A Sword from Red Ice

The stranger's chest expanded, sucking in the words. A long moment passed. Then another. Up until then Ash had not realized she was afraid. She had thought the looseness in her gut was just the horse blood finding its level.

No thing, breathing Sull will let you live…

The river flowing behind them created drag, sucking the ice mist east. Abruptly, the stranger rested his bow. "I am Lan Falistar, Son of the Sull and Chosen Far Rider." He bowed deeply at the waist and Ash finally saw his face. Acutely angled, golden-toned, with that faint alien sheen that meant Sull. "This Sull asks that you forgive his trespass."

Ash gave some of his silence right back to him She didn't have any idea how to react, was unsure about the nature of his trespass, and was, if she were honest, disconcerted by his age. Ark and Mai had been mature men, their faces lined with experience, their gestures dignified and weighted, yet this person standing before her looked to be less than ten years older than she herself. He was young, and that confused her. Unsure what to do, Ash found herself mimicking her foster father Take control of the conversation: she could almost hear his voice. "Do you travel alone, Lan Fallstar?"

An eyebrow was raised at that. "I do." "How long have you been watching me?"

The Sull Far Rider shrugged, raising slender, finely muscled shoul-ders. "It is not important."

Ash thought it was—she did not like the idea of him watching her as she bled the horse—yet there was exactly nothing she could do about that. Her instinct was to continue questioning him anyway; leave him no chance to question her. "Where do you travel?"

He began moving toward her, and something told her she had made a mistake. With a series of movements so swift Ash could barely follow them, the stranger reached behind her back, crouched, snatched the sickle blade and its chain from the ground and sprang away. "Far Riders answer to no one except He Who Leads. If you were Sull you would know that." With a snap of his wrist he sent the chain into motion. The metal links rustled crisply as the chain wrapped itself in perfect order around the sickle's handle.

Not even Mal Naysayer had done that.

The chain was weighted with a teardrop of metal studded with peridots. The stranger studied this for a moment, cupping it in his free hand and turning it toward the light. Without looking up he fired off a command in Sull.

The looseness in her belly shifted downward. She had only a few words of Sull and she did not know what he wanted.

"I said show me Dras Xathu" The stranger's voice turned sharp, and when he spoke something unpleasant happened to his mouth. "Now!"

The word hit Ash like a slap to the face. The only other person who had spoken to her in that way was her foster father, and she was surprised by the strong instinct to "be a good girl." Confused, she struggled to comprehend what the stranger meant. Dras Xathu? The First Cut? When understanding finally came she felt no relief. Just more confusion.

Taking a step forward, she tilted her face and raised her chin. The wound inflicted upon her many weeks ago by Ark Veinsplitter was now a rough scar. It had been an initiation of sorts, part of becoming Sull. "Before a child comes to manhood or womanhood," Ark had told her, "blood must be drawn in friendly combat. We wound ourselves so that we might deprive our enemies of the satisfaction of delivering the First Cut."

As the stranger moved forward to inspect it, Ash held herself still. She could not let him know he had upset her. A hand gloved in lizard skin grasped her chin, and suddenly she could smell him: pungent and powerfully alien. Immediately, something primeval at the base of her brain responded with a warning: You will never be one of them.

With careless force he thrust her chin up and back. A finger slid across the roof of her lower jaw, halted, then pushed up at the exact point where bone ended and soft tissue began. Ash coughed in panic. He was closing off her windpipe.

Abruptly the pressure stopped. Turning away from her, he slid the sickle knife into his buckskin tunic. 'You will travel with me from now on, Ash March. Stow your equipment and saddle the horse. We do not sleep here this night."

Ash fingered her throat. She had never seen the wound Ark had inflicted, and for the first time it struck her that the scar felt strange. The raised tissue seemed to form a shape. Briefly, she traced it with her thumbnail but couldn't work it out.

Her attention shifted when a muscular black stallion trotted into view. The animal came at Lan's command, emerging from the darkness of the cedars. Tossing its head and kicking its skirted heels high, it moved with some knowledge of its own worth. It was trapped and harnessed for a long journey, with wide belly and rump straps for hauling camp gear and a leather hood to protect its eyes. Ash had spent time with Sull horses and thought she knew them … but this one. This was one fit for a king.

"Do not touch him."