The burn in my palm throbbed.
“I did.”
“Where?”
“The shore.” I pointed behind me. “Not far. I woke there.”
The older man muttered something I didn’t catch as the blond man’s gaze sharpened.
“You woke there?”
Brilliant. Excellent work, Darcy.
Why not tell him about the vanished magic jewelry next and save everyone the suspense?
“I fell,” I said, which was true in the broad spiritual sense. “I may have hit my head. I woke in the sand soaked to the skin, saw armed men coming off the ships, and decided leaving would be wise.”
“It was.”
There was no smile or warmth, but no immediate murder either, which I counted as progress.
“My name is Darcy Patterson.”
He studied me for another moment.
“I am Wulfric of Ashford.”
Wulfric.
Of course. He couldn’t have been called Nigel or something. The name suited him. Solid. Severe. Built to survive unpleasant weather and equally unpleasant men.
Find him.
The old woman’s words surfaced without invitation.
I looked at Wulfric.
No. Absolutely not. I’d known him for twelve seconds and he’d already brought a sword to the conversation.
“This is my village,” he said. “These are my folk. You come from the shore in cloth no one here has seen, speaking with no tongue we know, and you ask us to believe you bring warning and no danger.”
“I didn’t say no danger.”
I glanced toward the trees, though the sea was hidden beyond them.
“I’m saying the danger behind me is worse.”
The woman made a small sound. The boy’s spear drooped a fraction.
Wulfric didn’t move. “What do you know of these men?”
Nothing I could say without sounding mad.
“They’re not raiding.”
His expression changed, though only slightly.
The older man beside touched the blade at his hip.
