“What a name,” you say with a smile, kneeling down to offer the hapless farmer a hand. You are stronger than you look, after all, a firm anchor to hold. “Wherever did she get it?”

Cath Palug has been an excellent traveling companion, now that Robena... you cannot hide it from yourself, you know. You took that woman, who deserved better from you, and you set her alight. You made her into a weapon, all because she begged to become one. And now she has ridden off, full of hot and raging blood, to attempt what you have dared, what no one has dared: to stand up to a king who has been rejected by the land.

She will be broken in the attempt. But what can you do, daughter of giants? You will not shame both her and yourself by begging her to stay, to be lesser for the rest of her days. You will not draw a sword and ride beside her, not without certain matters attended to first. It is not enough that the land has rejected him. The dead have spoken now, but what of the rivers? What of the keepers of the Wheel? What of oak and ash and thorn?

There is still more to be done, more wrath to arouse, before you may draw up a sword from the waters. Old, tarnished bronze, offered to the deep when the gods were young. Not for you any sword not consecrated by that surrender to the divine.

Yet, for Robena’a sake, whether she lives or she dies, you are surprised to find that you are ready to wake those who sleep and rouse those who are silent still. And, yes, for the sake of Cath Palug and her fool of an owner, that their harvest might be lean but enough. The cross makes many promises, but its cruelest is that death is a great joy. As if this scarecrow lying on his reeds, a deflated mass of bone and skin, would be a victory.

“Here is your box,” you say, closing his hands around it. “Take it with my blessing, but be warned: it came from unquiet ground. If it is not truly yours, it would be better for you to welcome an adder into your bed than take it home.”