"Why else would you come to the farmlands, if not for the tithe? Don't play games," Kesley said impatiently. He kicked the worthless wolf-carcass to one side and stepped between Loren and the stranger. "Come on inside, and tell me how much I owe my liege lord this time."
"You don't understand—" Loren started to say, but the stranger put one hand on his shoulder and halted him. "Let me," he said.
He turned to Kesley. "I'm not a tax-collector. I'm not from the court of Duke Winslow at all."
"What are you doing in farm country, then?"
The stranger smiled evenly. "I came here because I'm looking for someone. But what are you doing here, Dale Kesley?"
The question was like a stinging slap in the face. For a moment, Kesley remained frozen, unreacting. Then, as the words penetrated below the surface, a shadow of pain crossed his face. His mouth sagged open.
What are you doing here, Dale Kesley?
The words blurred and re-echoed like a shout in a cavern. Kesley felt suddenly naked, as the mask of self-deception and hypocrisy that had erected itself during his four years in Iowa Province crumbled inward and fell away. It was the one question he had dreaded to face.
"You look sick," Loren said. "What's wrong, Dale?" The older man's voice was hushed, bewildered.
"Nothing," Kesley said hesitantly. "Nothing at all." But he was unable to meet the stranger's calm smile and, worse, he had no idea why.