An hour passed, or several. It felt longer. He sank into a stunned cold that resembled sleep. He no longer knew who he was or what he was doing when the priest announced abruptly, “We are safe.” He did not sound like a man who had suffered.

With both hands, Father Skurn pushed at the rain-cape to lift its burden of ice and snow. For a moment, the cocoon resisted him. Then he broke through the crust. With the whoop of a man who had nothing to fear, he breathed fresh air.

Sitting up in the gap, the priest let daylight reach his companions. A clear sky covered the world where they lay frozen.

Mattwil tried to rouse Cloras. When he failed, he found that he still had a little strength. He was too weak and stiff to sit up with her slim weight on his chest; but he was able to roll over on top of her. With his arms around her, he braced himself on his knees. In that position, he held her close while he confronted the challenge of rising to his feet.

The task would have been easier if Skurn had helped him. But the priest stood aside. As if he imagined that his urging could overcome the cold, Father Skurn insisted, “Come. The sun is setting. Our time is now. Come, I say.

“I will not lose my only believers.”

Mattwil recognized the empty hillside; the onset of evening. At first, the priest’s voice and the winds were the only sounds. But then he seemed to hear a familiar booming in the distance: the blare of cannon firing in sequence. He heard or imagined the faint sizzle of lightning among the blasts.

Clasping Cloras to his chest, he surged upright.

“Yes, my son.” Father Skurn’s tone implied glee. “Cannon. The Decimate of lightning. The bloodshed has begun. I will end it. I have promised peace. Come and see how I achieve it.”

The young man did not move. Cloras hung like death in his embrace. The pallor of her face mimicked the snow. She did not appear to breathe. The priest’s desires could not reach him.

Shifting the girl who had chosen him, holding her with one arm, he slapped her cheek. Gently. A little harder.

She gave no sign that she lived.

“No,” said Skurn. “You will both obey me.”

One quick step brought the priest closer. Almost contemptuously, he brushed his hand across Cloras’ forehead.

Her eyes snapped open. She took a gasp of air, and another. Her muscles tightened.

When she was able to focus her gaze on Mattwil’s face, she gave a small sigh and relaxed against him.

Pieces of who he was began to return. He wanted to see her smile. He had never seen her features lift in that way. But her expression was always as earnest as her tone.