Corin stood at the well in the middle of Scarrow with his hands on the rim of it, where every door on the green could see them, and let the village look.
It was the only trade he had left that he was any good at. Fourteen houses, a smithy, an inn with a bench outside it and nobody on the bench; a green with the well in the middle and a stone trough beside it that the mule was drinking from as if he had been promised it. Every door was open, because it was the seventh week after the thaw and the first warm day, and nobody was in any of them. They were behind them. He could feel where they were the way he could feel where a patrol was on a road, by what had gone quiet.
He had come into Scarrow four times in his…
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