“I have no idea, but I’m sure these folk do.”
The crowd didn’t approach them except for one man. At first glance Bron guessed him to be similar in age to his mother, were she still alive. His gray hair was wrapped in a knot at the top of his head, and he sported an impressive beard tied at intervals so that it made a rope whose end he’d tucked into the waistband of his trousers along with his shirt.
“You came through the Merisack Stone,” he said, face and voice full of wonder. He pointed to something behind Bron. His eyes narrowed, and his grip on the scythe held tightened. “Are you lim-folk?”
Bron didn’t dare turn his back on this new problem, but Disaris could. Before he could ask her to look behind him, she was already describing what the man called the Merisack Stone. “It’s another menhir, Bron,” she said. “Shaped differently but still huge and with carvings like those on the Hayman Stone.” She paused, then said, “I can’t read them clearly from here, but they’re still glowing.”
The spokesman for the harvesters repeated his question. “Are you lim-folk?”
His accent was Kefian instead of Daesin, a fact that both alarmed and thrilled Bron. If the Hayman Stone had done what they’d hoped, they were a lot closer to Luda than they were an hour earlier. They were also somewhere in the enemy kingdom of Kefinor.
Disaris answered the Kefian for Bron. “Not lim-folk,” she said. “We’re Crossover People.”
Bron hid his surprise and admiration for her quick thinking. Those who lived along the war-torn borders shared by Daes and Kefinor were a mix of people from both sides, with blended accents, social conventions, religious beliefs, and often conflicting political loyalties. The region had earned the name Crossover for its location as well as the shifting allegiances of its population. He’d participated in his first battle there and come away from the experience with a much darker soul.
Her explanation didn’t seem to reassure the harvester. “That might explain the way you both sound.” He pointed to Bron. “But not how he looks or how you got here. He looks lim to me. So does that sword he’s carrying.”
Bron resisted the temptation to roll his eyes. He’d heard some version of this particular accusation from strangers throughout his life. He didn’t wait for the inevitable demand that always followed it and lifted his hair to expose his ears. He turned his head from side to side so the crowd got a clear look.“See? No points.” He raised his sword higher. “Good steel forged by a human blacksmith,” he said. “Neither bronze nor silver.”
“He could be glamored,” someone else among the onlookers called out.
Their leader tossed a quick scowl over his shoulder. “Glamored or not, he couldn’t hold that sword if he was lim.”
“What if he’s lying about the sword?”
Obviously there were some much harder to convince than others. Bron did roll his eyes then, his patience wearing thin. At this rate, they’d be here all day trying to convince the doubters while still not knowing where they were or if they were any closer to Luda. The sun’s scorching heat beat down on his head, and the stinging prickles dancing across his scalp warned of an imminent sunburn if he didn’t soon cover up with his cowl.
A woman among the group approached the spokesman, handing him something with whispered commentary. He nodded and tossed the object toward Bron who backed up to avoid being struck by it. It landed in the grass at his feet.
He bent for a better look at the item, surprised by the mundanity of it. He glanced at the onlookers. “What do you want me to do with an apron pin?”
“Pick it up,” the harvester replied.
Bron shrugged and lifted the pin, holding it up for closer inspection. There was nothing remarkable about the pin. It was jewelry with function, popular among women who worked and wore aprons to keep their clothing protected from spills and stains. This particular example was more ornate than most, but the same in that it was forged of iron and lacquered black to protect it from rust.
Iron. The bane of all lim-folk.
Those watching Bron visibly relaxed their stances, though they didn’t lower their harvesting blades.
“Now what?” he asked.
The spokesman gestured to Disaris. “Have your woman do the same as you.”
Disaris took her place next to Bron. She removed her cap to expose her ears and plucked the apron pin out of Bron’s hand. “Pretty,” she said, offering its owner a smile.
Her easy, friendly manner and the casual compliment worked a greater magic than any lim glamor could. The scythes and sickles came down and Bron lowered his blade as well, though he kept it unsheathed.
“How did you come through the stone?” one person asked. “We saw a flash of light and suddenly you two just appeared.”
More comfortable now with taking his gaze off the gathering, Bron half turned, spotting the stone Disaris had accurately described earlier. The faintest hint of violet light edged the markings on its surface, and he felt the familiar vibrations on the soles of his feet through his boots, though he and Disaris stood at least sixteen paces away from the stone.
Once more she spoke up, looping her arm through the crook of his and adopting a forlorn look that had him arching a disbelieving eyebrow. “We’ve a stone like this one at home, rumored to help those without children.” Large tears formed on her lower lashes. “My husband and I have been childless for a long time. We went to that stone to bring gifts and offer prayers, hoping for the blessing of a baby.” The sounds of sympathetic murmurs rose from the crowd. Bron struggled to keep his features expressionless, especially when he was the recipient of pitying looks from the men in the crowd.
Disaris continued her fabricated tale of events. “We knelt and prayed as we were advised when suddenly there was a blinding light. Hulgin here thought we were being attacked.” She pinched the inside of his elbow at his sudden fit of coughing. “We were thrown about in the light. When we finally got our bearings, we found ourselves here.”
Captivated by the story, constructed of a pack of lies and slivers of truth, the crowd forgot their wariness and rushed toward them, abruptly halting when Bron raised his sword in warning.
“Oh, you poor woman,” the owner of the apron pin exclaimed. “How will you get back home?”
