“Is that the prince?” one child chirped, pointing at Fulmo. “He’s so big! And kind of ugly.”

A collective gasp of horror burst from the adults. As one, they cringed, awaiting punishment.

The haunt walked over to the child and set a hand upon the little one’s uncovered hair, for despite the rain, every person, old and young alike, had taken off their caps. “May you always be emboldened to ask questions,” he said. He looked up and down the path, then proceeded between the line of kneeling villagers, pausing to touch each child on the head. Fulmo accepted the cheese round; Luviara gave a swift blessing; they strode on, leaving the villagers behind.

At the next holystone post, another hour’s walk onward, villagers again waited patiently at the side of the path, despite the steady rain. Again, the haunt touched each child upon the head as he passed, leaving what emotions behind him Elen could not know.

The lesson she had learned in childhood was that masters used retainers to work for them and atoners to die for them. Masters had someone else to carry their burdens, so they need never carry it themselves. Because she had not grown up in the empire, she had not prayed every day to honor and praise the emperor whose Shield, granted by the High Heavens, was a blessed shelter for imperial subjects. Here, the villagers revered the distant emperor. While to Elen, the emperor was just another master, of a far bigger territory. The empire simply dressed its power in more flamboyant and complicated clothing. But Elen knew the truth that lay at the root of all: The ones who controlled the witch roads were the only ones who truly had protection against the Pall.

After a while, the rain slackened. Eventually it ceased. The drip and spatter from rain-drenched trees accompanied their squelching footfalls. Midafternoon, they came to the third holystone post of the day. A trail led to Wordia Moat, a good hour’s walk each way. This time, she was sure, it would be too far to drag children.

Yet there they waited, the full census of 287 souls, including a frail and incredibly ancient elder who had been carried the whole way on a litter, now set on the cold, wet ground.

The prince knelt beside the elder and, in a shocking act of humility, set his hand upon his own heart in respect. “How many winters have you watched the sun die and be reborn, Esteemed One?”

In a whisper, wheezing with each word, the elder replied. “I was born in Year Ten of the Jasmine Emperor, Exalted Highness. I often wonder why death has spared me for so long. But I now know, it was to see you.”

“Or I, to see you, Esteemed One. It is no small thing to touch the past through the lives of those who remember it, each a rare treasure.”