He shook his head in bewilderment. Still, he did not question her. If Father Skurn could summon her, he might also be giving her instructions.

Perhaps she had lost her mind. Mattwil did not think so. Her actions were strange: her manner had not changed. If she could lead him to the priest, he was willing. He had no questions for her. He had several for Father Skurn.

What had the priest done?

At the bottom of a hill, Cloras directed him northward. On lower ground, he had less difficulty forcing a path for her. They were below the woods along the rim of the bay. Interrupting the winds, the trees had caught the worst of the snowfall. He surged through snowbanks that came only to his knees, not his thighs.

Distant shouts reached him. Men called to each other, shouted questions and commands. Their mounts thrashed through the snow among the trees.

They were searching—

Of course. If Father Skurn had disappeared, where else would the riflemen look?

Mattwil did not know how far the trees extended. Working on the emplacements, no one had the energy to explore them. He could not guess how much time the men would need for their hunt.

If the soldiers failed to catch the priest where they expected him, they would range farther.

Cloras drew Mattwil to a halt. For a moment, she stood still, concentrating. Then she directed him eastward.

Among the hills below the woods, they came to a brief gully between steep slopes, almost a ravine. Along its near edge, someone had passed through the snow recently, leaving a trail.

A man on foot. And trying to hurry. Mattwil saw signs of falling.

Then he felt a tug. It pulled at his heart, but its message was unmistakable. I am here. Without a word, Cloras urged him to follow the trail. She came behind him, sweeping the hillside to obscure the signs.

Abruptly, a man rose to his feet ahead of them. He had fallen again—or, no, he had tried to bury himself, burrow under a snowbank. Layers of white cloaked him from head to foot. Mattwil knew him only by the sound of his voice, deep and resonant despite the cold, as he demanded, “Hide me.”

Mattwil stopped. Cloras pushed him, but he stayed where he was. He had too many questions. The easiest to ask was, “Why?”

Father Skurn gestured, shedding clumps of snow. “Come closer, my son. I will make everything plain.”

Mattwil squirmed. Suddenly, he did not trust the man. Nevertheless he obeyed. Cloras trusted him. With her urgent at his back, he approached the priest.

“Tell me why.”

Instead of answering, Father Skurn stretched out his hand. Before Mattwil knew what was happening—before he thought to slap the hand away—the priest touched his forehead.