Rohan, West Emnet, February 25

Chapter Two: Change

"Prince Theodred is dead."

The words fell to the floor with the heart of Brynne. She knew what such words meant, and could barely keep the torrent of worry and despair from appearing on her face. Struggling to remain unshaken, she chose her question carefully.

"How?"

"Orcs attacked, and he was brought home badly wounded."

The words were what she had hoped she would not hear. If orcs had killed their king's son, soon others would die as well. It was only a matter of time.

"Why did they kill him?" Brytta asked, her seven-year old voice disrupting the silence. Leofwine looked down to her. She had never seen the prince, but everyone down to the last child able to listen had heard of him.

"Because they are very bad." He glanced up at Brynne, then back to the girl and hoped what he had to say next would not alarm her too greatly. "If you ever see one, I want you to hide from them as fast as you can, and when you are certain that you will not be seen, I want you to tell the nearest person at the nearest hold."

Brytta's eyes were round as buttons, and she surprised him by asked sweetly with a curious smile, "What do they look like?"

"Hush!" Brynne exclaimed, shocked by her daughter's interest in such gruesome matters. Orcs were not to be the things that fascinated little girls. Flowers would do just fine for her daughter. But it was too late, for Brytta was already listening enraptured by Leofwine's hurried description. Fastred watched the man as Leofwine made cruel faces and barred his teeth. Whatever had happened, Fastred decided, it was not good, and was probably something to do with the same thing that had everyone in the holds worried these days. Everyone had been whispering of something that made them frown. Some of the boys, when at the last meal they had shared together, had made similar faces as the one Master Leofwine was making to his sister now.

"They have bars of iron over their eyes or noses, some of them do. They're battle scars. And they carry sharp swords that are just as sharp as their teeth. They ride wargs. Do you know what wargs are?" Leofwine asked Brytta. She shook her head while her tightening knuckles started to wrinkle the page she held in her hand. "Well, wargs are like wolves, only bigger and meaner. They'll tear a person in two and these orcs ride them like horses. They jump and turn and claw and bite and kill all at the same time."

Leofwine stopped as Brynne sent him a cold stare. Quickly deciding to change the topic to one that might not anger the girl's mother as much, Leofwine asked Brytta, "What is that picture you've got there?"

"It's one Fastred drew for me. He made me flowers."

"Really? Fastred, you drew this?" Leofwine asked as he inspected the sketch.

Fastred met his eyes and cocked his head. Brytta, understanding his silent question, pointed to the drawing and made a scribbling motion with one hand, and then as Fastred smiled in affirmation, she answered, "Yes, he did."

"Let him answer for himself," Leofwine chided. Brytta stared at him.

"How?"

"What do you mean, how? Let him speak for himself, he's certainly intelligent enough," Leofwine said, an amused smile emerging on his face. He did not notice the flickering in Brynne's eyes until she placed her hand on his shoulder and asked,

"How many more holds must you bring the message to, Master Leofwine?"

The warning tone of her voice was obvious to him.

Stiffly, he answered, "Three." His face had turned to a darker shade.

"Shall I accompany you to your horse?"

Brytta was about to ask if she could go too, but her mother gave her a sharp look that said she must stay inside this time. Fastred was back to the last of his second serving of soup, and did not notice that the two left the room until the door banged shut behind them causing the frame to tremble slightly.

Once outside and away from the eager ears that listened inside, Brynne faced Leofwine. Her hands fidgeted and she set her jaw.

"Mistress," Leofwine began. "I do not know what I said to offend you or embarrass your daughter, but I assure you that no ill will was intended. I have three more holds to bring my message to, and as you have reminded me of it, I must hurry as fast as I can. I am lingered here too long already."

"Prince Theodred is dead, and they will find out soon enough." Her voice was low, and he wondered if it was the grief over the news he brought, worry such as that of his own wife, or some other agitation that he could not comprehend.

"Fastred is deaf. He does not – cannot - speak for himself My daughter relays messages for him such as asking him if he drew the picture when you asked him. She takes it as her duty, and he indulges her."

"Indulges?"

"He could have surmised that you were asking of the picture without her help, but it brings her pleasure to be of help, and it makes communication easier for him," she explained. "They use hand movements and tend to talk with their eyes." Leofwine watched the expression on her face as she continued. "He is my son. Please do not ask questions that will make my daughter see him as anything but her older brother. He cannot do all that the other boys his age can – but he can do other things, and I want her to see the good he can do, not the things he cannot. There are enough people deeming him stupid as it is. Thankfully even those who are otherwise heartless have managed to keep their remarks behind their teeth when Brytta is near."

With one hand on the reigns of his horse, Leofwine asked over his shoulder as he mounted, "Only because she is young. Will she let him know to hide if there are orcs nearby?"

Brynne's voice fell down from the tone she used in defending her son to a softer one that was heavy with worry. "Yes. Though I pray it is useless information."

"Aye, we all do. My apologies, Mistress Brynne," he answered, before clicking to the stallion and turning towards the north where the next hold lay. The news of the prince's sudden death would spread as wildfire over dry grass soon enough, she had been correct. But better to have the truth told than have exaggerations spread of orcs pillaging holds already. It was best to keep the people worrying as little as possible. The time would come for more worry soon enough.

On into the charcoal night Leofwine and his stallion road, on towards the next hold.

They never reached it, and for a long time only the paper stars mourned his fate.

"Modor!" Brytta shrieked near to hysterics as she raced through the door of their home. "Modor!" she yelled again.

When Brynne saw the ashen color of her daughter's face, she knelt down to Brytta's eye level. The girl trembled and her eyes were wide with fright, and she looked as though any minute she would fly out of her skin in panic. She opened her mouth to speak, but at first she could only sputter. She reminded Brynne of a skittery bird with a broken wing, petrified. Gently she folded her daughter into an embrace, hoping that doing so would both calm her and help her to find her voice again. Something was very wrong, Brytta had never acted this way before, not even when she had been astride Hwesta when the mare spooked in the field at the sight of a fox. Even then, the girl had kept calm while on the horse, and only later once she was safely inside did she show any fear. And that fear had been of such that she was proud of. "I was very scared, but I didn't think about being scared!" Brytta had said that evening back in late summer, the one last few days Wedmath as Brynne recalled. Now, the girl whose shoulders were still shaking in Brynne's arms was scared, and was very much thinking about the source of her fear, and of being scared.

"I, I saw," Brytta began, and then took a deep breath, composing herself as she had seen her mother do when Brynne had first learned of Prince Theored's death the previous night. Her mother had only barely let Brytta and Fastred see the panic that had flickered on her face before she had veiled it, but Brytta guessed that her mother had been very scared. Now she was scared. It had been so awful! "He was dead, a spear straight through him," she said, her voice barely above a faint whisper.

Brynne felt the blood in her body run cold. Who was dead? Her own Dunhére had gone nearly seven days ago to stay with his brother several holds away to the west, where he had hoped to acquire a horse to teach Fastred on. The boy deserved to ride something better than old Hwesta, he had said before he left. It could not be him who Brytta had come across as she was out with the mare. It couldn't be! Brynne could feel her heart beating up towards her throat, threatening to pound out. Struggling to maintain her calm so that she would not give her daughter any more reason to be more terrified than she already was, Brynne asked,

"Who was it you saw?" Silently she pleaded, 'please, not him. It can not! It must not.'

Again Brytta swallowed and breathed slowly.

"Tell me what you saw," Brynne prodded. She had to know, she could not bear the waiting any longer. If she had to wait any longer she feared her heart would end up on her tongue and that she would die with the tension.

"Master Leofwine. There were crows, lots of crows, and they were all eating him, modor. They were eating him, and his horse!" Brytta squeezed her eyes shut at the memory.

Brynne let a small sigh of relief escape her lips, and then instantly regretted it with shame. How could she feel relieved that a good man had been killed? And now poor Hasuwyn, a widow. Her heart sank. Did Hasuwyn know yet, Brynne wondered, suddenly realizing that if Brytta had found the man dead, it was to be assumed that no one else had yet. Surely no one who would come across such a thing would leave it to the crows. The thought of what her daughter had discovered made her feel ill.

She looked up, suddenly aware of Fastred staring at her on her knees holding Brytta, and Brytta who was beginning to calm down, although she was clearly red-faced from both running from the horse pasture to the house and panicked tears.

He walked nearer, observing both of them, then gave a pointed look towards the door.

At first, Brynne could see nothing, but as she pulled away from her daughter to walk closer to one of the windows, a thin gasp of air escaped her lips. There, billowing off in the distance over a curve of land, was a dark ribbon of smoke. It was faint and the wind was spreading it into the air to make it even harder to detect at first, but it was there. She would not have noticed it as quickly if Fastred had not made it known.

"What is it?" Brytta asked, rubbing at her eyes and then wiping her hand under her nose.

"Shh," was Brynne's only reply as she continued to stare out over the plains. Outside, she could see Hwesta pacing uneasily.

Fastred watched the horse's movements as well, noticing the mare's flared nostrils and laid back ears. He also watched the smoke as it rose in the thicker stream into the air and then disappeared into the wind. Something was very wrong, that much he knew with clarity. A touch to his arm caused him to turn and there stood Brytta, with fear and curiosity warring back and forth on her freckled face. No, he decided as he looked at her. She had been freckled in the summer, but now she looked paler, more icy than she had before. And now as her eyes grew wider and her face turned paler, the freckles were barely visible at all. Yes. Something was very, very wrong.

Through the smoke, he could suddenly see that there was something moving – no, many things moving, beating fast and wildly. The figures moved with the thick smoke near the rise of the land, so he could not tell at first what they were. Yet as they rose to the thinner smoke, he was able to recognize the black wings of crows. There were many of them, more than a hundred, perhaps several hundred. Unlike the Starlings that often made themselves at home near the barn and the grain there, no sunlight played off of the wings of these birds. They were black, so much so that it looked as though they were simply holes in the sky and not living things at all.

Brynne backed away from the window although she kept her eyes still trained outside. The smoke was coming from Hasuwyn's hold. The desire to aid her neighbor and kinswoman struggled with the fear of what could lie underneath the rise of earth that barred her view. Could there be a band of orcs, the same sort that had killed Prince Theodred, or could it be the smoke of an accident, a kicked lantern in the stable that spread to the grass? If it was an accident, then it would be terrible to sit at home and to do nothing. Yet if danger hid beyond, then it would be folly to go head onward into it. No, she could not entertain the notion that everything was ill news. Just because Leofwine had met with his doom did not mean that the smoke could only mean destruction. She had seen similar billowing when the boys had dropped a candle in that grass during Yule at a gathering feast. How it had billowed against the night sky, barely visible and yet acutely stark against the myriad of silver stars that had been out that evening. Life had been better that evening, back before the fear that now pulsed through her body had made its home in her mind and soul.

No, she could not let Hasuwyn's hold burn if it was something that could be helped. Yet what could she do? Leave her children and go herself, or send them by themselves, or go together and leave their house in hopes that it would be safe from harm? But if it was dangerous, she feared the safety of her home would be the least of her worries. With that thought in her mind, the decision was easy.

"Brytta, I want you to get Hwesta from the field. Stay low to the ground and be sure not to make any noise. Let Fastred saddle her for you since he is faster, and then come and tell me when you are ready to go to Mistress Hasuwyn's hold."

Fastred nodded his head, understanding the urgency in her eyes and the tightening lines on his mother's forehead. Both children ran to the door, foregoing hats as they grabbed for coats instead. If Brynne noticed they had left the hats, she said nothing.

Once outside, the air was strikingly cold as it ripped through their sleeves and wound itself around their fingers and burned their eyelids. Hwesta's eyes showed the whites and her ears were still laid flat, her flanks quivering in tight muscled fear. Brytta waited until Fastred appeared from the stable carrying the saddle and bridle.

The metal on the bit was cold and stung his fingers, turning the tips a bright crimson, and shielding his eyes from the wind as much as possible, Fastred bent his head down and walked towards his sister near the fidgeting mare. At first she backed from his touch, nearly knocking the bridle from his hands at first. She was not usually like this at all – it had always been easy to catch her in the field before, she had never danced in the tight backwards steps that she used now. Tossing her head, she continued to look back and forth between the crows swirling nearer in the sky, the smoke coming from the hill, and the bit in Fastred's hands.

Brytta made a move as if to help calm the mare, but Fastred shot her an urgent look over his shoulder as he sensed her intent. The last thing he needed was a girl her size getting in the way of Hwesta's hooves if the mare became more frantic.

Again he advanced towards the mare, one hand holding the bridle, the other outstretched towards her muzzle. Her eyes still flicked back and forth, but for several seconds she stood still and the tips of his fingers grazed her whiskers. Just another step and he would be able to get her, just one more step if she would just stand still. He knew the crows were terrifying, with their sharp wings etched against the sky. Just another step. He was so close that he could feel the warm breath that she snorted at him towards his face. It felt good against the cold wind that was stinging every inch of his face.

A hand shook his coat sleeve wildly, and he whirled. At the movement, all pretense of standing still left Hwesta, and she charged past the two children in a flurry of shaggy chestnut coat and darker brown tail and pounding hooves that shook the earth they stood on. Fastred was about to glare at his sister, but followed her other hand to where it pointed to the sharp points of something that were beginning to show over the land's ridge. The crows were circling closer, nearly overhead, and their shadows fells across the field in scattered dancing blotches. The sharp points moved higher, revealing larger forms marching as well, up over the hill. At once it became clear that the sharp things were spears, and the figures beneath, with their jagged steps and dark armor, were the orcs Master Leofwine had warned about three nights before. Brytta's expression was enough to confirm that, and both children stood rooted to the earth.

Fastred assessed the situation. If he ran after Hwesta, he would be seen, or at least he guessed that he would, for if he could see them, he assumed they could be seen by them. They ran to the house where their mother waited, they would be warm and safe. Unless the orcs did what he feared they had done to Mistress Hasuwyn's hold beyond the hill. If they stayed where they were, there in the field, they would surely be seen as soon as the ragged company came near enough to trample them.

He turned his head as afar as he could in all directions. There were no trees near their hold, and none had magically sprung up to aid them overnight. They could only hide in the tall grass that blew, and because of the dark spun clothing of brown and dark green, hiding in the pale yellow dead winter grass would not be easy. His eyes went again to the house, but in despair he knew as much as he wanted to run there and be enfolded in the warmth and comfort of his home, he could not risk such an action. Brytta still clutched at his coat's sleeve, and he knew he could not panic for it would only cause her to panic, or worse, cry. The figures were drawing nearer, and again he looked with longing towards the home that stood so close, and yet was a hopeless refuge. And then his eyes strayed to the stable behind the house. If they could reach it, then perhaps they would have a chance. It was a small chance, he knew, but if they burned the house, then perhaps they would leave the stable. If they looked and saw that that one horse who would stay in the stable had run across the field, it would be worthless to burn the stable. There would be no reason for it. There couldn't be!

Without a second to spare, Fastred grabbed his sisters hand and pulled her to the ground. Their chance for running headlong towards anything was long gone, as that would catch the attention of the band of orcs. But if they crawled, well, that might work. Forcing himself not to lay himself open to the despair and frantic fear that pounded in his veins, Fastred pointed to the stable and began to crawl on his knees towards it while keeping his head hunched down as low as possible to the ground. This, he realized, not only kept him as invisible as possible, but he could feel the pounding of their footsteps in the dirt as they grew closer and closer. Behind him, Brytta stifled a hiss of pain as her knee landed squarely on a sharp stone.

The thicker stems of grass whipped into their eyes and scratched against the palms of their hands. The band of orcs was even nearer now, close enough that both children could listen to the grated, guttural conversation that went back and forth between individuals. Sickly, Fastred remembered the faces the other boys of the nearby hold had made If only they had known how right they were in what the orcs looked like, with the sharp teeth and the iron helmets that reflected light in splintering shafts onto the ground. He grimaced. He could smell the dirty leather of their jerkins with a headache-inducing clarity.

"Ouch!" Brytta exclaimed, unable to stop herself as the same knee that had landed on the stone before landed on a horseshoe nail. She grasped the heel of his boot, causing him to turn to see what was wrong. She wriggled backwards to pick up the nail and showed it to him while holding onto the aching knee with her other hand. Fastred realized the nail as the one that had gone missing from Hwesta's shoe, the shoe he had mended not a day before. So that's where the missing nail had ended up. Looking back at Brytta, he took in her squinched eyes and the purpling red mark on her knee around the spot where the nail had entered her skin. There was not a lot of blood, but she was a girl, and small tears were already prickling the corners of her eyes, threatening to give way to a flood. But she mustn't do that, not now, when they were so close to the stable!

The movement on the ground stopped. Fastred's heart skipped a beat. Was it already too late, had they heard her, had she cried out and he didn't know it? How loud were they being? The youth did the only thing he could think of. He flattened himself to the ground, and hoped that Brytta did the same behind him in the grass. He nearly forgot to breathe as he felt footsteps pounding into the ground, harder and harder, surely nearer and nearer. No longer could he look out through the thinner tips of grass, now all he could see were the thick roots near the earth. It smelled of dried dirt, a cold wintery smell that reminded him of wet wool and the feel of cold iron. Gone was the lush smell of new grass, gone was the smell of new spring birth. It was just cold and dead, void of anything except memory and hope for spring to come again. But the winter smell was comfortably in its own way, the same way being scolded by his mother in their house was still comfortable because it was in their house, and no matter what he ever thought would happen, he always thought it would be there as a beacon of warmth. The winter smell of earth was still part of his home.

The footsteps stopped.

His heart stood still. They must be very close, he could almost make out the breaths that went in and out through the crude helmet, the rough air meeting the cold and surely showing in ugly white puffs.

The earth smelled good. It would be good to die on his own hold's land, if that were to happen. He would smell the earth he'd always known, and it smelled good now. Wintery, but familiar. He shut his eyes tight, not wanting to look up in fear of the fanged face he imagined would be leering down on him, spear in hand. His back was to Brytta, and he dared not look back to her. Perhaps she was already dead, and not hearing it was a blessing. Perhaps his death would come swiftly and he would not even know it until it was too late to realize it. Oh, if only he would be so lucky, he thought bitterly to himself. There could be no nope now, not with the footsteps being still for so long, surely they had been seen. He cringed inwardly. The moment would come soon enough and then it would be over. And he had not finished his drawing of Hwesta. He resisted the urge to move his hand to his pocket to where he knew the drawing waited in vain to be completed, but how he wished he could touch it as a talisman. He would never finish it now, and it would surely be torn apart by the waiting crows. How he wished he could have finished it.

He felt the footsteps on the ground again and for another agonizing second he expected to feel the searing tip of a spear strike through his back. Yet instead the footsteps became more faint. He and Brytta hadn't been seen? The idea that they had made it safely out of sight was too much to hope for, and so he still lay as close to the ground as he could, looking out of the corner of his eye to confirm that yes, Brytta was still behind him and, aside from the pink, cold look on her face, was reasonably fine.

Yet the shadows of the crows still flickered over the grass, and although the footsteps were further away, they were still discernable to his touch to the earth. They were close, but not as close as they had been when first they had begun to come towards them. If they were going to get to the relative safety of the barn, they did not have a long time to stay in the open field before the orcs went – though he prayed they would not – towards the house. It was a chance they were going to have to take, but he made the decision not to wait any longer and to make for the barn as quickly as they could the way they had been before they had pressed their faces to the ground.

He moved one foot, realizing that it had fallen asleep and was not tingling in a prickly way that made him have to restrain himself from wiggling it too much. Doing that would surely cause the footsteps to come back towards them. And the crows had surely seen them already, that much he felt in his gut. The only hope he had was that the orcs could not speak to the crows, and so could only guess what the crows were trying to point out to them.

Foot by foot the two crept through the grass, palm in front of palm, and Brytta no longer tugged at his heel, and so he assumed she was simply biting her lip against the pain in her knee. Soon the grass became shorter to where it had been trampled down by the coming and going of feet to and from the barn. They were almost there, they were so close that Fastred could almost taste it. The smell of hay met his nostrils with its sweet familiarity. Just a little closer and they would be there.

He made one final crawling leap inside the door, and Brytta following inches behind him, and for the first time he allowed himself to take a deep gulp of air. The shadows that fell inside the barn were dark and he knew they could not be seen inside, but still he motioned for her to follow him to the back of the barn and to the stairs that were there to the hay loft. Hiding in Hwesta's stall would not do much good if the orcs came in looking for any horses to steal – did they ride horses, he wondered, as he had not seen any in their company – then they would be spotted quickly, and that would be the end of everything. But if they hid in the loft, Fastred hoped their chances for outliving the day would increase by at least a little.

Brytta winced as she put her weight on the knee where the blood had stopped dribbling. Fastred, having gone up ahead of his sister, reached down a hand as far as he could, and after several more attempts, caught her hand and helped pull her up as best as he could. Once they were up near the mounds of hay, Fastred flopped backwards into the nearest pile. He had to have a moment to think, to grasp the situation, to not think about what might be going on outside that he could not hear. It was the not knowing that was nearly driving him mad. Now that he was in the loft, he could no longer put his fingers to the ground to feel the vibrations of feet. The only thing he could sense was when Brytta moved. Now Brytta would have to be the ears for both of them. He could do no more about that.

He moved to the boards of the wall and peered out through a knothole in the wood to the band of orcs outside. Now that he could get a better view, his heart plummeted to his shoes. They did not ride horses, that much was confirmed for him as he looked out across their company. Instead he saw several of them mounted on large, shaggy beasts that appeared as large wolves. Their noses were less pointed, and the orcs that were astride them looked as though the animals were controlling them more than they were controlling the animals. An involuntary shiver ran down his spine. The pairs lurched as they walked and rode nearer and nearer to the house, and now he could easily make out the crude banners that whipped in the gusts of bitter wind. A white hand had been painted on them and the helmets of the orcs as well. It was ugly, not at all like the white horse on the banner of Rohan that conjured up thoughts of honor and victory. This hand only caused fear to surge throughout his body. Beside him, Brytta shouldered her way to look through the knothole as well, and she let a small gasp of air escape through her lips into Fastred's cheek.

They had come to the front of the house, and both children both did not want to look, yet could not close their eyes for the desire to know what was to happen. Neither had seen if their mother had left the house or not when they had crawled towards the barn, and now Fastred felt a surge of hope that perhaps she had escaped to the barn as well and was hiding somewhere in there with them. Perhaps she was perfectly fine and they worried for nothing, that all they would lose would be the house. The house could be replaced. She would be so sad to see heirlooms burn – mother would cry when grandmother's quilt was torched, he knew – but if they were all right, if she was safe, then all would be well in the end. He could hope. He had to hope.

Brytta shrank back away from the window, covering her ears. It hurt to hear the gnarled voices outside with their words that hurt her ears like the scraping of a knife over a plate. She did not want to hear them. Fastred was the lucky one. He could stare out impassively without hearing the howls and throaty grunts of the wolf-creatures. They must be wargs, she thought to herself, remembering the description Master Leofwine had given her. He had been right, they were scary! But she didn't want to look at them anymore, she couldn't bear it. And so she backed away and nestled herself into a small ball with her hands wrapped around her knees in the hay. It smelled so good, so sweet. She snuggled deeper, hoping it would prevent her from hearing what went on beyond the walls, and she covered her ears for good measure. She did not want to hear it. She wanted her mother. A warmth met her hand, and almost smiling, Brytta let her fingers trail over the fur of the barn cat that had been sleeping in the hay. If she could stay here, everything would be all right, she thought to herself. Everything would be fine. Under her hand, the cat stretched and let a purr sound in its throat. If she could just fall asleep here, with the cat and the hay, she would wake up and everything would be back to normal, and Fastred could finish his drawing…

A hand pulled her by the shoulder, startling her so that her breath caught in her throat and causing her body to jerk suddenly. Hay fell down in front of her eyes and into her lap from where it had been settled behind and around her body. Brushing away the hay with a shaking hand, she let her breath out as she did not find herself staring into the deep eyes of one of the orcs outside, or worse one of the warg creatures. Instead Fastred had crouched infront of her, and with one hand he pointed to her ears.

Instantly, she knew what he wanted to know. He desired to hear what was going on. But how could she tell him without bursting into tears?

A howl came from outside and sent shivers down her spine.

Gently, Fastred pulled her upwards until she was no longer curled with her hands over her ears, and was instead on her knees looking back out the knot in the wood where she had been before. She sighed. She would have to tell him, she knew he would not let her ignore him now. She had to tell him what was going on. It was, no matter how much she disliked it, important.

With one finger, she led his eyes to the wargs, then caught his eye and barred her teeth in imitation of the growls that the beasts were making. She stopped and leaned her nose against the wood, watching with horror as the door to the house was bashed through. There would be no more interpreting of sounds for the moment as both children watched in gritted silence.

Even if Fastred had been able to hear what followed, he would not have comprehended much more than Brytta did. She did not hear any cry from the house. Did not hear the crackling of flames as they caught the thatched roof that father had spent so long fixing after the storms that had come during the summer. Did not hear Hwesta's terrified whinny at the orange tongues of fire that caught in the grass after bright sparks flew down with the wind. The smell of smoke drifted through the cracks in the barn's walls, but she only barely noticed it at all except to cough – and even then, she did not hear herself. There was only a brittle ringing in her ears. She felt dizzy.

Maybe, Brytta thought, the house was empty, and mother had gotten out. She did not realize Fastred had held the same hope, and did not know that it was slipping away as he watched.