“For three nights I waited,”-he stood up, his muscles taut with the memory-“until they went to sleep. Then I took my rope and brick, and one by one I found those who had done it.” His eyes were wild. “I found them.” He sighed. “I caught them and I smashed them with the brick.” His hand pounded the air. “I smashed them over and^over and over.” He took a deep breath, then stood still.
“I found them. I didn’t kill them. I found them and afterwards they never drew either.” He sat down, not looking at her. “Terrel was thir- teen. I was eleven . . .”
The room was quiet. Sarah stared at Cade, but he would not look at her. She realized he was embarrassed. He had told her something that he hadn’t had to, at least not that way. He had showed her his secret. In it she knew was the real Cade, the answer to all his riddles, but she could not see it. All she could think of was Cade. He had only been about Toth’s age . . .
“Sarah-” Now his voice was soft, and he hadn’t used that tone with her before. “Whoever killed him knew; knew what had happened to him; knew of his fears.”
“He still had nightmares,” she answered.
“I thought so. They knew, Sarah, and I don’t know how. But I do know the answer is in Downwind. And it’s there I have to go . . .”
Cade stood at the end of the decrepit bridge. Across its rotting length lay his goal-Downwind.
The smell from the slow-moving White Foal River was noxious, full of refuse and dead things. Cade ignored it. After all, it should smell like home to him.
He wore old riding leathers with a weather-stained cloak thrown over them. He carried his sword openly, though several other weapons were concealed about his body. He looked like a down-and-out mercenary, between jobs, but one who knew his business well. Tough enough looking that the dregs of Downwind would leave him alone, obscure enough not to draw attention, except from those who noticed the warbraid and knew what it meant.