They reached a bend in the path, and for a moment the world to the north and west opened out below them in gauzy splendor. Roland could see the huge taupe rectangles of graze-land, and tiny toy cattle. To the south and east, the fields grew greener as they marched toward the river lowlands. He could see the Calla village, and even—in the dreaming western distance—the edge of great forest through which they had come to get here. The breeze that struck them on this stretch of the path was so cold it made Roland gasp. Yet he raised his face into it gratefully, eyes mostly closed, smelling all the things that were the Calla: steers, horses, grain, river water, and rice rice rice.

Henchick had doffed his broad-brimmed, flat-crowned hat and also stood with his head raised and his eyes mostly closed, a study in silent thanksgiving. The wind blew back his long hair and playfully divided his waist-length beard into forks. They stood so for perhaps three minutes, letting the breeze cool them. Then Henchick clapped his hat back on his head. He looked at Roland. “Do’ee say the world will end in fire or in ice, gunslinger?”

Roland considered this. “Neither,” he said at last. “I think in darkness.”

“Do’ee say so?”

“Aye.”

Henchick considered a moment, then turned to continue on up the path. Roland was impatient to get to where they were going, but he touched the Manni’s shoulder, nevertheless. A promise was a promise. Especially one made to a lady.

“I stayed with one of the forgetful last night,” Roland said. “Isn’t that what you call those who choose to leave thy ka-tet?”

“We speak of the forgetful, aye,” Henchick said, watching him closely, “but not of ka-tet. We know that word, but it is not our word, gunslinger.”

“In any case, I—”

“In any case, thee slept at the Rocking B with Vaughn Eisenhart and our daughter, Margaret. And she threw the dish for’ee. I didn’t speak of these things when we talked last night, for I knew them as well as you did. Any ro’, we had other matters to discuss, did we not? Caves, and such.”

“We did.” Roland tried not to show his surprise. He must have failed, because Henchick nodded slightly, the lips just visible within his beard curving in a slight smile.

“The Manni have ways of knowing, gunslinger; always have.”

“Will you not call me Roland?”

“Nay.”

“She said to tell thee that Margaret of the Redpath Clan does fine with her heathen man, fine still.”

Henchick nodded. If he felt pain at this, it didn’t show. Not even in his eyes. “She’s damned,” he said. His tone was that of a man saying Looks like it might come off sunny by afternoon.

“Are you asking me to tell her that?” Roland asked. He was amused and aghast at the same time.