The man was heavily bearded—the growth covering what little Damion could see of his face. His forehead and eyes were shrouded by the deep cowl of the cloth he wore banded around his head. His clothes were dusty, his feet sandaled, his back bent over a staff, but he stood in the path of the horses and made no move to get out of the road. He reached out a hand as if to bid them halt.
“Move aside, sir,” Heather called, inching forward to clear the path. But the man side-stepped him, his eyes on Sasha, his hand still raised.
“Saoirse?”
The word that hissed from his lips sounded like Sasha’s name, but not. It curled around the man’s tongue, hooking on the r before he released it with a sigh. It felt ominous, like the man had spoken a curse in a different language. Sasha stared at him, eyebro
