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A forest fire had rushed down from the mountains, and they’d taken refuge in a canyon. It was oddly reminiscent of the day the previous spring when Raisa, her mother, her sister Mellony, Byrne, and Lord Bayar had gone hunting in the foothills. They had no choice but to go on-they had to find shelter from the growing storm. Byrne strung a rope between them so they would not lose each other. The horses were now mere shades in the swirling darkness. But Byrne, who did not miss much, handed her a pair of long woolen riding gloves with deerskin palms. She tucked first one hand, then the other under her cloak, guiding Switcher with her knees alone. In Oden’s Ford, Raisa had never needed anything heavier than kidskin gloves. It began to snow, lightly at first, and then more heavily, tiny ice pellets that stung their exposed skin and increased their misery. Soon it was full dark, and then darker than that, as the racing clouds devoured the stars. The wind began to rise long before they reached their destination, swirling the fine, powdery snow up from the ground, raking it free from the trees and flinging it into their faces. Raisa rode in a kind of frozen stupor, her hood pulled low over her face, drawing what heat she could from Switcher.

They increased their pace, making for a way house Byrne knew of at the southern end of the pass that would provide shelter against wind and drifting snow. “There’s no way we’ll make it through the pass tonight, so we’d better be under cover when it hits.”

That’s all we need-to be held up by a storm.” He scanned the tops of the trees, judging the wind speed and direction. But Byrne had his eye on a streak of gray cloud to the northwest. To the east, the blue sky turned indigo, and a few stars appeared, low on the horizon.