Winilind looked up from her own packing and watched the others preparing to depart. From the sudden flattening of the village to the piles of bursting backpacks, all around were sights which had always brought her joy. And yet, she felt nothing but loss. It filled the space around her, from the tips of her fingers to the furthest mountains. It contaminated everything she touched or saw. For the first time in her life, she could not enjoy moving. There was no place in the world she would not take this sadness with her. The swollen backpacks reminded her of Oli's clothes, most of which she had already given away. The carefully laid beams from dismantled roundhouses, ready to be set alight, made her feel as if they were burning the village as a funeral pyre for her son. She looked down at what she had been doing a moment before and found a spare fishing rod in her hands.

“We’ll keep that one, Mother.”

She felt it pulled gently from her grip and looked up. Adalina was already turning away, looking for a place to fit the rod in.

“Take the silk. Leave the rod,” said Winilind. “We can’t carry extra weight.”

Winilind assumed Adalina would object. Perhaps she had even counted on it, for she felt her heart leap to her throat when her daughter stripped the silk string and threw the rod into the remnants of their roundhouse.

“We need to leave some of these scrolls,” Adalina said in a business-like tone. “I’ve made a pile of the best ones. Should we keep The Jealousy of Terlos? It's a bit dull.”

Winilind tried to reply. Had she been able to, she would have said that she rather liked that poem, but the words caught in her throat and came up as a half-strangled sob. Within a moment she felt Adalina’s arms around her waist and, a moment later, Otmer's hand appeared on her shoulder. He and Beresa vigorously denied they were keeping an eye on her, but every time she broke down one of them appeared nearby. She was secretly glad of it. After the rest of the clan had given their condolences, she had been left feeling suddenly alone. Luthold had been busy with new duties since the moment he read the oracle.

She waved Adalina and Otmer away. When Otmer was out of sight, she reached for the next item: a painting that her father-in-law had bought, or perhaps stolen. It had not aged well through the damp forest winters, but you could still see the picture. A dejected column of spearmen, heads down, followed behind an unarmed man. The man held a sceptre at arm's length, as though it were a snake that might bite him. The title read: King Brunulf's Defeat. Was this the world they must travel to? A world of wars between the followers of different gods. What place would they find for a people who refused to pick a side? A sudden thought struck her. Gurithen had always maintained that the clutter he brought back was worth a fortune in the West.

“Ada?”

“Yes.”

“Put all the scrolls in. Put in everything that belonged to your grandfather.”

“There’s not enough space in the packs.”

“Then put them in the homehold.”

The homehold was a wicker box, usually carried by the eldest child. It contained the family’s personal icons and the keepsakes of departed loved ones, along with any gifts of significance. When they completed a new roundhouse the eldest child would enter first and empty the homehold, so the family arrived in a place they belonged. Winilind loved the welcoming. She loved the smell of drying earth and freshly chopped wood, and the thrill of making a new place for herself in the forest. Whenever she slept for the first night in a new home, she felt like a child again, with the world outside fresh and unknown. She had wanted this so much for Oli. She pulled herself back to the present and noticed Adalina grimacing guiltily.

“What is it? Have you filled it already? Empty it. They use coins in the West. Money. It’s life and death to them, and that clutter might be worth some.”

“No, it’s just... If I’m carrying it... I’ve already promised to carry Heridan’s for him...” She trailed off.

Winilind looked at her, nonplussed.

“Why are you carrying Heridan’s homehold?”

“He doesn’t have any children now, does he?” Adalina answered in a whisper, with an undertone of frustration. Winilind shook her head. She had been so wrapped up in her own grief that she had almost forgotten: Adalina had lost not only her brother, but her beloved too. Heridan had lost his only child.

“Of course,” she replied quickly. “It makes sense. Did he ask you to?”

Heridan had refused to speak with anyone, even to hear their commiserations. Winilind wondered how this had been arranged.

“I offered. He looked so sad and lonely.”

“And?”

“And what?” asked Adalina after a pause. “He accepted. He didn’t bite my head off. I know you and father don’t like him, but he’s always been kind to me.”

“Good,” said Winilind. “It’s no time for divisions in the clan. Pass me whatever you can’t fit in. I’ll ask Otmer to help.”

“Just... Don’t tell father, ok?”

“He’ll be glad. He’s trying to hold the clan together. Oslef put a weight on his shoulders.” She shook her head. “It’ll help him if you’re keeping Heridan sweet.”

She immediately regretted her choice of expression. Her daughter’s face hardened. She waited for a sharp response, accepting that perhaps she deserved one. Adalina, however, breathed deeply and replied in a weary voice.

“Then let him think that’s what I’m doing, if it helps.”

Her daughter suddenly looked so old. She had acquired, in the last few days, the bearing and self-restraint of a Hallin adult. She had already come of age, but Winilind had not stopped thinking of her as a child. She wrapped her arms around Adalina so suddenly that her daughter’s body stiffened in surprise. Then the stiffness melted, and they rested their heads on each other's shoulders. As she patted her back, Adalina asked her:

“Has this ever happened before, Mother?”

Throughout the children’s lives, everything they experienced had happened before. When a storm damaged the roof, she and Luthold knew how to fix it. When they saw a bear or sleeper for the first time, they knew what to say, how to guide their offspring around the danger. But none of this had ever happened before. Soldiers in the forest. The town of Scursditch barring its gates. The loss of both their son and their daughter’s betrothed.

“No, my dear.” She caressed her heavy, black curls. “This is new for both of us.”

It was not right, she thought, that her daughter should grow up so much in a matter of days.

----------------------------------------

Luthold climbed the watchtower for the last time. An odd whorl in the wood, where the rail had not been smoothed, caught his eye. He recalled noticing and forgetting it every time he climbed the ladder and realised this time would be the last. It was just another small detail of their home that would burn away by nightfall, never to be thought of or remembered again. He reached the top and stood behind Heridan, who gazed at the trees with his back to Luthold.

Every building in the village, apart from the tower and Oslef’s home, lay reduced to dirt and broken wood. Children ran around squealing in glee, clambering over mounds and sprinting across the open spaces. Adults buried themselves in the task of packing or sat with their heads bowed. They had all moved before, but never like this. They had never moved beyond the forest. Some did not yet believe they would.

Luthold had cornered and spoken to every person of note in the clan. He had suggested they examine the oracle for themselves, still undisturbed in Oslef’s home. Most refused to look, or admitted they could not interpret the jumble of glyphs and lines. The few who looked confirmed his reading, though Aimar cast him a questioning glance afterwards. He studiously ignored it.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

The only one with whom he had not spoken was Heridan. Nobody had spoken with Heridan, as far as he could tell.

Luthold stood beside the tall warrior and followed his gaze to white tufts of smoke that rose at intervals above the Sullins' camp. Heridan pointed.

“I see we’re going south together, first. They're hoping to gather the other clans there.” Heridan squinted. “I can’t read all of it.”

“You can tell all this from smoke? They can say where we are going and even why?”

“The Sullin can write whole verses in wind and smoke.” Heridan smiled faintly. “I was teaching the patterns to Ingo. I can’t remember them all, though. It’s been a long time.”

“Perhaps the patterns have changed.”

“Traditions like that don’t change.”

“Are they a traditional people?” Luthold asked, letting the cynicism escape in his voice. He thought of Erlends’ reaction to the news of the oracle. He had not behaved like a Sevener should, upon hearing such a portent, as though the words of the gods were an inconvenience to him. He had erupted into anger which only passed when Luthold agreed they should travel south together first. The Hallin could then leave the forest beyond the reach of Dombarrow and the Sullin could try their luck with the other clans.

“Are you really interested in them?” Heridan stared levelly at Luthold, who held his gaze. Somehow whenever they talked, one of them irritated the other.

“I’m worried about them. I don’t like their plan.”

“I think it has merit.”

“The oracle was clear.” Luthold raised his voice slightly, and Heridan lowered his almost to a whisper.

“The choice is still ours.”

Luthold gripped the rail.

“I’m not looking for an argument, Heridan, but I'm never going to call Erlends my chief and march for him in his army.”

He turned away from Luthold and nodded slightly. “I understand. You have another child to think of and you’d rather leave. It’s easiest to do as the oracle advises. But I wonder what life we will live out there.” He waved toward the West. "Grasping after the king's charity, if he spares us any."

“Seveners find a way. We'll petition the king for new land, or we'll leave the kingdom altogether. Whatever happens, Oslef did not give his life for that guidance so we could ignore it."

“When you've already paid the ferryman, it's harder to see if his boat is leaking,” Heridan recited.

“Raska wasn’t talking about a time like this,” Luthold muttered, but Heridan’s quote gave him pause for thought. Had they leapt to follow the oracle’s guidance only because it had cost them so dearly?

“We still have two elders,” he reminded Heridan, retreating slightly. “Joturn will find us, and we'll reunite with Mildred when we reach the Levonin. Let them make the final decision.” Neither Mildred nor Joturn would contradict an oracle, especially not to throw their lot in with the Sullin.

“What if we don’t find them, Luthold? What if no elders return to us and you are left in charge. Have you thought about that?”

“No,” Luthold admitted. He thought he heard the faintest chuckle, but when he looked at Heridan, the man was still gazing impassively over the forest.

The smoke stopped rising and they saw rustling on the edge of the village border. The Hallin began to gather around the base of the watchtower.

“Your flock is here,” growled Heridan. "You'd better go to them."

Luthold almost asked Heridan to join him in lighting the first flame, then thought about what the warrior had said. Their plan has merit. Better, he thought, to be grateful for Heridan’s withdrawal. The last thing he needed was for his old rival to find his voice again. He moved toward the ladder. As he did so, Heridan asked without turning:

“Is lost the same as dead?”

“In the stones, the same symbols are used for both,” Luthold replied, wincing.

“So, it could mean either.”

“Is there a difference for us?” The same thought had occurred to Luthold, but what could he tell Heridan? Either way, there was no way to find them.

Heridan turned to face him, revealing his pain in the lines around his eyes. He seemed incredulous, too.

“Sometimes you're as soft as wool, Luthold. And sometimes you’re as cold and hard as the mid-winter river. Lost is not dead.”

“My son is gone, Heridan,” Luthold stated. “And so is yours.”

As he spoke, the loss became dangerously keen. His foot faltered for the rung, and he held tighter for a moment while it searched the air for purchase. He stared at the wood in front of his face. He breathed. He reminded himself that a time would come to indulge his sorrow, but that time was not now. He steadied himself, anchoring his attention to the matter at hand.

He descended and turned to face the clan. They stood gathered in a semi-circle, waiting for him along with the Sullin.

“I was just commenting, Luthold, on how quickly your clan prepares to depart,” Erlends complimented.

“The quicker we leave,” replied Luthold, “the lighter we travel. And it’s not our custom to stay still for long.”

“You have the advantage over us, then. As widely as we roam, we’ve always returned to our hill fort, until now.”

“Is this why your fort was always in the foothills?” asked Luthold, nodding in the direction from which the smoke signals had come. “So your messages could reach it from far and wide? Who are you sending the messages to now?”

Erlends raised an eyebrow, then glanced beyond Luthold at Heridan, who had descended behind him.

“We’ve been signalling any Sullin still lost. They'll gather with us to address the other clans. I hope they’ll be more receptive to our plans than the Hallin. Are you still intent on abandoning our land?”

He knew what Erlends wanted. He wanted Luthold to speak on behalf of the clan and make it appear that he, not the oracle, had chosen for them.

"I'm intent on obeying the gods' commands, as long as the clan agrees with me in doing so."

Erlends grunted and backed away. Aimar approached and whispered in Luthold's ear:

"Everything is ready."

Luthold wanted to watch the ceremony from the sidelines, but he felt the eyes of the clan following him, looking to him for guidance. He had become a kind of caretaker elder, as though Oslef’s mantle had dropped onto his shoulders the moment he looked at that sevenstones board. When the whole clan was assembled, and looking in his direction, he stepped forward.

“It is not my place to invoke the gods on our behalf. Besides, I believe Elder Oslef has already done so. We lay our elder to rest today, as well as leave our village behind. I pray The Lost Daughter finds him and that his journey is shorter than the one we now face.”

Heads bowed and sparks spat from Aimar’s bow and drill. The kindling crackled.

“Elder Mildred is already in the South. We’ll have her wisdom on our side again soon. And Elder Joturn’s days of absence do not bode as ill as they would for any other man. He's survived sleepers before, and he’ll survive them again. He’ll follow and join us.”

As he spoke and saw the mood of the clan move to his words, he felt a warmth spreading in his chest. His legs felt sturdier and the ground he stood on more stable. This is what leadership is, he thought, setting the weather in other people’s lives.

“Aimar, are the torches lit?”

The craftsman nodded.

“Each family should begin with their own home, then spread out toward the fence. A new home awaits.”

Luthold took the first torch and finally joined Adalina and Win. They walked to the remnants of their home and he set alight the kindling that Winilind had chopped beneath the wood pile. They moved out to the village perimeter, spreading the fire to each woodpile they passed until they had lit the section of outer fence closest to their home.

Luthold watched as the flames swallowed the hole through which Oli snuck to play with Pasha. He thought he saw some stones and disks on the ground there, but a moment later fire swept over them. He glanced to his right and saw Otmer and Beresa watching him.

He took his wife and daughter’s hands. Winilind leaned in and spoke to him over the rising sound of the flames.

“When Aimar came to offer his condolences, he asked if I had seen the oracle myself.”

“Did he?” Luthold stiffened. He did not want this conversation. Not now.

The fire cracked and spat more loudly. A pillar of smoke rose into the windless sky above them.

“What did it say, Luthold? Should I have looked at it myself?”

“It said our son is gone.” A hardness crept into Luthold’s voice. It was either that, or his voice would break.

“Was it the ghoul? Is that the sign Oslef drew against his name? Death and loss.”

Luthold shut his eyes and opened them with his head craned upward to where the smoke met the clouds.

“He drew The Daughter.”

“Sacrifice.” Winilind gasped. “Death, loss or sacrifice!” The word cut through Luthold and he felt a chill enter him, despite the inferno that bathed his face in heat. Sweat prickled on his skin. The Lost Daughter and the ghoul could each mean such similar things. For those who did not share in his family’s secret, the distinction between them might be ignored. What did Aimar suspect, he wondered, and why?

“Like I said,” Luthold replied, “our son is gone.”

Winilind did not speak, and he felt her sweating palm loosen its grip against his. He looked across and saw a sheen of sweat across her forehead. She looked unsteady on her feet. He brought his hand up to her shoulder and leaned closer. He felt Adalina move beside him, aware that something of import was being said and he tried to keep his voice in the range that would impress his meaning upon Winilind, without revealing it to his daughter.

“We paid, Win. We always knew that we would pay one day. We prayed that the price would fall on one of us, but it didn’t. I don’t know if we did the right thing. But we have Ada. We must think of her.”

Winilind nodded mutely, and Luthold felt Adalina move beside him. He turned to face the flames again and, after a moment, Winilind said:

“You should confide in Aimar. He respects you.”

Luthold shook his head.

“I need support, until this is over. I can’t risk it.”

“You should confide in someone.” There was a note of bitterness in her response and Luthold realised with a pang of guilt how little they had spoken since Oli’s death.

“When this is over,” he said, clasping her clammy hand tighter, “things will be better.”

Even as he said it, he thought: What if Heridan was right? What if this is never over?

He dragged his thoughts away from his family and ran through the things he needed to organise before departing. He had to choose the placement of families in the column so that able fighters did not cluster in one place. The slowest needed to be in front. Should the Sullin be assigned a section to themselves, or be allowed to disperse among the Hallin?

He retreated from his pain into the protective carapace of these new responsibilities. Each time he did so, he found, it became a little easier.