“People can be evil all on their own,” agreed Seraph.

Satisfied with Seraph’s reply, the old woman tottered back to her karis.

“She can still heal,” said the woman on Seraph’s left. “But she’s a little touched. It’s the years, you know. She won’t tell anyone how old she is, but my Kors is her great-grandson.”

Three days of travel with Rongier’s clan taught Seraph a lot about them. Benroln and the old Healer were the only Ordered among them, though they had a few who could work magic in the solsenti fashion—with words and spell casting that hoped to gather enough stray magic to accomplish their task.

It was most remarkable, she thought, watching as a young man named Rilkin used a spell to light a damp log, that they got any results at all. Her father had been gifted that way, and they’d spent many a Traveling day exploring the differences between her magic and his. A solsenti spell cast out a blind net into the sea to haul in whatever stray magic might attach itself to the net; Ordered magic was more like putting a pail in a well.

She turned back to grooming Skew and to her current worries. Tier she could do nothing about until they reached Taela, so she tucked her fear for him away until it might be useful. Lehr and Jes were more immediate concerns. They were growing more and more unhappy with the continued association with the Traveling clan.

Skew stretched his neck out appreciatively when her brush rubbed a particularly good spot. Skew, at least, was having the time of his life with all the attention he was getting.

Lehr, however, chafed under the commands that all of the men and most of the women of the clan felt free to throw at him. Without hinting at what he was, he couldn’t win their respect by his hunting skills so they treated him as they treated all the other young men.

No one gave Jes orders—they all knew what he was. Her daylight Jes was bewildered by the way they lowered their eyes around him and avoided him. Seraph didn’t remember her clan treating her brother, the Guardian, that way. The Librarian’s clan hurt Jes’s feelings by their rejection, and that made the Guardian restless: Jes was one of the people he protected.

Hennea helped. She knitted in the evenings, and found things that required Jes’s aid. He was calmer around her, too; perhaps it was the discipline of being Raven that made Hennea easier for Jes to bear. Some people, like Alinath, were hard for him to be in the same room with.

“Mother?” It was Lehr. “Have you seen Jes? He was with me at dinner, but someone decided they needed a dray mule and I was the nearest they could find. When I went back to the dining tables, Jes wasn’t there. I checked the horses and he wasn’t there either. Hennea was looking for him, too. He’s not in the camp, Mother. I told Hennea I would check with you.”

To see if she wanted him to search, even though someone might notice what he was doing.

“I don’t—” Seraph stopped speaking abruptly.

Over Lehr’s shoulder, Seraph saw Benroln, Kors, and Calahar approach with intent. Isfain, the fourth man, was nowhere to be seen. The air of grim triumph Benroln wore was as damning as the guilt on Kors’s face.

She stepped around Lehr so she stood between him and the leadership of the Clan of Rongier.

“Is something wrong?” asked Benroln.

“I don’t know,” Seraph replied softly. “I think that’s something you can tell me. Where is Jes, Benroln?”

Benroln held his arms out open-palm to show her he meant no harm. “He is safe, Seraph. I won’t harm him unless there is no other way to save my clan.”

Seraph waited.

“Jes is in one of the tents with Isfain at watch.”

“What do you want?” she asked.

Benroln smiled as if to say, See, I knew you’d do it my way. Three days had obviously not taught him much about her—she hoped that her other secrets were as well-hidden.

“My uncle has been scouting for work for us, and he found some not five miles down the road.”

“What kind of work?” asked Seraph.

“There is a merchant who buys grain and hauls it to Korhadan to sell. Last year one of the farmers with whom he had a contract delivered his grain himself and cost our merchant money and reputation when he wasn’t able to deliver the grain he had promised his buyers. He went to the courts for redress, but they were unable to help him.”

“I see,” said Seraph neutrally.

“I want you to curse this farmer’s fields.”

“To teach him a lesson,” she said.

“Right,” he smiled engagingly. “Just like that man who assaulted Hennea.”

“But this merchant will pay you money.”

“Yes.” He didn’t even have the grace to look uncomfortable.

“And what will I get out of it?”

“Your family will have a home at last. A place where they fit in and no one taunts them for their Traveler blood. We will share with you all that is ours,” said Calahar, as if he were offering her a gift instead of blackmailing her.

Benroln was smarter than that. “Safety,” he said. “For you and your family.”

Seraph stared at them for a minute.

“You can’t hold Jes for long,” said Lehr confidently. “He doesn’t like strangers much—he’ll know that there is something wrong.”

He was right—or should have been. Seraph watched, but Benroln’s confidence didn’t falter.

“You have a foundrael,” she said, suddenly certain it was true. There weren’t many of them, but then there weren’t many clans left either. They weren’t such fools as to try to keep a Guardian prisoner without something to keep him under control.

“What is that?” asked Lehr.

“Guardians can be difficult to control,” she explained without looking away from Benroln’s face. “They are driven to protect their own at the expense of everything else. Sometimes their imperatives are inconvenient; guardians don’t follow orders well at all.” She wasn’t going to tell them how common it was for an Eagle to lose his daytime persona and become completely violent, even toward the people he had previously protected. “A Raven a long time ago came up with a solution. She created ten foundraels—collars that keep the Guardian from emerging—before she realized what the end effect of repressing a Guardian is.”

“What’s wrong with it?” asked Lehr. “Is Jes in danger?”

Seraph fingered the knife at her hip. “Let’s just say that if they thought they had problems with their Guardians when they decided to use the foundrael, they had real problems the first time they decided to take it off. The use of foundraels is forbidden except under the most dire conditions.”

“My father will keep him calm—your Guardian will experience no difficulties unless you give him reason to think that there is danger,” said Calahar, stung by the contempt in her voice.

“Seraph—I’ve looked all over…” Hennea’s voice died out as she recognized the confrontation.

“These men have taken Jes,” Seraph told Hennea. “So that I will aid them in cursing a man’s field. They will receive gold for their efforts.”

She saw Hennea’s face as worry faded, leaving behind a facade as cold as ice—just such a face had Hennea worn as she knelt beside the dead priest in Redern.

“They take gold to curse people?”

Seraph spat on the ground in front of Benroln. “They have chosen to forget who we are. But they have me at a disadvantage.” She shook her head in disgust and then looked at Lehr.

She needed someone to tend Jes, someone he trusted who would sit by him calmly until she could get Benroln to take the foundrael off—the collars could only be taken off by the person who put them on. But Lehr was too angry, she thought in near despair; Jes would know that there was something wrong.

“Where’s Jes?” asked Hennea.

Seraph looked at the other woman’s expressionless face thoughtfully. “Kors,” she abruptly, “will take you to Jes. He’s being held with a foundrael—Isfain is supposed to be keeping him calm. I would appreciate it if you would do your best to see that Jes is not discomforted while I go with Benroln.”