He wiped the grin away and stared at her, his eyes narrow with confusion.

“You can’t ever let any of the People know,” Hwilli went on. “Do you understand that? You can’t let them know what your bloodkin started. The wars, I mean, the raiding.”

All at once he did understand. She could see it in his eyes, a wide-eyed stare, and then a wince of shame. He twisted half away from her and swore under his breath. She waited, terrified, watching him weep. At last he looked at her with his face still wet with tears.

“It’s fitting,” he said, “that I die for your People. The sooner and more painfully the better.”

“I didn’t mean that!”

Hwilli flung herself down next to him on the bed. “Rhoddo, please,” she said, “promise me you won’t tell them. They’ll kill you and me, too, probably, because I knew and didn’t say. Please, please don’t—”

He grabbed her by her shoulders and pulled her close. She could feel herself shaking as if she were half-frozen in a winter snow.

“I won’t,” he whispered. “Hush, hush, now, I won’t do anything of the sort.” He kissed her, stroked her hair, until at last she could stop trembling. “Put it out of your mind, beloved. I’d never let them hurt you.”

In his arms, Hwilli could calm herself. As long as they were together, safe and warm in her chamber, she felt safe, she realized, even though she knew how temporary the safety was. Never stop holding me, she thought. If only we could hold each other forever!

As the days went on, the snow piled up outside, and the winds from the north blew as sharp as a Meradani ax. No one could leave the shelter of the fortress. Crossing the courtyard became a battle with the gods of snow and ice. Every morning the servants of the priests had to shovel the snow from the top of the priests’ tower before the gongs could ring out, oddly sour and muffled in the icy air. No one ever saw the priests themselves, who stayed snug in their heated chambers, preparing for the midwinter ceremony to come.

Thanks to the weather, Maraladario stopped coming to the herbroom of an evening, though at times Jantalaber would take his two apprentices and visit her. At other times, he told them, when the air was free of snow and its etheric vibrations, he and Maral spoke mind to mind.

“We’re continuing with our scheme, of course,” Jantalaber said one morning. “We’ve settled on the Lake of the Leaping Trout, over on the east side of the grasslands, for the site. That’s just north of Elditiña, and there’s a convenient bridge over the River Delonderiel.” He sighed heavily. “The project gives us something to think about, I suppose, more pleasant than—well, everything.”

“The situation’s getting pretty bad, isn’t it?” Paraberiel said. “Here in the fortress, I mean. It seems like every day there are half-a-dozen fights between the Mountain axemen and our men.”