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“‘Cause you’re the one’s got to paint the sign!”

“Why me?”

“‘Cause I’m blind, you blessed fool! Why do you think? Now get down here before I

take a switch to you!”

Aren almost had to clamp a hand over his mouth to keep from laughing out loud at the

image of tiny little Olsa chasing Deacon around the courtyard with a switch in her hand. The look Deacon gave him should have burnt him to ash there on the spot. But Deacon didn’t argue. He got down on his knees next to Olsa, close enough that he could wrap one arm around her.

Seeing them there, side by side, Aren saw something he’d failed to notice before. The realisation hit him so hard, he wondered how he’d missed it.

Deacon was one of the Old People too.

He had marvelled at Deacon’s deep, dark skin tone, and yet he hadn’t quite noticed that Olsa’s was the same. Maybe it was the many, many wrinkles in her old face that had thrown him. Maybe he’d been distracted by her strange, sightless eyes, or the fact that her hair was silver-white instead of pitch black like Deacon’s. He couldn’t say why he hadn’t noticed, but there was no doubt in his mind it was true.

He wondered if they were related. Olsa was far too old to be Deacon’s mother, but she might be his grandmother, or even his great-grandmother. He wondered just how long

Deacon had been living on the ranch. He wondered—

“Aren,” Olsa said, “your brain’s making too much noise.”

Her words spooked Aren, as the things she said so often did. Could she hear his

thoughts? Next to her, Deacon smiled at him as if to say, “See what I have to live with?”

“Sorry,” Aren said. “I’ll try to make it quiet down.”

“See that you do.”

Deacon ducked his head, hiding his smile. He dipped the tip of the brush into the paint and held it ready over the wood. Olsa’s wrinkled old hand came down on top of his.

“You ready?” Deacon asked her.

She nodded. “I’ll sing it. Best it comes from me since your heart’s turned away.”

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Deacon nodded. He put the brush on the floor and he started to paint. He went slowly, his lines thick and sure, stopping occasionally to re-wet the brush, and, as he did it, Olsa sang.

Their language sounded musical even when it was spoken, but there was no doubt that

what came from her now was a true song. It seemed to be only a few words, sung over and over as they made the mark on the ground.

It didn’t look like much—a circle with some lines in it—but when it was done, she sat back with a smile. “You done good,” she said to Deacon. “It’s strong.”

“How would you know?” he asked. “You’re blind, remember?” But there was no

missing the hint of pride in his voice, or the fondness in his eyes when he looked at her.

“Bah!” She waved her hand dismissively at him as she so often did. It was different this time, though. There was no real exasperation in her voice, and looking at them there on the floor, Aren realised this was probably a scene from their past. He wondered how many times they’d sat together as she’d taught Deacon the songs.

And yet now, Deacon pretended he knew none of them. He acted as if what he did

know, he didn’t want. He didn’t want to be what she was. Aren found it puzzling.

Deacon stood up and helped Olsa get slowly to her feet. “Go on,” she said to him. “Go do your work. Aren will get me home.”

Deacon hesitated for a moment, looking at her. He glanced nervously at Aren, as if

daring him to laugh, then he leaned in and kissed her on the cheek. “Thanks, Olsa.”

She watched him go with her cloudy eyes, and Aren could have sworn he felt her love

for the big ranch hand pouring out of her.

“His whole life,” she said once Deacon was gone.

“What?” Aren asked, puzzled.

“You wondered how long he’d been here, and how long I’d been watching over him.

The answer is, his whole life. Since he was a babe.”

“Are you—” He was going to ask if she was his grandmother, but she cut off his words

before he could finish.

“I won’t tell you no more right now, boy.” She pointed down at the mark on the floor.

“Let the paint dry before you put the rug back. Check it every so often. Make sure the paint’s not rubbed away.”

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“I will.”

Olsa turned and started down the hall towards the front of the house, her arm held out in front of her as she groped for the wall. He rushed over to her side to help her. “Is it like the wards on the doors?” he asked as he took her arm.

“The wards are to keep things out. The ai’huara is to keep things in.”

“Will it be part of the net?”

“The net!” she said with obvious distaste. “Bah! The net’s a load of dung, boy.”

“But Deacon said—”

“Deacon don’t say half of what he knows, and what he
does
say is stuff other people
think
they know, but most the time get wrong.”

Aren tried to puzzle that out as they moved slowly towards the door. “I don’t

understand,” he confessed at last.

They were in the entryway now. Olsa stopped and turned to look at him with her

clouded eyes.

“What did Deacon tell you?”

“He said the wards used to work, but now they don’t.”

“Not all wards quit working,” she said. “Just the ones against the wraiths.”

“Deacon told me somebody learnt how to make a generator to make the wards

stronger—”

“The generators got nothing to do with it.” She sighed in exasperation, shaking her

head. “Symbols have power, but only so long as people know it.”

“So the generators don’t do any good?”

“That’s not what I said, boy. They do their part keeping the wraiths away, but it ain’t got nothing to do with the wards, despite what people think.”

“But the house is safe now, right?”

“Hard to say,” she said.

“Whatever’s here, it’s in the cellar?”

“I think so.”

“How do you know?”

“I don’t. It’s a guess.”

“Was it somebody who lived here?”

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“Might be.”

“Was it—?”

“Son, it’s Deacon’s house. It’s Deacon’s tale. He wants you to know, he’ll tell you. Until then, best you can do is keep that cellar door closed and hope for the best.”

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An hour after supper, Deacon was knocking on his front door.

“This is for you,” he said, as soon as Aren opened up. He shoved a giant, rolled bundle into Aren’s arms before ducking his head and turning away, obviously embarrassed.

“You brought me a housewarming gift?” Aren asked, trying to figure out what it was. It seemed to be a roll of thick leather.

“No,” Deacon said, despite the obvious evidence to the contrary. “Just seems like there should be a rug or something in front of the fire. Bear or wolf skin would be better, but since this is a cattle ranch, all we got is cowhide.”

Aren unrolled it. It was surprisingly big. Then again, so were the Oestend cows. The

side that had been rolled in still had hair. It was thick and unexpectedly soft, almost woolly.

“This doesn’t feel like cow fur.”

“Not a normal cow, no. It’s a breed from way up north. Few years ago, Brighton got

into his head to try raising a herd, ‘cause the pelts would be worth more.”

“It didn’t work out?” Aren asked as he spread the hide in front of the fire. It did make the room feel homier.

“Turns out they can’t much take the heat. Summer came and they were dropping like

flies.”

“It’s really nice,” Aren said. “Thank you.”

The sentiment seemed to make Deacon uncomfortable, just as it had earlier that day. He pushed his hat down low, looking down at his boots so the brim hid his face. Aren bit his lip to keep from laughing. “How about that drink?” Aren asked.

It was lucky that Brighton and Garrett were leaving the next day for a run into town.

Aren had entrusted Garrett with a bag of coin and a list of things he needed for the house, including glasses and some better whisky than Red had given him. He’d managed to beg two glasses from Olsa to use until then, and he poured a generous amount of whisky into each.

By the time he turned around again, Deacon was over his embarrassment. He was in one of SONG OF OESTEND

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the hard, wooden chairs with his long legs stretched out towards the fire. His hat hung on the arm of his chair.

Aren handed him the glass. Deacon took a sip and winced. “Holy Saints! Are you sure

that’s whisky?”

“Bad, isn’t it?”

“Where’d you get it?”

“From Red.”

Deacon laughed, and Aren found himself thinking once again how different he seemed

when he was away from his men. “Guess I know now why he’s so hungover all the time,”

Deacon said, but he took another drink.

Aren settled into the other chair. “Olsa said you’ve lived at the BarChi your whole life?”

Deacon sighed, leaning back to stare up at the ceiling. “Olsa talks too much.”

“She says she raised you?”

Deacon didn’t answer.

“And you own this house?”

“I told you, it ain’t my house.”

“But Olsa and Jeremiah said—”

“Blessed Saints, you can’t let it rest, can you?”

Aren found Deacon’s prickliness amusing, but he hid his smile by taking another drink.

He waited, and his patience paid off.

“I was born here,” Deacon said, still not meeting Aren’s eyes. “In this house. My

parents died when I was only a babe.”

“How did they die?”

“Depends on which one you mean,” Deacon said, and the tone of his voice made it clear he wasn’t going to talk any more about that. He sat up and finished the rest of his whisky in one swallow. He sat looking down at his empty glass as if he might find the words he needed at the bottom. “Jeremiah wanted to take me in. Olsa, too, of course. Old Man Pane ran the BarChi back then, and he wasn’t too keen on the idea, but they talked him into it. So I lived there in the house in Olsa’s room, until…” He smiled, “Well, until I reached the age where sharing a room with her was causing me some serious discomfort.” He laughed, shaking his SONG OF OESTEND

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head. “That old woman knows too much, and I was leaving too many stains on the sheets, if you know what I mean.”

Aren laughed. He’d always thought there couldn’t be anything worse than waking up

in a room full of boisterous boys, but he realised he’d actually had it fairly well. At least all the boys had been in the same predicament, especially once puberty started. They were somewhat understanding and willing to ignore the muffled moans as boys handled themselves after the lights went out or in the early hours of the morning. Aren couldn’t imagine having to deal with such things in Olsa’s presence.

“So what did you do?”

“Moved into the barn,” he said, “until I was old enough to move in with the hands.”

“But then you moved back to the barn again?”

Whatever laughter had been in Deacon’s eyes suddenly burnt away. He stood up and

walked over to the table to set down his glass. “Old Man Pane hated me. And I ain’t just saying that. He wanted me gone, and if he’d lived much longer, I probably wouldn’t be here now. Jeremiah did the job I do now. I was just another hand back then. But once the Old Man died, Jeremiah put me in charge of the men.” He turned to look at Aren, leaning back against the table. “Can’t be one of them and be in charge of them, too,” he said.

“Do you miss being one of them?”

Deacon ducked his head. He put his hand on top of his head, and Aren realised the

movement was to push his hat further down on his head, although his hat was still hanging on the arm of his chair. He didn’t answer.

Aren found himself smiling. He almost wanted to laugh. He could not remember ever

being so genuinely happy. Here, in a house that was not quite his, in the middle of the back end of nowhere, he was free. The wind blew outside. The fire crackled in the hearth. The cheap whisky warmed his gut, and Deacon’s hesitant friendship made him feel lighter than he had in a long time. He found himself thanking whatever Saint had sent him to Oestend…and whatever Saint had sent him Deacon.

“Pour yourself another drink,” he said to Deacon, and he loved the smile he got in

return.

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Away from the barracks, in the sanctuary of Deacon’s unwanted house, Aren’s days

began to take form.

In the morning, while the ranch hands ate their breakfast, he did chores. First and

foremost, he had to learn how to chop wood. He was relieved he was behind the house when he did it, out of site of the rest of the ranch, because his first few efforts were clumsy at best.

By his third day, his arms and shoulders were so sore he could barely move. Olsa, with her amazing ability to see everything despite her blind eyes, gave him a jar of salve to rub on them at night.

He couldn’t help but notice the salve might have other, more intimate uses as well, if only he had a partner.

He persisted with the firewood and after a week or so was starting to get the hang of it.

He came embarrassingly close to chopping his own foot in half on more than one occasion, but he was determined not to ask for help. He didn’t want to give anybody on the BarChi reason to think he was weak.

Every morning, after the hands had finished their meal, Aren walked over to the main

house and had breakfast with Deacon. Generally, Olsa was there, too. Occasionally, Jeremiah or one of his sons might be as well. Every day after breakfast, Deacon would go to work with his men, and Aren would go back to the house. He split his time there between painting and working on Jeremiah’s books. On nice days, he took the ledgers or his sketchpad outside.