She had decided to let him go, of course. She did not wish to interfere with this man's priorities or life. He had left on his gelding he called Brego about three hours ago. She certainly regretted it now, for her feet were already sore in her worn leather boots. Yet she continued on, moving ever eastward, and always thinking about the strange man who she had been with for the past two days. She laughed at how foolish he was, not even to see her tracks in the sand! But then she pitied him, and envied his strength all the same.
One day, while she was walking peacefully in the grass, she saw a figure standing amidst a clove of trees. As she came closer she saw it was a man, but he was sitting now, and three black horses grazed nearby.
She smiled as she drew nearer to him. He was picking the meat off of a freshly cooked chicken leg, piece by piece, and setting the bits onto a plate in his lap. She folded her arms across her chest.
'I never thought I would see you here, Baléd,' Krita said. Her smile broadened and he laughed.
'Well met, indeed, girl!' He stood up. 'I have been waiting for you.'
'Where did you cross my path? I left before you,' she asked him in a more serious manner. 'Your leg was hurt, was it not?' She cocked her head to one side.
'Oh, well, yes,' he said, grasping his leg and rubbing it tenderly. 'It was, and it still hurts bad, but I am better now. They gave me three horses, you see, cause They said I had to travel quickly to find you, and lookee! I did!'
'Yes, Baléd, you did,' Krita said, sitting down next to the plate. She began helping herself to some of the meat that had not been burned. 'But why?' she asked him, her mouth half full.
'Grave news,' he said, sitting down beside her. His voice sunk into a whisper, as if someone could be listening nearby. He nervously rubbed his hands together back and forth.
'Come,' she said leisurely. 'tell me of this news.'
'Well,' he said, 'They said to me that there have been—bad, well, traitors that try to follow Him, unloyal is what They said, yea. And, well, They've caught some of 'em—spies they are! and they did brutal things to 'em, what I heard.'
Krita sat back, seeming to be relieved. 'Well? They got what they deserved, I suppose. Nobody loves spies.'
'Now wait a minute!' said Baléd. 'That's not it, now, let me finish!' His voice sank back into a whisper. 'Well, They say He doesn't trust us anymore, not one of us, can you believe that! Not one except for Them! So They says that He says that we have to sware an oath to Him, to prove ourselves trustworthy! Now I laughed at the idea first, because who could be more trustworthy than me? Ha ha!' He continued laughing, and throwing his head back, he leaned down on the grass.
Krita sat still, and listened intently, not making a sound. She waited for her friend to stop laughing.
'So now They're carving us, yea,' he continued. 'They will carve us and hurt us and draw our blood, and we say an Oath to honor Him! And They say they kill anyone, and I mean anyone recognized as one of His followers who don't wear his mark!' He suddenly lifted his white shirt sleeve to reveal a fresh wound, still crusted with blood, but as Krita looked closer she saw the darkest lines: there was a circle, and a gash was cut in the middle. It was The Eye. His Eye.