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said he liked my hair. I couldn’t afford to get distracted down that path.
    Tobin had been a soldier, for over a decade apparently. I was sure he’d been a good one. And he liked King Faro, or at least trusted him. I could hear it in his voice and see in his flinches when I defied the wishes of the Crown. Set that long history of service, and his duty to his liege lord, against some old, lingering friendship for me, and I knew where his loyalty would fall.
    What choices did I have? I could sit here and force him to come in after me and drag me out. I could run away, leave all my comforts and start again. I’d almost have done that, if I wasn’t certain that, now that he knew where I lived, Tobin would have little difficulty in finding me again. Probably six miles down the road and already limping.
    I could try to kill him before I ran. A stranger coming later to the hunt might never locate me again.
    Sometimes I wondered if the thoughts of violence that came to me were the normal imaginings anyone might have, or some kind of stain on my soul left by the wraith. This one was pure stupidity anyway. I had my kitchen cleaver, an axe, and this little blade. Tobin had a dagger and his sword, and a decade of experience. Not to mention three inches of height on me. He’d disarm me and laugh doing it. And not even I had enough darkness in my soul to imagine killing him by stealth or poison.
    So truly, it came down to letting him take me, or hoping that my powers of persuasion would somehow miraculously change his mind. I could tell him that a spell would drive me mad if I left these walls. It might be no more than the truth. But he might still feel compelled to try it.
    The tip of the little blade slid familiarly over my skin. I pushed my shirt sleeve higher to keep it clean. I hadn’t bothered to change for bed, knowing I’d never sleep. This was my good shirt, that I’d put on after washing the garden soil off myself, because… well, it was my favorite. And I didn’t want it stained.
    I looked at my forearm, bared to the light. I always tried to use the arm as much as possible. I had a bag I’d made with handles that fit my elbow, to fetch and carry with. Sometimes I filled it with stone weights and lifted it up and down, until I had to stop. I did exercises, holding myself up in a plank on my elbows. But some days, some weeks, it ached too much to do that, and despite my efforts the muscles had dwindled until my wrist was as small around as a child’s. Useless. The skin was thinner too, and against its winter pale, the veins stood blue. I wondered idly if this would be the night. Would I finally push the tip a little deeper, and let the crimson spill inexorably from those blue lines? I dipped the tip just deep enough to coax free a drop.
    The window across from me exploded with a shattering crash, as a heavy body plunged through it. I was knocked from my chair. Even as I fell, I knew Tobin’s touch and his voice, gasping, “No! Gods, no. Don’t.”
    He wrestled me for the knife, pried it from my startled grasp, and threw it across the room.
    “Damn it, that was my good blade!” I struggled to get free from him. “If you’ve broken it…”
    “Broken it!” He held me in an unshakable grip, wrapped against his chest with both wrists prisoned in his hands. “You son of a whore. I hope it’s shattered!”
    His arms were bands of steel around me, his chest a stone wall at my back, and I fought him. I struggled with all my might, my vision dark with the need to get free. “Let go. Let go. Let GO!”
    “Promise you won’t move if I do. Promise you’ll stay right here.”
    His breath was a foul thing against my cheek, in my hair, the whisper of graveyards and creatures long dead. I fought to get free. The fetters bound my wrists to the wall. The floor under my bare feet was cold. He pressed against me, whispering of the power we would gain. He asked for permission, asked for free will, told me of the riches of