Leaving the barn door open behind her, she looked about frantically until her eyes fell upon the little bundle laid on the straw pile inside one of the stalls. The baby was well wrapped up so that only its face was exposed to the night air, and she instinctively bent down and picked it up. There was colour in the child’s cheeks and the skin was warm to the touch; he could not have been out here long. Lae pressed the tiny child close to her body, tucking the blanket around them both. As she did so, the baby stopped crying.

She hurried back to the house, crying out for Gord. As she re-entered the farmhouse, her husband was on his feet standing in the doorway to their room, hastily trying to pull on his boots. In his left hand was a long hunting knife. His eyes grew wide when he saw what it was his wife was clutching to her breast.

‘It’s a child, a little boy. We’re keeping him,’ she said.

‘But—’

‘He’s a gift. From the gods.’

‘Lae …’

The look she gave him stopped further protest. Gord had not seen that look often but he knew what it meant; there would be no changing his wife’s mind. She had waited long enough for a child, and now it appeared one had been gifted to her.

‘We’re keeping him,’ she repeated.

The Maiden’s Fingers

1

The year Lannigon Fetlanger turned thirteen, almost a man in the eyes of his people, was an unhappy one. It was the year that Horst Rivengeld, their beloved king, was killed in battle. But it was also the year Lann was to experience personal tragedy of the worst kind, when his mother died trying to give birth to what would have been his brother or sister had the child survived.

Lae’s death coincided with the night of the great storm, a storm that would be spoken of in the Six Kingdoms for many years to come. Even the witch Fleya, armed with her majik and her potions, was unable to save the mother or her unborn child.