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As we enter what seems to be the outskirts of the large band, the people nearest to us, all on foot, dart careful glances our way, first curious, then fearful, though surprisingly I can’t tell if it is me or Kylabet that has them shying away like skittish deer.

Either way, they press back from us as unobtrusively as possible, trying to make their dropped eyes and stiff bodies seem natural.

Most walk next to heavily laden pack horses, in between groaning, wooden wagons that look nothing like the Traders’.

These are more utilitarian — long, open rectangles loaded with bags and what looks to be rolled hay or grass, pulled by massive, muscled horses with flowing manes and hooves that glint with iron on the bottoms.

Many of the people have a cloth pulled up over their mouths to keep the grit from their faces, but the area around their eyes is coated with a thick layer of dirt, a testament to how long they’ve been trudging behind the storm kicked up by the riders in front of us.

Their clothing is similarly covered in greyish-brown dust, as are the packs every single person has strapped to their backs.

I don’t notice any weapons or belted blades, though perhaps those are easy to disguise.

They do seem well fed, and not unhappy, just meticulously aware of Kylabet, or myself, and desperately desirous not to draw any attention to themselves.

I want to ask Kylabet a question about the people around us, about the camp, the structure, but she has already pulled up her horse to move closer to me and is speaking before I can open my mouth, voice dropped low enough that only she and I can hear it.

“I will take you as far as the center, and assign you a Rider for the day. Stay close. The BloodLetter sent the news through the Band yesterday; all should know the guidance regarding you by now, but even open pastures hide venomous snakes.” Kylabet shows no emotion, could be discussing the clouds in the sky or the color of the ground, but something about her posture, the way she constantly surveys the crowd around us, fills me with trepidation.

Everything here is a cliff’s edge on a storm day when the wind is blowing strongly enough to sweep you from your feet into the belows, and I’m suddenly finding it hard to breathe smoothly.

Fluttering wings of panic stutter my lungs, piercing claws of anxiety sinking into my temples.

It’s enough to darken the corners of my vision, the world narrowing down to a single, steady point.

Lorcan?

His response is thankfully both immediate and vibrant.

Little Keeper? And then, more anxiously, Be on guard. There is a hum of violence here. Please. Be cautious.

He’s electric and uneasy along my spine, and for once I don’t tease back.

There is nothing in this place that has the flavor of anything other than fear; I’m not scared of death, but there is something in the passing expressions of the surrounding crowd that reminds me there are worse things than dying.

Uneasy stillness marks our progress through the bustling company; my presence, like a shadow, steals noise from everything it touches.

Heavy stares press against me, and though I don’t meet anyone’s eyes, even my mount can sense the growing tension, hooves skirting nervously at any sudden sounds.

Kylabet ties her reins in a casual knot on her horse’s neck and casually pulls a small dagger from her belt.

It takes a surprisingly long time for us to reach a place she evidently deems safe; the scope of this group is significantly larger than I’d assumed.

Suddenly, in a swift, unexpected movement, she pulls up her horse and turns to me. “Dismount here, Binder,” she commands, and I hurry to obey. “Eyes down,” she mutters, troubled gaze surveying the area around us. “The eyes are the worst of it. The rest they may get used to. Possibly. But the eyes…”

Voice drifting off, she passes me a tether tied to her mount, and leads us both on foot.

Following mutely, I act as her shadow, turning where she turns, stopping when she stops.

I keep my eyes on the loamy soil at our feet, so I can only sense, not see, when a crowd of horses and humans surrounds us.

The sound of many, many people dismounting comes from every direction — behind us, beside us, in front of us — and I realize we’re in the center of a circle.

A tangible weight thickens the air, bodies pressing close enough that my nostrils are filled with the scent of sweat, hay, and a deeper, rich earthiness that is laced with water.

“Blood Riders, Oath Riders,” Kylabet acknowledges calmly.

There is no hint of anything other than steel and sword in her voice.

Nothing is left of the woman who was laughing in the forest yesterday; here she is someone entirely different, some thing different.

The response to her call is immediate, a loud thumping of multiple fists pounded against multiple chests in one, singular movement.

And then full silence, not disturbed by the sound of even a single breath or the shuffle of shifting feet.

All attention is focused completely on the lithe warrior in front of me.

“I assume you were all passed word?” They must have answered in some way, though I don’t hear anything, and don’t raise my eyes to see .

Calm, Wren, calm. He is trying, but his voice is taut, stretched thin with barely masked emotion.

I want to be, want to steady my racing heart, but Lorcan’s worry swirls with my own and sends shivers of panic down my back.

In the time it took me to force air into my lungs, I’ve missed something, the pulsing of blood in my veins deafening my ears.

“There is no room for personal feelings here. This…we will call her a guest of sorts for now…does not believe she is a SoulBinder. She and her people call her a BoneKeeper, or Keeper, and have no knowledge of what a SoulBinder is.” Now, for the first time, there is an uneasy shifting, a murmur of dissent.

Kylabet continues as though no one has made a sound.

“This was confirmed, tasted as truth by the BloodLetter.” A rustle of surprise ripples through the Riders; the world is shimmering with the static before a lightning strike.

“It’s not right,” a deep voice calls out, disgust dripping from each word. Kylabet stiffen next to me; I think she expected it, anticipated it, but the dissent still surprised her, or perhaps just disappointed her.

“The crop that is planted is the crop that is grown,” she replies cryptically, and the man snorts derisively in response.

“You can’t honestly expect us to ride next to a damned Binder, Flank Commander. Word is that we are to use our blade hand to protect it? Protect that… that thing ?”

She exhales sharply, is about to speak, but is interrupted by Axton’s gravelly voice, coming from the far side of the circle as best as I can tell. “Was there confusion in my guidance, Dagan?”

“Was there confusion on your tongue, BloodLetter?” The intake of breath from the people around me is immediate and audible. There is evidently a hatred of SoulBinders here that runs so deep it counteracts common sense, because even I can sense the taste of death on the breeze.

Axton laughs, actually laughs , the sound reminding me of the hollow clattering of the bone fingers hanging from the gates of our village.

When the winds blow hard, the chattering and rattling is a warning to us — go somewhere safe , they say.

The Storms are coming . That is the music of Axton’s amusement — a caution to go somewhere safe.

The dancing notes of blood and bone. But Dagan is deaf to it.

“What a question,” Axton replies softly, and if the circle was stone still before, it is beyond that now; a single movement could collapse a mountain in this moment.

“But no, Dagan. No confusion on my tongue. The Demon sincerely believes she is a thing called a BoneKeeper. She doesn’t understand what she actually is, came to our lands against her will and is indebted to us, does not know what binding is, and is convinced that she intends no harm.

She is a…curiosity. And one I think the Elders will find… useful.”

The energy of the surrounding crowd changes, almost a relaxing of tension.

Something Axton has said is enough for most of the people, although it does nothing to ease my concern.

If anything, the shiver of sound when he says ‘Elders’ is laced with venom and vitriol, and it is all directed my way.

Clearly, no love is lost between the BloodLetter and myself; there is nothing but cold appraisal in his words, nothing but the emotionless consideration a warrior would have when choosing a weapon.

And his lack of concern for me other than as a tool calms the Riders.

Well. Most of them.

“As useful dead! ” Dagan shouts. Out of nowhere, there is a staggering lurch of motion that jerks my eyes up in alarm.

A bearded man shoves through those around him, a long, thin blade, needle-sharp, drawn and pointed straight at my throat.

It all happens in a flash, in the space of a heartbeat; one moment he is across from me, the next the tip of his sword is pushing into my skin, stopped only briefly by the leather collar of my tunic.

And then his eyes flare wide, face almost comically astonished, a sort of disbelieving shock tilting his head before he exhales once, and slumps to the ground.

His soul bursts from his body in a quick, bright blaze of unfamiliar music, but sparks and fades so quickly I don’t have a chance to even raise my hands to him.

I can’t bring myself to regret it, though, and am only troubled by the speed at which he dissolved.

Even at my best, I would have been hard pressed to have held him long enough to guide him.