As Garin watched the man dart back and forth across the muddy yard, half-bent like a raccoon, trying over and over to snag one of the hens and failing, he couldn't say he'd ever seen a better chicken farmer.

"Come here, damn you!" the man cursed as he chased the chickens. As they scattered, he made a grab, missed, tried again, and nearly fell face-first into the mud.

"Try approaching slower," Garin said, a twitch to his lips. "Not that an old man like you could go anything but slow."

The would-be chicken herder straightened and stretched his back with a groan. "Tried that. Still don't have a chicken roasting on a spit." He eyed Garin. "Maybe if a certain lad helped me chase them, we might both be chewing on succulent meat before the hour's up."

Garin pretended not to notice as his gaze wandered up to the sky. "Best hurry about it. Looks set to rain at any moment."

The man sighed. "Maybe the mud will stop them. Yuldor's prick, but chickens are degenerate birds, aren't they? What kind of bird can't even fly?"

The farmer stalked after the hens, a hand pressed to his side. He often touched that spot, Garin had noticed, like one might pick at a scab that refused to heal.

Garin shook his head and looked off toward the main muddy road through the town. The chicken farmer, incompetent as he might be at his chosen profession, had been the most exciting thing to happen to Hunt's Hollow in the last five years. Little else changed in their village. The seasons came and went; rains fell, and fields dried up; youths coupled against their parents' wishes and established their own farms. Life was trapped in amber, the same cycle repeated for every man, woman, and child in the village. The only thing to change in the last five years was the lack of deaths, for though the Nightkin beasts that came down from the Fringes had still been sighted, none had stayed long enough to attack.

His eyes turned toward the western tree line. Garin had traveled to all the other villages in the East Marsh, taking every opportunity he could get, but found them all the same, and Hunt's Hollow the largest of them, with its own forge and sharing its mill with only one other town. The World, he knew, lay with the rest of the Westreach.

I'll see it all and make my name, he promised himself. Someday.

His unfocused eyes were drawn by a figure approaching down the road. As the man drew closer, it became apparent he wasn't from any of the surrounding towns, or even the East Marsh. No wagon or horse — can't be a peddler. A wandering tradesman? But where he kept the tools of his trade, Garin hadn't the faintest idea, for his pack was small and slight.

As he came closer still, he observed how oddly dressed the traveler was. His hat, made of stiff cloth that was worn and gray and notched on the rim, was pointed and bent at the top. The long braid of hair draped over the front of his shoulder was black as a winter night. His chin was completely smooth and so sharp Garin reckoned he could cut a wheel of cheese with it. His clothes, like his hat, were well-used, but despite the many patches, they spoke of quality not too far gone.

A man of means, Garin wagered. Always best to be polite to a man of means.

"Welcome, traveler!" he called cheerily as the man came within earshot. "Welcome to Hunt's Hollow!"

"I read the sign on the way in."

He sounded somewhat irritable. But then, Garin reasoned, he must have traveled a long way. Opening his mouth to respond, he found the words caught in his throat. The traveler's eyes were shadowed by the wide brim of his hat, but he could detect a shining quality to them. Like staring into a forge, Garin thought before he could banish the boyish notion.

"Rain's blessing to you this day, stranger," he finally said. "A lonely corner of the World the roads have taken you to today."

The man cocked his head, the floppy tip of the hat tilting with it. "Not for long, I hope."

Garin kept his face carefully smooth. He was quite good at it, having had plenty of practice with Crazy Ean, who drank too much marsh whiskey and said things that could stiffen even an old man's beard.

"You'll be looking for a place to stay, I reckon?"

The stranger's gaze shifted past him, and Garin glanced back to see the chicken farmer approaching them. Somehow, he seemed changed, his shoulders back and posture upright despite his earlier defeat, and an unfamiliar hardness in his eyes.

"No," the stranger said. "I won't."

"Garin! Who's this you're keeping inhospitably in the mud?" The chicken farmer had reached his fence and leaned against it, wearing an amicable smile. But that smile… something about it made Garin suddenly feel he'd gotten in the way of two hogs who had their sights on the same sow.

"The boy has been accommodating," the stranger said before Garin could answer. "Silence pray that others in this town are just as kind."

"Oh, Hunt's Hollow is a fine town," the chicken farmer replied. "Peaceful and quiet. We like it to stay that way."

Garin swallowed and edged back along the fence.

The stranger turned his gaze on him. "Boy, I may yet take you up on your offer. Stay close by."

"No, that's alright," the chicken farmer said with his smile wider still. "I'm sure I could put you up if it comes to it. You get along now, boy."

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If nothing else had his hairs on end, the chicken farmer calling him "boy" did. In the five years since he'd settled in Hunt's Hollow, the man had never been anything less than respectful to him, treating him as a man grown — which, at fifteen, he damned well was. A boy would run, he knew, but a man would stay.

"I'll stay. You might need someone to help you chase down chickens, Bran."

The stranger's eyes seemed more molten than ever as they turned back to the chicken farmer. "Bran, is it?"

"It is." Bran straightened, one foot still on the fence. "But I must have missed your name."

"I very much doubt that."

Man or boy, Garin was starting to think he ought to run for someone. Smith wouldn't be a bad man to have around if this came to blows. Though to look at these two, a bout wouldn't take long to settle.

Bran looked to have forty summers to him, from the crinkles around his eyes, and the dark tan-going-leather of his skin. But he had broad shoulders for a man of his middling height, and a chest and arms to rival Smith's, which Garin guessed he hadn't earned through chasing chickens. Then there were his tattoos, and the scars they covered. Bran always wore long shirts, even in the heat of the day, but Garin had glimpsed them: the bright colors, the strange, scrawling patterns, the puckered skin running beneath them all. The scar on his side looked the worst of them, and he often caught Bran clutching at it as if it pained him still. And his hair was streaked with white and gray so that Garin had occasionally teased him by calling him "Skunk."

Bran had been a soldier once, Garin had no doubt. Though, if his swordwork was as good as his chicken herding, he wondered how the man had survived. 

The stranger, meanwhile, was slight as a scribe, and though tall and weathered, he didn't have a visible weapon. The match, he decided, could only sway in one direction. Except he couldn't quite shake the feeling that things didn't cut as straight as that.

Bran, quick as a snake in the brush, leaped over the fence to stand before the stranger. He tilted his head up to meet the other man's gaze, a slight, crooked smile still on his lips. Garin tensed, waiting for the strike that must come.

"Well, Aelyn Cloudtouched, He-Who-Sees-Fire, I'd hoped I'd never see you again. But since you're here, how 'bout I offer you a glass of marsh whiskey and we talk like old friends?"

"Like old friends," the stranger replied. "Or old enemies."

Bran shrugged. "Conversation is only interesting with animosity or amorousness — or so the bards sing. Follow me, it's not far."

Bran turned his back on the man. From the look in the stranger's eyes, Garin half-expected him to strike at the farmer's back. But instead, he followed him down the fence toward the small house at the end.

"You too, Garin," Bran called behind him. "If you've seen this much, our guest will want you to witness the rest."

"As if I'd have done anything else," Garin muttered as he tailed behind.

* * *

Bran settled in a chair across from his guest and smiled like they were old friends.

The house was nothing to look at, he well knew: two rooms large, with a ragged curtain separating them; a small wood stove settled behind him, and a well-used pot and pan, travel-ready, hanging above it. As rain began to patter against the roof, the usual leaks started up in the corners.

He didn't care to impress folks, not anymore, and this man least of all. But he'd helped his guest over the stoop like a nobleman might usher a lady into his bedroom, and ignored the man's protests that he needed no assistance in a similarly lofty manner.

Gallantry, he'd often found, suited a liar like a cape fit a king.

Garin squirmed in the seat next to them, but Bran paid him no mind as he took his glass and threw it back. He sighed as the liquid burned its way down his throat to settle a steady warmth in his gut. "Say what you want about Crazy Ean, but he makes a damn fine whiskey."

"So says anyone mad enough to try it," Garin muttered.

Bran grinned at him. "Life is short and dark as it is. May as well brighten it with a few glorious risks."

The youth shrugged.

He turned his gaze to the guest again, who hadn't touched his glass. "I know your name, Aelyn, and you know ours. The table is set. Now lay out what you want, or we'll have to settle on beans and roots for dinner."

Aelyn hadn't removed his hat, but even with his eyes shadowed, they seemed to gleam. "You know what I want. I'm not idly used as a messenger. But I obey my commands." 

He lifted his hand to reveal a small, shining band resting in his palm, then set it on the table. Garin stared at it, mouth open wide. Bran found he was unable to resist looking himself, though he knew its kind well. Not a ring of silver or gold or copper, but milky white crystal, with a steady glow from within its clouded center.

"What is it?" Garin asked, sounding as if he wished he hadn't spoken but was unable to resist.

Aelyn didn't answer but kept his steady, orange gaze on Bran, like a raptor on a hare.

Bran sighed. "It's a Binding Ring. An artifact of oaths that holds the wearer to a promise."

Garin might be a man grown to the villagers, but he looked a boy at that moment, his eyes wide, his mouth forming a small "o."

"Like… a magic ring?" the youth ventured.

"Enough of this!" Aelyn snapped. "Take it and put it on. We must be returning immediately."

"Off so soon? But you haven't touched your drink."

The man snorted. "If I wished to poison myself, I have a thousand better ways than that human swill. Don that ring. Now." His fiery eyes slid over to Garin. "Or do you want the boy to know your true name?"

Bran studied him. A feeling, hard as flint, was starting behind his eyes. A feeling familiar as a distant memory. A feeling he'd hoped to have dug a deep grave and buried in the past. As it rose, a warmth unconnected to the whiskey began coursing through his body. Dread? he mocked himself. Or anticipation?

He reached a hand forward, finger brushing the crystal. It was warm to the touch. From past experience, he knew it remained warm most of the time. So long as the wearer kept to what he was bound. If he didn't, a mountain peak in winter would be preferable punishment.

Aelyn's eyes watched. Wary. Waiting.

Bran scooped up the ring, vaulted across the table, and shouted, "Heshidal bauchdid!"

The man jerked, then stiffened in his chair, eyes wide with surprise, hat knocked askew. Bran took his moment, snatching one of the smooth hands and slipping the ring over a long finger.

As Aelyn shivered free of the binding, his mouth stuttered, "Bastard of a pig-blooded whore—!"

"Quiet down!" Bran shouted over him. "This I bind you to: That you will wear this ring until I am safely back in Hunt's Hollow. That you will tell no one that you wear this ring instead of me. That you will tell no one my true name unless I bid it. And that you won't harm the boy Garin or myself in that time."

The ring shone brightly for a moment, and Aelyn shuddered, eyes squeezed shut, teeth braced in a grimace. A moment later, the ring dimmed, and Bran released his guest's hand. As he settled into his chair, brushing back the hairs that had worked loose of his tail, his blood began to cool again.

"Now," he said as he reached for the whiskey bottle, which had fallen over in the struggle, and pulled out the stopper. "You sure you don't want any of this human swill?"

The man raised his hand and stared at the crystal ring, horror spreading across his face. "She told you, didn't she? She told you my true name."

Bran poured a glass, then proffered it to the youth, who stared at him as if he were the stranger. "Feeling mad enough yet?"

Garin took the glass, threw it back, and promptly coughed half of it back up.

"There you are, Garin, there you are," Bran said, thumping his back. "You'll learn to swallow it all before long."