“Go away,” said a woman’s voice from atop the walls. “Our gates are closed.”

Among other things, Marit had been at pains to discover what day and month it was, now that she knew she had slept through nineteen years and by doing so walked from the Year of the Black Eagle, with perhaps a slight detour through the Year of the Blue Ox, directly into the Year of the Silver Fox.

“I’m surprised to hear you say so, holy one. I thought Ushara’s temples kept their gates open all day and all night of the day of Wakened Snake. So it always was in my own village.”

“The gates are closed, day and night,” said the woman. “Shadows walk abroad. No one can be trusted, so we no longer let anyone in. Go away, or we’ll kill you.” Marit sensed the presence of five others along the wall.

“How can this be, holy one? The Devourer turns no person away. Her gates are always open.”

She received no answer, and no beggar’s tithe, and when they shot a warning arrow to stab the dirt at her feet, she walked away.

SHE HAD BETTER luck in the villages and towns set up as posting stations along the Lesser Walk. The folk there might be wary and reluctant to share with a mere beggar, but the laws of the gods were clear on the duty owed by householders and temples toward indigent wanderers.

“Greetings of the day to you, verea,” said the shopgirl, a pretty young thing in a shabby taloos that was frayed at the ends. She tried a smile, but it was as frayed as the fabric, barely holding together. She looked ready to duck away from the hard slap her father would give her if she didn’t close more sales this month than last month, even if it wasn’t her fault that so few travelers were out on Sardia’s main road, the principal route through this region to Toskala.

“Greetings of the day to you,” said Marit. The girl’s cringing attitude disturbed her, so anger gave bite to her tone.

“I’m sorry. How can I help you? I’m sure there’s something here you must need. What are you looking for?” Desperation made the girl’s voice breathy. She was trying too hard.

Marit forced a kinder tone. “I need a brush. For grooming a horse. And something to pick stones out of its hooves. It’s a nice shop. You must get a lot of customers here, you’re in a good stopping point along the road.”

“Custom used to be better,” admitted the girl, relaxing a little. She had a round face and a honey-colored complexion, smooth and unblemished. “Folk don’t travel anymore.”

“Why is that?”

The girl glanced at the entryway. Wide strips of hanging cloth, stamped with the gold sigil of the merchants’ guild, were tied back to either side, so with the doors slid open, she could see straight down the road along which the posting town sprawled. The girl sucked in a sharp breath. Fear rose off her like steam. Marit turned.