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When I first conceived of this story, I thought Geram would be my favorite character. In fact, at one point, briefly(!), I considered doing the whole story through his eyes. I think Lur remains my favorite, but I do like Geram. He's fun to write.

He shook his head, smiling. "I've got a new friend here and drinks waiting inside. If I'm not under arrest, then I'm leaving you, sweet."

She rolled her eyes. "Don't make me do this the hard way."

He gazed at her with wide-eyed interest. "What's the hard way, then, darlin'?"

The next thing he knew, he was flat on his back, wheezing for breath, with a drawn sword inches from his throat.

Pebni, the coward, muttered something about seeing him later and disappeared into the tavern. Geram was alone in the night, on the cold grass, with a crazy woman. He tried an ingratiating smile. "That was slick."

"I'm not letting you get up just yet, if you think I will. I've seen you fight, and you fight dirty."

"Ah, well. You wouldn't be taking my word that I'd be peaceable, would you?"

"No."

"I've never in my life struck a woman."

"Yet."

She was mean, but she was also smart. He folded his hands behind his head. "All right, darlin', you have my attention. What is it you're wantin' of me?"

"There is a lady just outside of town who would like to speak to you."

"Another lady like yourself?"

"No. She's a priestess. And she wants to talk to you about the mark on your head. Have you even noticed it yet?"

He slowly brought his arms down and lifted himself on his elbows, nearly sobered by that. He'd been living with that weird mark since, almost a week ago, he'd looked in the piece of tin he used to shave himself, and no one – no one – could see it but him. It was cold and creepy, and did not belong in his life. "Can you see it?" he said, uncharacteristically hesitant.

"Not I. But Mazya will be able to."

"But you know what it is."

"Sure. It's been driving you crazy, hasn't it?"

"No. Yes." When she took a step back, allowing him to rise, he leaped to his feet, and if he staggered a bit, he made a quick recovery. "What the hell is it?" he demanded.

She waved the sword in a tight circle. "I tend to explain things with a weapon. I think you'd rather talk to Mazya."

He scrubbed at his face, trying to collect his thoughts through the haze of beer and ale. Glancing back with regret at the gleeful noise coming from inside the tavern, he let his shoulders sag. He had to go with her, and not because of the sword. Maybe this priestess knew some way of getting rid of the cursed mark.

Somehow, when she'd said "priestess," he expected to be taken to a temple. Instead, they walked completely out of the town to a fallow field, one of the many which separated the cultivated fields like stripes on a blanket. A rough camp had been pitched there, with several horses and one donkey picketed at the edge. Two tents, one large and one small, were angled toward each other, and within the rough square they helped define was a campfire. A stewpot was suspended over the fire, and the rich smell of what was in it made his stomach rumble.

Around the fire, a couple of logs were set out as seats, and three people sat comfortably on them. Two were women, and the third a young girl. One of the women was elderly, her hair white and deep crow's-feet at her eyes, and he figured her for the priestess by the long robes. The other woman caught his interest despite his concern about that mark on his head. She was pretty, with large, merry eyes, and breasts that filled her tunic to the straining point. Just his type. He grinned happily at her.

The young girl said, "Where did you find him, Koras? A tavern, just as Mazya said?" Geram blinked at the surprisingly mature tone and took a second, closer look. Firelight could be deceptive. But no, she was just a girl, maybe 13 at most.

"Yes. In a fight."

"That explains the blood," said the buxom woman.

Geram stared at her. "You," he said, "have a beautiful voice."

"Thank you. It comes with the job."

"Job?"

"Harper."

"I adore harpers."

"Back off. I'm married."

"I adore married women."

Koras, the one with the sword, muttered, "I bet you do."

The priestess said calmly, "There is blood on him?"

"All over his face," said the harper blithely. "Who won the fight, Geram?"

"It was a draw. You have the advantage on me, m'love. What is your name?"

"Birili. This is the Lady Mazya, priestess of Johe. This is Paka, lately of Deneba, and Capt. Koras of the Shrine Rangers."

He wrinkled his brow, trying to dredge the name from his memory, without luck. "Johe. What god is that?"

The priestess said, "No god. Just a man."

"Then why does he have a shrine?"

Koras said, "Can't I hurt him? Just a little?"

Mazya smiled. "No, I'd rather you didn't. Young man, come sit by me, and I will tell you all about it. Ril, does he need medical attention?"

"No, just a bit of washing. Looks like a nosebleed and a split lip."

He dropped on the log next to the old lady. "You should see the other guy," he informed her.

There was a sudden, odd silence, broken by Mazya's chuckle. "That would be a little difficult, as I am blind. So I will take your word for it."

Too late he recalled that she had not known until told that he had blood on his face. He shrunk, wanting to sink into the ground. "I'm sorry. I didn't know – I didn't mean – well, I couldn't tell, you're looking right at me, and..." He stopped, deciding not to dig the hole any deeper.

But she only laughed. "It's all right. I can see your mark." She laid a finger on the thing with unerring accuracy. "Ladies, would one of you get some water to clean up our newest Talon, and another get him some food?"

At the moment, however, all he could think about was that this woman, this blind woman, could see what only he could see before. He accepted having his face washed, and ate whatever was put in his hands, but his attention was all on the priestess.