“News!” He is flushed with news. His skin is red.
“How fares the middle country?”
“Well enough considering we’ve not yet had sun this year. Folk fear it is a sign of the gods’ displeasure.”
“Do you think it so?”
Erling has taken to wearing a Circle of Unity. His is silver, finely made, and incised with leaves as if to recall the old religion he left behind. He touches it now. “It might be. I am no priest to name God’s will. Still, the folk who have lost what they once had might have reason to suppose God displeased with them. I worry for the summer’s growing season if the weather remains so damp and cloudy.”
“As do we all,” says Deacon Ursuline.
“What brings you south, Erling?” Stronghand asks.
The young man nods. “I wished to observe the anniversary of my mother’s death at Briden Manor, south of the river. I rode south to plant a tree at her grave.”
“So the tree priests would have you do,” scolds the deacon, although her tone is benign, not harsh. “Better to pray for her soul and dedicate a convent in her memory.”
“Can I do that?”
“Surely you can, and endow a dozen novices to pray for your mother’s soul each and every day of the year.”
“I like that idea! But I would need a priestess—a mother—to watch over them and guide them.”
“I can make sure that such a woman, we call her an abbess, is available to you, Lord Erling. You need only ask.”
“As must I,” says Stronghand, tapping one foot. “What news do you bring me so late at night and in such a rush as if on the wings of a storm?”
“Ah! Just that, Lord! An omen has been seen in the south! A dragon! Seen flying by the sea.”
The Eika murmur among themselves at this astounding news.
Dragons! Have the First Mothers risen out of the wake of the sorcery that altered the world? Have things changed so greatly?
“Come.” Stronghand rises. He leads them up the stairs, into the tower, and by ladders and steep steps to the roof. It is a stiff night, cuttingly cold up so high with the wind’s bite on hands and face. The men shiver and rub their hands, but he leans into the wind and listens.
After a while, he speaks.
“It was long told among my people that the FirstMothers bred in ancient days with the living spirits of earth and in that time gave birth to the RockChildren. It’s said that in Wintertide, in the Western Sea, one may hear them calling…”
“Listen!” cries Erling.
Yes!
They all lean south, many pressed against the stone battlements as though likely to hurl themselves over if only that would bring them closer to what they seek. The call thrums through the air, its vibration so low that he feels it through the stone.
A sun rises in the southeast.
“Look!” cries Trueheart.
There are two of them, seen first simply as a bending, twisting aurora of light far off but approaching fast. Their bellies gleam. Their tails lash like lightning. They are coming up the river, following the course of the water as they fly inland on what errand he cannot guess. Alarm bells clang, and he hears a clamor as folk rush out of their halls and hovels.
They grow in size; they near; they are huge, impossibly vast. A hot stream of stinging wind pours over Hefenfelthe and in their wake the clouds churn and the forest roars.
“Look!” cries Erling. “The stars!”
Above, the clouds have parted to reveal those pinpricks, the most ancient ones, the eternal stars. But as the dragons course northwest, as the heat and wind falter and the cold night air sweeps back, mist shrouds that glimpse of the heavens and soon all is concealed again.
“It’s time to move,” says Stronghand, when all is silent. They stare northwest, but there is nothing to see. Night veils all things. “That is an omen, indeed, Lord Erling. You were right to bring news of it so quickly.”
“Yes, my lord,” the young man says, but he is barely breathing. He is still in shock, staring fixedly northwest as if turned to stone.
“We must make ready,” continues Stronghand. “Trueheart, you’ll remain here as my governor. Stores must be set aside for next winter. Seed corn hoarded, as much as possible. Plant fields. Hunt and trap, raid our enemies in the north and west and take their grain and seed corn for ourselves and our loyal servants. If they starve, so much the better. Lord Erling, you and the other lords I have raised will remain secure if your people have enough to eat. Be prepared for anything.”
“So have we seen!” Erling whispered, still staring after the vanished dragons.