filthy nails that curved in toward their palms like claws. Their eyes glowed a hellish, dull yellow-orange.

The first undead broke into the clearing and lunged at Wynter, its long arms flailing to scratch the centaur’s body. Its mouth opened and a thin, snakelike tongue darted out and uncoiled in the air. The centaur cringed. Ghouls! he thought, staring at the tongue used for sucking marrow out of bones. To be killed by a ghoul meant to become one of their kind—provided the ghoul pack wasn’t hungry and didn’t eat you first.

Wynter shouted out to his companions what they were facing and thrust forward with his staff to keep the loathsome creature from touching him. The long, carved staff lodged itself in the caved-in chest of the corpse, making a sickening crunching sound as it splintered brittle ribs. Already dead, the ghoul wasn’t to be stopped this easily. With both hands, it grasped the wood and began to pull itself up the staff, hand over hand, unmindful of the wood that pierced through its body and emerged out its back.

In response, Wynter heaved with his great strength, lifting the staff and the ghoul along with it. He swung the staff to the right, slamming the suspended ghoul into another of its foul companions just emerging from the trees. Their bodies collided with a horrifying thud that left both creatures lying stunned on the ground. Continuing his attack, the centaur pulled the staff closer to him, stepped on the attached ghoul, and wrested his weapon free. Then he proceeded to trample the two on the ground, turning them into a mass of broken, splintered bones and tattered flesh.

Ghouls had broken into the clearing all around them now, presenting Elwin, Brenna, and Galvin with their own battles.

The druid reacted quickly, slicing forward with his scimitar and cutting one creature nearly in half at the waist. The vile corpse continued to press onward despite the difficulty of staying on its feet while trying to keep its torso from toppling off to the side. As it lurched forward awkwardly, Galvin swung again, this time cleaving off an arm and further unbalancing the thing. It fell forward, squirming on the ground, but another quickly stepped in to take its place.

“Don’t let them touch you!” Galvin called to Brenna. “Their touch can paralyze you!”

Although the sorceress didn’t have any idea how powerful the undead creatures were, she had no intention of letting these walking corpses get anywhere near her. She backed herself into the center of the small clearing, almost bumping into the druid, who was now fighting two of the things. Placing a pinch of powder in her sweaty palm, she slapped her other hand on top of it, rubbed furiously, and waited for a trio of ghouls to come closer.

When they were so near the odor almost caused her to vomit, she extended her arms, her hands outstretched and fingers spread wide, her thumbs touching. In the next instant, her hands burst into fire. The blazing flare lapped across her fingers and reached out several feet, causing the ghouls’ flesh and raggedy strips of cloth to burst into flames. She watched with revulsion as three ghouls flapped their arms in an attempt to put out the fire. For once, she was glad of the dampness in the clearing; there was little danger of the trees catching fire and placing the travelers in further danger. The magical flame burned hot and quickly, leaving behind a trio of charred, unmoving skeletons.

Elwin wasn’t faring as well as the others. The self-made slaver was frightened so badly that the jabs he was making with his daggers were shaky and clumsy. Eventually, after repeated attempts, one of his twin daggers sunk into the chest of one of the cadavers, but the blade did little harm. He pulled it free and leapt to the side to choose another target.

Elwin crouched again, bringing one dagger upward and forward into the abdomen of a large ghoul that was missing its right arm from the elbow down. One more thrust and it would fall, he thought, holding his breath to cut the stench.

A second ghoul moved in silently from the slaver’s side, catching Elwin’s head in both hands. The ghoul raked its nails across Elwin’s scalp, ripping a piece of skin loose from the man’s bald skull. The slaver screamed and dropped his daggers as he tried to push his new attacker away, but the ghoul only ambled closer. Pressing up against Elwin and lifting him by his head, the undead creature snapped his thick neck. The ghoul took a bite out of Elwin’s cheek, cast him to the ground, then fell upon his body, tearing off chunks of flesh with its filthy nails. Anchoring its feet against Elwin’s chest and grasping the slaver’s right leg, it pulled until the leg came free. Another ghoul stopped to feast on Elwin, but the two behind it continued to move forward, bent on the living targets.

Wynter had lost count of the number of ghouls he had killed by the time he was able to pull back and help Galvin and Brenna. The druid appeared to be faced with the most desperate struggle. He was standing on one ghoul, which appeared to be finally dead, while holding off another three with his scimitar. The two that had passed by Elwin were eyeing Brenna but keeping their distance, obviously concerned about her magic. Wynter started toward the druid.

Galvin kicked at a ghoul in the middle, sending it sprawling, then swung his scimitar in a vicious downward stroke at the one to his right. The weapon cut through the corpse’s shoulder blades and lodged halfway down in its chest. The ghoul seemed to grin as it reached forward and clawed the druid’s exposed arm. Galvin immediately felt sluggish, his arms and legs heavy. He felt the talons of his other attacker rake his left arm as he became rooted to the spot.

“No!” the centaur screamed, bringing his staff down on the ghoul that had Galvin’s scimitar in its chest. Wynter smashed its head like an overripe watermelon, ending its unlife. Continuing his assault, the centaur trampled the remaining ghoul into oblivion, then swung to see Brenna wrestling a tall corpse.

The sorceress obviously had taken out one of the pair. As the centaur dashed forward, he saw a decaying body lying at an odd angle across her bags. Part of its chest was missing.

“Back up, Brenna!” he called, rearing on his hind legs.

Brenna fell back on the ground, unmoving, her clawed cheek exposed. The ghoul turned to meet Wynter’s front hooves, which fell on it hard. In a berserk rage, the centaur pounded the undead into the soft ground, continuing to rear and stomp on it well after it had ceased to move.

The centaur’s chest heaved from fear and exertion. He was the only one standing in the clearing. It was too dark to make out all the details, but he could see Galvin’s frozen outline and Brenna lying on the ground, motionless. Elwin’s corpse lay in pieces, but the ghouls who had dined on him were nowhere to be seen. Although Wynter was relieved he didn’t have to fight any more of the creatures, he was worried about the surviving ghouls’ absence. Ghouls were intelligent undead, and he feared they would report the incident to their dark master or gather more of their kind for another assault.

Determined not to wait for any undead reinforcements or to take time to assess his friends’ conditions, Wynter picked up the paralyzed Galvin and slung him across his back. He cradled Brenna in his arms and carried the pair of them and their belongings out of the defiled area and into the abandoned barn. If guards looking for escaped slaves chanced upon the trio, Wynter thought, the Aglarond council would have to contact more Harpers to continue the spying mission.

Inside the dilapidated barn, the centaur placed the sorceress near a large mound of straw, laying her down gently near the barn wall and placing her head on some hay. Watching her closely, Wynter saw her chest rise and fail shallowly. Tears fell from his angular face, and his hands trembled. Wynter didn’t want Brenna and Galvin to die. Aside from losing his friends, their deaths would leave him alone in a country he considered one step removed from hell.

The centaur laid Galvin near her and cringed when he saw how irregularly the druid was breathing. Wynter pulled off the druid’s tunic so he could clean the gashes left by the undead. Galvin’s arms had been raked by the claws of the creature, and the area around the red welts was swelling. Rummaging through the druid’s satchel, the centaur found some of the herbs Galvin had used on his shoulder earlier. The centaur was uncertain how to apply them, so he crumbled them in his fingers and laid them across the gashes.

Next he tended to Brenna. Wynter tore off a strip from the hem of her dress and soaked it with water from his waterskin. Kneeling awkwardly, he cleaned the blood from her cheek where the ghoul had clawed her. The scratch marks weren’t deep, but they marred her pretty face.

The centaur wore a circular path in the dirt as he trotted around the unmoving forms of Galvin and Brenna. Through a gaping hole in the barn’s roof, the stars shone brightly, illuminating the sheen of sweat on the centaur’s back. Wynter feared the undead would return, or perhaps a patrol of a worse kind would find them. His friends’ long hair would make them look like escaped slaves, so if they were caught here they would be killed or put on a slave plantation, never to see Aglarond again.

Wynter shivered and glanced about the barn. There were too many shadows to make out everything, but he noted a few piles of moldy straw, damp because the roof provided little shelter from the rain. One toward the back of the barn was large enough to hide Brenna and Galvin behind it in the event he heard someone approaching the barn. He didn’t want to move them unless he felt he had to. It looked like the barn had had a loft at one time. Now it was completely hollow inside, and rotted boards lay along the walls and near the center of the floor to outline where a second story used to be.

The entire structure tilted a little to the east, and Wynter suspected it wouldn’t survive a heavy windstorm. The dirty hay inside smelled musty and was coated with little bits of fur. It probably served as a haven for mice and other rodents. A few rusted farm implements were scattered along the western wall—rakes, a hoe, bits of tack. He took note of those that might serve as weapons.

The centaur continued to guard his friends until daylight filtered in through the roof and he could no longer stay awake. Standing between the barn doors and the prone druid and sorceress, Wynter slept on his feet. He awoke late in the afternoon to find Galvin and Brenna still unmoving. Wynter peered out one of the larger cracks at the front of the barn. In the distance, he saw the orchards and spied a few slaves moving among the trees, picking fruit. The centaur was careful not to touch the wood of the barn. The structure appeared so old and rotted that he feared it could easily fall over.

Wynter kept his vigil, dosing on and off until well after midnight, when Galvin finally shook his paralysis. The gashes on his arms smarted, but they were slightly healed by Wynter’s efforts.

“How … how long has it been?” Galvin asked, sitting up and glancing about the barn. “I remember … Brenna! Was she killed?” The druid panicked and brought himself quickly to his feet.

“She’s still alive—barely, I think,” Wynter replied. “She was clawed, too. She’s paralyzed.”

Galvin rushed to the enchantress’s side and moved the fingertips of his right hand over her scratched face. He closed his eyes and hummed softly, an old druidic prayer taught to him as a youth. He rarely used healing magic, which took a great deal of concentration—something he usually lacked when he himself was injured. The druid preferred to rely on herbs and natural mixtures. But he had none of the latter handy, so he continued the prayer. After several minutes, Brenna’s breathing began to deepen, although she still remained unconscious. The scratches on her face began to heal, and Galvin rose.

“She’ll be all right,” he stated simply, his voice showing his relief. He began to examine his surroundings and noticed that Wynter looked different somehow. Then he realized why—the hair on the centaur’s head was short, not more than an inch long. His long curls and braid lay in a pile on the barn floor.

“What did you do?” Galvin pointed at the centaur’s head.

“We need to look like Thayvians, remember?”

Brenna finally came to several hours later. Sunlight streamed in where planks of wood had rotted away in the walls and through the hole in the center of the roof. The rays warmed her face. She slowly sat up, then pulled herself to her knees.

“I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s decidedly unlucky sharing a camp with the two of you,” Wynter said dryly. Despite the tone, he was thankful his companions were for the most part uninjured. He tossed the enchantress her satchels.

“I left Elwin behind in the clearing,” the centaur added hesitantly. “There wasn’t much left of him.”

“Why did the undead attack us?” Brenna didn’t understand. “They were horrid. Gods, but I feel for the people who live in this country.”

“The ghouls must have heard us talking. That attracted them,” Wynter said flatly, eyeing her and Galvin. “We were none too quiet.”

“They were quiet, though,” Galvin added.

“You could never have heard them approaching anyway,” the centaur offered. “Undead only make noise when they want to.” He smiled at Brenna, then reached a hand up to tug on his own short locks. “You’ve got too much hair, young lady, but the sheep shears I found should remedy that.”

A look of horror crossed her face. “What—what do you mean?”

“I mean you should cut it, shave it off,” the centaur instructed. “You need to look like a native Thayvian, a wealthy one if you’ve got another pretty dress.” He extended the shears to her. “These’ll take off most your hair. Galvin’s scimitar can take care of the rest.”

When the sorceress didn’t take the shears, Wynter dropped them in front of her.

The druid unsheathed his scimitar and ran his thumb along the curved blade. He stared meaningfully at Brenna’s curls.

“Oh, no, you don’t!” she cried, finally realizing what the Harpers meant for her to do. She glanced in alarm at the centaur’s cropped hair. “Shave off my hair? Do you have any idea how much time it takes to get hair to grow this long? I haven’t cut my hair in ten years.”

The druid smiled. “I’ll pose as your slave.”

“You mean you’re not cutting your hair?” she said angrily.

“Slaves have long hair.”

“Listen,” Wynter said, trying to console Brenna. “You’d make a better Thayvian than Galvin. You’ve got the bearing, the social graces.”

The sorceress puffed out her chest, angry at herself for not realizing when the Harpers had discussed this plan in Aglarond that it would come to this. She fingered the shears, crossed her legs, and sat them in her lap.

“I can make myself look bald without shaving my head,” she announced. Concentrating and chanting, the sorceress sat stock still as her face took on a magical radiance. The glow covered her hair, then disappeared, leaving her appearing bald.

Wynter sighed. “Nice try, Brenna, but it won’t work.” He stepped toward her, bent over, and reached forward to feel around her shoulders until he grabbed a handful of hair.

“I can’t see it, but it’s there,” he stated. “Amruthar’s filled with wizards. Some of them are bound to see through your illusion. We can’t risk it. You’ll have to shave it off.”

Brenna’s shoulders sagged. “I know,” she said. “I’m sorry. I should have known I was going to have to do this if I entered Thay.” She gritted her teeth, picked up the shears, and tossed her head forward. Grabbing a handful of hair with one hand and wielding the shears with the other, she began cutting.

“Look at it this way,” Wynter teased. “You’ll be right in style in Amruthar. And if we live through this and you get back to Aglarond, maybe you can start a fashion trend there.” He grimaced as he watched the shears slip in her hand and nearly nick her head.

When Brenna was finished, about a half an inch of hair remained on her head. It was uneven and looked comical, but the Harpers remained straight-faced.

The druid padded forward, knelt in front of her, and held up his scimitar. “Here, let me help.”

Brenna bent her head forward, and Galvin began to scrape the sharp blade across the back of her scalp. The druid was careful, not wanting to cut her. Wynter had told him most Thayvians prided themselves on their appearance, and he doubted that scars were in fashion. When he was finished with the back half of her head, he tilted her neck upward and started to run the knife across the front half of her scalp.

“I don’t know why Thayvians have an aversion to hair,” Wynter said. He wanted to make conversation because the silence in the barn felt uncomfortable. “They’ve been shaving their heads for more than two hundred years. It all started with a few wizards, I understand. Now only slaves have long hair. The longer the hair, the longer someone’s been a slave.”

“You mean everyone but slaves is bald?” she asked softly, looking slightly sick.

“All the wizards, everyone considered wealthy or middle-class tharchions, merchants, and even most of the peasants—they don’t want to be mistaken for slaves. Most centaurs cut their hair as short as mine. Everyone in my family had short hair,” he concluded.

“Was it hard for you to leave your family?” Brenna asked. Galvin winced at that question as he finished shaving the last of her locks. He began to run the blade across her now bald head to smooth it. He was surprised when Wynter answered.

“Yes,” he said slowly. “My family was my life, and the slave plantation was the only home I knew. I had three brothers. They took to the life there. I just never fit in. When I was old enough to make it on my own, I left. I don’t even know if my father ever went looking for me.”

The centaur stood still in the center of the barn. “I cut my ties with my family when I left Thay. I’m only here because of Harper business. When we’re done in Amruthar, I’ll leave again.” The centaur paused and looked at the councilwoman. She was rubbing her head, obviously uncomfortable with the feel of it.

Brenna stared at the pile of red curls in her lap. Ten years’ worth of hair, she thought. No use regretting it. Shrugging her shoulders, she stood up, shaking the curls off her dress.

“Beautiful,” Wynter observed.

Brenna tittered and twirled to brush the last of the hair from her dress. “At least it won’t take me long to wash it,” she said, finally smiling.

The skin on her head was an even, creamy peach tone, free of blemishes. She had a high forehead that glistened in the light that filtered through the barn. The absence of hair drew more attention to her eyes, which Galvin found himself staring into. They were large and round and ringed by long lashes.

Brenna blushed and bent to pick up an armload of hay and deposit it on top of her hair. “A pretty dress, right? That’s all I need to look like a wealthy Thayvian.”

“Almost,” Wynter said. “We’ll have to paint your head first. When you were … sleeping, I gathered some berries and crushed them. They should do fine as long as it doesn’t rain. The important people in Thay—or at least those who think they are—always paint designs on their heads.”

The centaur explained that many men permanently tattooed their heads so they wouldn’t have to bother about changing designs. But many of the women went to shops to have their heads painted, preferring to have different symbols from time to time as fashions changed.

The centaur trotted over to Brenna, carrying a shovelful of smashed blue and red berries. Brenna’s lower lip quivered, but she stood still.

“We’ll give you a dainty little barbed whip cascading over your forehead like a spray of flowers,” Wynter said as he smeared his fingers into the mixture and applied it to her head. “The whip’s the symbol of Loviatar, the Maiden of Pain, one of the regularly worshiped deities here.” Before the centaur finished, he added a lightning bolt with a ball on one end above her right ear. “That’s the Harpers’ symbol for ‘dangerous magic here,’ ” he explained.

Brenna changed into a dark orchid dress with voluminous sleeves and a rounded, lace-edged neckline. She looked striking in it, even with her bald head, and added a crystal and gold necklace to make herself fit the image of a wealthy Thayvian.

“Well, this is it for my wardrobe,” she said with a touch of disappointment in her voice. “I’ve ruined everything else.”

Wynter pushed open the barn door, which teetered precariously on one rusted hinge. The countryside appeared different by daylight. The orchards in the distance yielded the faintest fragrance of citrus blossoms. The sky was as blue as the Sea of Fallen Stars, and it stretched, cloudless, from horizon to horizon. A dirt road that had been sprinkled liberally with white gravel cut through the grass and pointed toward the east. Weeping birch and crimson maples lined the road.

Galvin had expected the countryside to look bleak and the trees twisted like Thay’s evil rulers. Instead, he found it quite pleasant. He glanced at the small clump of trees behind the barn and shuddered, remembering the attack of the undead. Deciding to put some distance between this place and himself, the druid padded toward the road, with Brenna and Wynter following.

The druid could tell that the road was well traveled. Most of the gravel had been washed to the sides by the rain, and carriage and wagon tracks made deep impressions in places.

“Are you certain this leads into Amruthar?” Galvin asked Wynter.

The centaur pursed his lips. “I hope so. Elwin talked about a road before he fell asleep last night. It’s the only one I see.”

Galvin turned to Brenna. “If we’re stopped, Wynter’s the chief foreman on a slave plantation your father owns, and he’s going to Amruthar to buy slaves. You’re traveling with him so you can shop. I’m your slave—on hand to carry any packages.”

“If I’m wealthy, why am I walking?” she challenged.

“You were on horseback,” Wynter stated, “but the horses were stolen by thieves.”

Brenna beamed. “Fine. I’m just looking forward to being in a city again, even if it is in Thay.”

Wynter glanced at the druid. “You’ll enjoy this, too, won’t you, Galvin?”

The druid rolled his eyes, drew his lips tightly together, and continued ambling down the road.