“I’m a messenger!” bawled the nomad. She was even younger than the young guard, perhaps having seen only sixteen or seventeen of the harsh winters of her homeland. Her lustrous skin was acorn brown, her hair black, worn in a plaited queue that was wound several times around her head like a crown, and her dark eyes appealing. “I claim the message right!”

“What’s that, Haral?” the younger guard asked his elder quietly. He’d only been with the Bridge Company eleven months, but Haral was an old-timer. She’d served twenty-six years, back into the bad old times before King Touchstone and the Abhorsen Sabriel restored order to the Old Kingdom. Before that restoration, the bridge and its castles on the northern and southern banks and the fort in the middle of the river had essentially been a fortress constantly under siege. It had been much more peaceful since, though there had been great trouble in the south in the last summer.

“The tribes give messengers immunity from challenges and feuds and the like,” said Haral. She looked down at this unusual—and unusually attractive—messenger, and thought it was just as well the younger guard wasn’t here by himself. People who wanted to cross the bridge were not always what they seemed. Or were not actually people at all, apart from their outward form. “But I didn’t know the mountain-folk followed that custom. I’ve only ever seen them a couple of times before, and they were traders, going northward to home.”

“Who’s the message for?” called out the young guard. His name was Aronsin, but everyone just called him Aron.

“Must I tell you?” asked the young nomad. It was an odd question, said as if she was uncertain of the etiquette involved, or unfamiliar with dealing with other people in general.

“It would be a start,” said Aron. He glanced at Haral, sensing her suddenly straighten up. She was peering out into the falling snow, looking into the distance, not at the nomad below.

“Thought I saw movement,” said Haral. She took a perspective glass from her belt, extended it, and held it to her eye. Having one nomad pop up almost at the gate could be blamed on the snow and the fading light, but to have any more get so close would be a dereliction of duty.

“So who’s the message for?” asked Aron. He smiled down at the mountain girl, because he liked the look of her and he couldn’t help himself. “And what’s your name?”

“The message is for the witches who live in the ice and See what is to be,” replied the mountain nomad reluctantly. “My name . . . I don’t really have a name.”

“People must call you something,” said Aron. He glanced over at Haral again, who had lowered the perspective glass but was still looking out, her eyes narrowed. With the snow beginning to fall more heavily, and the light fading with it, visibility was ebbing.

“Some call me Ferin,” said the nomad, the faintest hint of a smile quirking in the corner of her mouth, sign of a fond memory. “Now, can you let me in?”