He should have come on a black horse, his face hidden in the folds of his hood, his long gloved fingers curled round the hilt of a moon-white sword. He should have ridden across moor and mountain and desert to reach her, across the sea itself, the salt waves licking at his horse's hooves, until at last he rode through the walls of her house, and stopped by her bed at the last stroke of midnight.
Then Nenna would have yielded willingly, would have given a piece of her soul to the stranger sent to claim it.
But instead she was weeding, down on her knees in the gritty damp of the potato patch, the baby a warm weight in the sling on her back. For half an hour before he arrived, Nenna watched the old man approaching, his image growing clearer and clearer in the skein of the near-future. She saw his patched robe dusty from travel, she saw that he would turn off the road along the trail to the farm, she saw how baby Mara would wake at his arrival.
A beggar, thought Nenna, or maybe a pilgrim. In either case, she would give him soup and bread. An old man and weaponless, so no need to call Petrun away from his plowing.
The image of the old man grew so clear that it was almost like real sight, the vision overlaying her grubby hands and the tall, thin, thrust of the weeds. When Nenna judged that the old man was within earshot, she laid the vision aside, and stood up to greet him in the here and now.
"Good morning," said Nenna. The baby's weight shifted on her back, one leg kicking at her. "If your journey has left you hungry, we have food to spare."
"A kind offer," said the old man. There was a note of clipped authority in his voice, at odds with his stooped and travel-worn appearance.
Something about the way he looked at Nenna unsettled her. She shifted the sling with the baby around to her front, and walked in silence to the cottage. Once indoors, she felt more comfortable. She gestured at the chair by the fire. "Sit down. I'll get you some soup. Have you come far?"
"From Korumpor, at the foothills of the Serren mountains."
Nenna had never heard of the place, but as the old man spoke a picture of a gray stone tower came into her mind, circled by a garden. At the foot of the tower stood a brown-robed figure. As Nenna tried to make out the figure's face, the vision disappeared. "Is there a monastery there?"
"There used to be." Firelight played over his face as he gazed at her. His eyes were the same shade of gray as the stone tower she had seen. "Now Korumpor is home only to mice and birds and two aging scholars. I went there seeking advice, and, amongst other things, they suggested that I speak to you."
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