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carefully placed rumor that Tinlor had died in a human ambush had spread quickly throughout the Svistra ranks. The commander had been much loved by his people as a demanding but fair leader, and Keldar agreed. With one obvious exception.
    The effect of Tinlor’s death was better than he could have hoped. The messages from the Telige had spoken of a general outrage against the humans. Even those reluctant to wage war had shifted their support to him. Keldar’s ranks swelled and with it, the knowledge that he had been chosen by the gods to lead the Svistra, and his family’s name, into glory.
    And now King Josiam of the humans’ southern realm had confirmed it.
    He held the letter up to the candle, watching the flames consume the words penned by the king’s own hand. His father had been too cautious, too soft.
    With the increased numbers, the Svistra no longer needed to strike at the smaller villages and run like dogs. Keldar would recover their ancestral territory, and more. He would be known throughout the land, revered by all. He only needed to complete the journey back into the Telige with his father’s body to set Tinlor’s spirit free, and then he would come back to these lands and take what was rightfully his.

Chapter Four
    Selia picked up the bucket holding the bowl of stew and then retrieved the lantern. When she reached for the door, the bowl clinked hard against the side of the bucket. Damn it. All she needed was to spill the bowl’s contents. There was only a little stew left, and she was hungry. Besides, both her hands were full. That wouldn’t do. Though the Svistra hadn’t tried anything with Oren, she wasn’t taking any chances.
    Looping the bucket over her left arm, she transferred the lantern to that hand and reached for the door again. Taking dinner to the barn shouldn’t be so complicated.
    Cold, drizzling rain misted her face and dampened her hair. Every year in late spring, as the land warmed, waves of sickness spread through the Outskirts. During the day, the steady rain turned the air as grey as the sky and muted the green of the surrounding forest. At night, the shadows deepened without the light of the stars or moon. It was a forbidding landscape.
    Selia didn’t know if she was immune or if the Trickster was up to his games, but she never fell ill; this spring was no exception. Oren wasn’t so lucky. He’d woken with a hacking cough. When she climbed down the stairs that morning, she found him fevered and shivering under his blankets.
    Many of the locals were sick or, after planting the spring crops, without the energy to journey to the tavern. But that didn’t stop the travelers. The day had been filled with muddy men with muddier boots in foul moods, steaming themselves dry before her fire.
    The day before, a regiment of soldiers thundered up to her door. Selia repeated the mantra that her horse had taken ill and she didn’t know what was wrong with it, implying heavily that it could be contagious. A good horse meant life or death to a soldier.
    The ruse worked. The soldiers let their horses huddle under the tavern’s overhang instead of insisting on the barn, and thank the gods the field behind the tavern was a sodden mess from the spring rains. The soldiers bunked down on the tavern floor and Oren had been able to sneak out to the barn.
    Every day the inevitable drew closer, stretching her nerves to the breaking point. When Oberl had trudged in the tavern with a scowl, claiming his traps were all empty, the soldiers sent meaningful glances to one another. One of them spat, “Svistra.”
    Another chimed, “Critters don’t like ’em any more than we do. Only they’re smarter. They leave.”
    Selia glanced toward the forest. She hadn’t checked her traps to see if they suffered a similar fate, and she needed to. Martha frequently complained now about the scarcity of meat for their stew. Her steps slowed. She lowered the lantern and blinked the mist out of her eyes. She could