“Hush!” The old fellow slapped him in the head again.

“I did not know,” murmured Sanglant.

The wind came up suddenly out of the north, spilling over the parapet, rattling along the rooftops.

“Like that,” the old guard said. “A north wind like that, it never used to come this time of year. Weather’s changed. The winds aren’t the same as they was used to be, in the days before.”

“Everything’s changed,” whispered the lad, then hunched his shoulders, waiting for a blow that did not come.

“I did not realize the tides of destruction had washed so high.” Sanglant leaned out over the wall, breathing in the murmur of the air. The night’s presence poured over him. The whole wide world lay beyond. It stretched to every horizon, covered in darkness, unseen and unknowable without moon or stars to light the land.

A battle might be fought and won in a day, but the ebb and flow of the sea and the heavens never ceased. What had been set in motion might not trough, or peak, for weeks or months or years. The riptide might already be dragging them under while they never knew they were drowning.

Out of the night a deep hoot trembled. Grit slipped under his sandals as he turned, trying to pinpoint the sound.

“Whsst!” said the old guard. “That’s an owl! Did you hear it?”

“Is that a good omen?” asked the lad plaintively. “Or an evil one?”

“I’ve not seen feather or beak of a bird these last months,” the old man said, then shrieked and ducked as a huge owl skimmed out of the darkness right over their heads and with a graceful plummet came to roost on the wall. Its massive claws dug into the wood. By lantern light, its amber eyes gleamed boldly, seeming lit from within. The light set off the streaks of white on its breast and the tufted ears.

“What is this?” asked Sanglant.

It blinked.

“Where is your mistress?” he demanded.

But all he heard was the wind.

PART FOUR

THE MOUNTAIN

OF THE WORLD’S

BEGINNING

XIII

BLOOD

1

WHEN winter turned to spring and the village deacon sang the mass in honor of St. Thecla’s witnessing of the Ekstasis and Translatus of the blessed Daisan, the folk of Osna village met after mass to discuss the summer’s journeying to other ports.

For months Alain had been ill and weak and weary, unable to do more than sleep, eat the gruel Aunt Bel cooked him, and sit beside the hearth dozing with Sorrow and Rage stretched out on either side. He had suffered from the lung fever; a terrible infection had inflamed his right foot; he had battled recurring headaches.

In the end, Aunt Bel’s nursing defeated these afflictions.

Now he walked with only a slight limp as he accompanied Henri to the church in the afternoon. It was cold and, as usual, cloudy.

“We haven’t seen the sun for months,” remarked Henri. “The winter wheat never sprouted. I fear the spring planting won’t get sun and warmth enough to grow if the weather doesn’t change. There’ll be famine.”