“Yes,” said Edda, “that is the Eye of the Storm.” And not until she pronounced it thus did Prim’s childhood memory produce in her mind an illustration from a storybook she’d enjoyed many times on Brindle’s knee. It depicted just such a place, a green and golden glen nestled in mountains where Spring dwelled with Eve and certain of her favorite creations, and flowers bloomed and sweet fruit hung ripe from trees all year round. That explained why Edda gazed at it so. Her mother and grandmother were there.

No flowers or fruit were here, and so they tore into the meat as soon as it was warm and slurped fat off the bones before it would be wasted by melting into the fire. Corvus returned and declined to say very much about what, if anything, could be following them. But he seemed to think that moving faster would be better, and so they wrapped up more meat for later and continued on their way.

Mard had walked in the morning, slowly and stiffly and with his face screwed up in pain. He carried on thus now. When the going became difficult, someone would put a shoulder under his good arm and help him along for a few paces. His injured arm he kept beneath his cloak, folded against his belly.

Meadows became more frequent, and larger. Burr pointed to signs that fires had been set to burn back encroaching forest and leave open land where grass could grow and edible beasts fatten themselves on it. They found skeletal remains of two such beasts, and Burr showed them marks that had been left by knives, and even a rusted iron arrowhead stuck too deep in a pelvis to be worth prying out. “Dug,” Burr said, as if there could have been any doubt. “The forest yields all the food they need, provided they keep it clear of wolves and other such beasts. Beware traps.” By which Prim assumed he must mean ambushes that the Dug might lay for invading souls such as them. But not a quarter of an hour later they came upon a cunning snare that had been baited with meat.