As he worked the oil into the metal with a rag, his mind turned once again to Rosheen. He constantly wondered what had become of her, and during his first days at the fort he resolved that he would find out. Initially, his plan consisted of thanking the Thegn for his hospitality, begging some provisions and striking out on his own in search of the wayward piskie, but deeper reflection on his lack of knowledge concerning the surrounding landscape and the very real danger that was loose in those lands forced him to refine his purpose. He would brave anything to find her, but setting off blindly would benefit nothing. He fancied he could hear Rosheen’s voice chiding him to just that effect.

Kederic’s words still troubled him, but he would never discover if Rosheen had any answers concerning his life if he never saw her again. The thought soured his heart. They had never been apart and it was all he could think on. He was tempted every morning to walk back to Stone Fort, embrace his mother and help his father with some familiar labor. But he could not do that. Not without Rosheen. So he endured the sneers, the spiteful stares, the mocking comments, and he rode, hoping that the long, wet patrols would offer some sign as to where she had gone, and eventually lead him back to her careless smile.

There was a sudden change in the sound of the camp. It was too quiet. Padric looked up just as Big Cunny threw the dagger. Reflex caused him to jerk his limbs ineffectually and the blade buried deep into the sodden ground, not a hand span from where he sat. Laughter once again filled the camp, Big Cunny’s loudest of all, his witless face looking around at his compatriots for approval. Slowly, Padric pulled the dagger from the mud with the intent to simply toss it back without a care. These men were dogs. Fear only made them more likely to bite. But when he saw the blades in Drefan and Fat Donall’s hands he paused, his grip tightening on the recently flung dagger. Big Cunny must have won the toss to see who would throw first, which was fortunate. Fat Donall would have sent the blade into Padric’s gut for the sake of a bigger laugh. But it was not the deadly game at his expense that most angered Padric, it was the weapon he saw in Drefan’s hand. Over a foot of sharp, smoke colored steel.

“That…,” Padric said, flicking his eyes at Drefan’s hand, “…is mine.”

The old man’s yellow teeth grinned back wetly, and Padric saw he had just made the game much more amusing. “Well then,” Drefan said. “Pup’s after me property.”