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there?” he called. “Shall you come out?”
    There was no answer, but still he felt he was watched. The short hairs of his neck tingled and he felt suddenly wary. He had not felt afraid before—not in the friendly forest—but now … He wondered who watched him. Or what.
    “Shall you meet me?” he called, thinking the while that perhaps he should purchase a dog. “Are you afraid of me?”
    No answer: only the rustling of leaves and birdsong.
    He shrugged and shouted, “So be it, then,” and set to unloading his cart.
    He stored his supplies and fed the animals, then fed himself and settled to sleep. But for the first time, he bolted the door.

    H E WOKE WITH THE DAWN light and the birds’ song and felt afraid. He rose and went outside—as much to prove to himself that he was not afraid as for any other reason.
    Sunlight wafted brilliant through the trees’ canopy, patterning the grass in dappled shades of green. The chickens clucked about their business and the pigs—those not already gone into the forest—snuffled at the ground around the cottage. All was normal.
    Cullyn gathered eggs and went back inside. He made his breakfast, thinking of Elvira and Abra, and then took up his bow. Andrias had said that two more deer would buy him a horse, and the sooner he took them down, the sooner he’d be able to ride.
    It was easy for him to find the deer trails. They cut through the bracken to the waterholes and grazing places, where he could follow them and wait and take what he needed, and today he decided that—no matter who or what watched him—he’d take at least one deer to buy his desired horse. So he checked his bow and oiled the string, then checked all his arrows and their fletchings, and went out into the woodland.
    He felt curiously uneasy, thinking of his unknown visitor.
    It was another sunny day, light drifting down through the canopy of overhanging branches to dapple the grass below with harlequin patterns of sun and shadow. A gentle breeze stirred the leaves and the ferns, so that their soft rustling was a whispered counterharmony to the trilling of the birds that filled the trees. It was a day that in other circumstances he’d have enjoyed for its beauty, but now felt somehow menacing.
    He had felt watched before, but had never known the watchers to intrude on his home. That made a difference.
    He shook off the feeling, intent on taking his first deer, telling himself there was nothing he could do. If the Durrym watched him, then they watched him. If they chose to show themselves, he’d face them. He had no argument with them, nor wanted any. But still, as he found fresh tracks and crouched to examine a pile of dung, he felt uneasy. It was as if the forest had changed.
    He followed the trail, knowing it led to a spring, and circled around so that he approached the water with the breeze on his face.
    The spring was set between outcrops of stone that thrust up from the grassy sward, birches growing silvery from between the rocks, and all the circle surrounded by stately oaks. Three deer drank there: a young stag and two hinds. Cullyn nocked an arrow and sighted down the shaft at the older hind. The stag looked up, antlers tossing as he scented the wind. He raised his head, mouth opening to bell a warning. Cullyn drew back and loosed his shaft.
    The arrow flew true, taking the hind behind the left shoulder as she rose from the water. She coughed andstumbled a few faltering steps back. The stag and the other hind turned and ran even as Cullyn charged out, bow dropped and knife in hand to plunge the blade into her throat. He slew her swiftly, as she deserved, standing back as she fell, blood coming from her throat as her gentle eyes dulled. He waited until her last kicking was done and then lifted her across his shoulders and started back to his cottage.
    It was mid-afternoon before he reached home and halted in amazement as he saw the horses there.
    He’d seen them before: the dozen or so he’d