“And then Brogan was slain,” he continued with ire in his voice. “That walking scarecrow servant of his murdered him and I sent my own men out to hunt him down. They are still out there, Acwellen and his huscarls, along with the Sure Finder and those damn dogs of his…might as well be Fae themselves for all their queer cunning. I have chewed at these events Padric, worried at them and I do not like what begins to unravel. You say the gnome claimed to have seen an Unwound and took the fomori in search of it, all the while my riders search for the husk…and the village is left undefended, giving the Red Caps every chance to burn it to the ground. This is not passing chance. Something is set against us.”

“The goblin in the fire,” Padric said.

Kederic nodded. “With the help of the husk and the gnome.”

Padric started. “Deglan? Why would he…”

“Who else saw this Unwound? Who took the fomori in search of it? You said it yourself, he was headed here with a warning…a warning that never came.”

“Rosheen and Fafnir did not come either.” Padric said. “That does not put them in league with the Red Caps.”

“Careful,” Kederic said. “Do not put so much trust in Fae-folk and dwarves. That was Brogan’s mistake, as well.”

“I cannot vouch for the gnome,” Padric countered. “But I have known Rosheen my whole life and she arrived as I did, a stranger with no knowledge of any of this.”

“No knowledge?” Kederic scoffed. “She is Fae. I do not place blame upon her for the dealings here, but it troubles me you never thought to ask her about yourself.”

“Ask her…?”

“Raven-touched.” Kederic gestured at Padric’s head. “Your neighbors thought you cursed and you have grown up believing it. Padric, I have travelled enough of the world and seen that the beliefs of men are as varied as the flowers in spring. But here on this Island where there is no spring, we grow superstitious and place foolish predictions on the hair color of babes and read auguries in the entrails of animals. Among the tribes of Middangeard, where the raven is revered, a man born with black hair is thought to be a great chieftain and destined to bring woe to his enemies. That might have been you, but by chance you were born here; not amongst warriors in Middangeard, but amongst farmers in Airlann, a land where the seasons never change and peasants are forced to find explanations for Magic, a land where the Fae are at once respected and feared. Your own neighbors curse you for a Fae-friend, while the shepherds of the Wallow think you much favored.