Chapter 4: The Burned Man

I took the basin anyway.

Aldith saw it in my hands and said nothing, which I decided to count as permission.

The tower stairs were narrow and smelled of cold stone and old smoke.

At the top a single oak door stood shut, with a line of lamplight under it.

Behind it something heavy hit the floor.

I knocked.

"Go away."

His voice was nothing like the one at the ford.

It was ragged and low, and it shook.

"I'm not coming in," I said. "That was my term, and it's yours to keep. Nobody touches who hasn't asked."

"Then why are you standing on my stairs?"

"I've brought hot water and clean linen. I'll leave them on the step."

Silence.

"Tell me to take them back," I said, "and I'll take them back."

I stood waiting in the dark.

Then the bolt slid.

The door swung open on Torren, his left sleeve torn to the shoulder.

The burn scars that covered his face ran down his neck and along that whole arm.

Tonight they had split.

Fresh blood ran down his forearm in slow lines.

The raw edges of the scar wept a thick, shining oil.

I smelled it from the doorway, a metallic, oily sourness.

Silver.

"Eight years," I said quietly. "It's been in there for eight years."

"It comes up at night."

He leaned against the doorframe.

"By morning the wolf in me closes it over. In a week it's open again."

"It can't close over the silver. It just seals over it."

"I know what it does."

"Then you know that you need someone to draw it out."

"I need nothing from Ravenhill."

He said the name.

"You're here because I said you could stay. Don't confuse that with welcome."

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