The entire structure tilted a little to the east, and Wynter suspected it wouldn't survive a heavy windstorm. The dirty hay inside smelled musty and was coated with little bits of fur. It probably served as a haven for mice and other rodents. A few rusted farm implements were scattered along the western wall-rakes, a hoe, bits of tack. He took note of those that might serve as weapons.

The centaur continued to guard his friends until daylight filtered in through the roof and he could no longer stay awake. Standing between the barn doors and the prone druid and sorceress, Wynter slept on his feet. He awoke late in the afternoon to find Galvin and Brenna still unmoving. Wynter peered out one of the larger cracks at the front of the barn. In the distance, he saw the orchards and spied a few slaves moving among the trees, picking fruit. The centaur was careful not to touch the wood of the barn. The structure appeared so old and rotted that he feared it could easily fall over.

Wynter kept his vigil, dosing on and off until well after midnight, when Galvin finally shook his paralysis. The gashes on his arms smarted, but they were slightly healed by Wynter's efforts.

"How… how long has it been?" Galvin asked, sitting up and glancing about the barn. "I remember… Brenna! Was she killed?" The druid panicked and brought himself quickly to his feet.

"She's still alive-barely, I think," Wynter replied. "She was clawed, too. She's paralyzed."

Galvin rushed to the enchantress's side and moved the fingertips of his right hand over her scratched face. He closed his eyes and hummed softly, an old druidic prayer taught to him as a youth. He rarely used healing magic, which took a great deal of concentration-something he usually lacked when he himself was injured. The druid preferred to rely on herbs and natural mixtures. But he had none of the latter handy, so he continued the prayer. After several minutes, Brenna's breathing began to deepen, although she still remained unconscious. The scratches on her face began to heal, and Galvin rose.

"She'll be all right," he stated simply, his voice showing his relief. He began to examine his surroundings and noticed that Wynter looked different somehow. Then he realized why-the hair on the centaur's head was short, not more than an inch long. His long curls and braid lay in a pile on the barn floor.

"What did you do?" Galvin pointed at the centaur's head.

"We need to look like Thayvians, remember?"

Brenna finally came to several hours later. Sunlight streamed in where planks of wood had rotted away in the walls and through the hole in the center of the roof. The rays warmed her face. She slowly sat up, then pulled herself to her knees.

"I've come to the conclusion that it's decidedly unlucky sharing a camp with the two of you," Wynter said dryly. Despite the tone, he was thankful his companions were for the most part uninjured. He tossed the enchantress her satchels.

"I left Elwin behind in the clearing," the centaur added hesitantly. "There wasn't much left of him."

"Why did the undead attack us?" Brenna didn't understand. "They were horrid. Gods, but I feel for the people who live in this country."

"The ghouls must have heard us talking. That attracted them," Wynter said flatly, eyeing her and Galvin. "We were none too quiet."

"They were quiet, though," Galvin added.

"You could never have heard them approaching anyway," the centaur offered. "Undead only make noise when they want to." He smiled at Brenna, then reached a hand up to tug on his own short locks. "You've got too much hair, young lady, but the sheep shears I found should remedy that."

A look of horror crossed her face. "What-what do you mean?"

"I mean you should cut it, shave it off," the centaur instructed. "You need to look like a native Thayvian, a wealthy one if you've got another pretty dress." He extended the shears to her. "These'll take off most your hair. Galvin's scimitar can take care of the rest."

When the sorceress didn't take the shears, Wynter dropped them in front of her.

The druid unsheathed his scimitar and ran his thumb along the curved blade. He stared meaningfully at Brenna's curls.

"Oh, no, you don't!" she cried, finally realizing what the Harpers meant for her to do. She glanced in alarm at the centaur's cropped hair. "Shave off my hair? Do you have any idea how much time it takes to get hair to grow this long? I haven't cut my hair in ten years."

The druid smiled. "I'll pose as your slave."

"You mean you're not cutting your hair?" she said angrily.

"Slaves have long hair."

"Listen," Wynter said, trying to console Brenna. "You'd make a better Thayvian than Galvin. You've got the bearing, the social graces."

The sorceress puffed out her chest, angry at herself for not realizing when the Harpers had discussed this plan in Aglarond that it would come to this. She fingered the shears, crossed her legs, and sat them in her lap.

"I can make myself look bald without shaving my head," she announced. Concentrating and chanting, the sorceress sat stock still as her face took on a magical radiance. The glow covered her hair, then disappeared, leaving her appearing bald.

Wynter sighed. "Nice try, Brenna, but it won't work." He stepped toward her, bent over, and reached forward to feel around her shoulders until he grabbed a handful of hair.

"I can't see it, but it's there," he stated. "Amruthar's filled with wizards. Some of them are bound to see through your illusion. We can't risk it. You'll have to shave it off."

Brenna's shoulders sagged. "I know," she said. "I'm sorry. I should have known I was going to have to do this if I entered Thay." She gritted her teeth, picked up the shears, and tossed her head forward. Grabbing a handful of hair with one hand and wielding the shears with the other, she began cutting.

"Look at it this way," Wynter teased. "You'll be right in style in Amruthar. And if we live through this and you get back to Aglarond, maybe you can start a fashion trend there." He grimaced as he watched the shears slip in her hand and nearly nick her head.

When Brenna was finished, about a half an inch of hair remained on her head. It was uneven and looked comical, but the Harpers remained straight-faced.

The druid padded forward, knelt in front of her, and held up his scimitar. "Here, let me help."

Brenna bent her head forward, and Galvin began to scrape the sharp blade across the back of her scalp. The druid was careful, not wanting to cut her. Wynter had told him most Thayvians prided themselves on their appearance, and he doubted that scars were in fashion. When he was finished with the back half of her head, he tilted her neck upward and started to run the knife across the front half of her scalp.

"I don't know why Thayvians have an aversion to hair," Wynter said. He wanted to make conversation because the silence in the barn felt uncomfortable. "They've been shaving their heads for more than two hundred years. It all started with a few wizards, I understand. Now only slaves have long hair. The longer the hair, the longer someone's been a slave."

"You mean everyone but slaves is bald?" she asked softly, looking slightly sick.

"All the wizards, everyone considered wealthy or middle-class tharchions, merchants, and even most of the peasants-they don't want to be mistaken for slaves. Most centaurs cut their hair as short as mine. Everyone in my family had short hair," he concluded.

"Was it hard for you to leave your family?" Brenna asked. Galvin winced at that question as he finished shaving the last of her locks. He began to run the blade across her now bald head to smooth it. He was surprised when Wynter answered.

"Yes," he said slowly. "My family was my life, and the slave plantation was the only home I knew. I had three brothers. They took to the life there. I just never fit in. When I was old enough to make it on my own, I left. I don't even know if my father ever went looking for me."