The viper stirred, wanting out. It sensed the Pall, the same as a horse heads for its stable, as a pigeon flies to its roost, as the heart brings the traveler home, time and again, to the people it loves.

Late in the afternoon, the road crested a low rise. They looked over what must once have been a wide valley, now nothing but a flat sea of pale mist.

The Vigil tower, built of pale holystone, rose in the distance, at the edge of the Pall. It was supported by a cluster of stone buildings, ringed by a holystone wall and a garden, all surrounded by a moat crossed by a gated bridge. All other signs of habitation had ceased an hour or more ago. No one who wasn’t required to chose to live this close to the Pall.

The Pall had a distinct shoreline. On one side, soil had been cleared of vegetation and salted for about fifty paces back. On the other, like a blanket laid down, the Pall. No waves troubled it. The wind carved no scallops across its surface. It just lay there, inert, like low-lying fog on a windless day.

Beyond the Vigil, the road cut straight through Flat Pall. It was easy to see because the white mist was pulled back on either side, about a hand’s breadth from the foundation stones. A witch road, in truth, its magic powerful enough to fend off the Pall.

The higher ground of Woodfall Province was visible on the other side, about two leagues away. She had never wanted to return to Woodfall Province. Never, ever.

Yet now, after so many days with the wardens—with the haunt—she realized that she was willing to risk the crossing into Woodfall if it meant she could find out what was going on. Why was the prince rushing to Far Boundary Pall? What awaited him there? And why was it so crucial for him to keep it a secret?

53 THE VIGIL

The intendant’s carriage carried a traveler’s horn like the one the party had left behind with the palace vehicles, that announced its princely visitation. The horn’s high, harsh call blasted out five times as they crossed the final league to the Vigil.

By the time their carriages reached the bridge over the moat, wardens awaited them on the bridge in disciplined formation. They bowed as the carriages rolled past, then fell in behind as an honor guard. A pack of Spore-hunting dogs trotted at the rear in good order, intently sniffing as if they could scent the entire journey.

Past the moat lay gardens. These had been turned over for the winter and covered with straw. In the orchard, even the quince had been harvested. Smoke was rising from a sealed shed where, by the smell, meat was being smoked for the winter.