But he did long for home, too. He could see the cottage with his eyes shut.

He could see the thatch snow-covered as it would be, now, since the recent snowfalls, and the yard and shed roof alike under a thick white blanket. It had that clarity of a true dream, the edges unnaturally fine and clear in the night, just as if he were looking at it tonight. It comforted him.

But there was no smoke from the chimney, and there ought to be: there was always a little smoke, even at night. Certainly the snow never collected atop it. And he tried to dream of the inside of the cottage, and to dream of Gran, to be sure she was safe. He imagined her asleep in her bed, under the patchwork quilt, but imagine as he would, the only thing he could see, more and more insistently, was the chimney, the very top of the chimney, as close as he had seen it when he had climbed up with Paisi to mend the thatch last fall. A thick rim of snow lay about the vent. The warmth should have melted it, as fast as the snow fell. But it had snowed the chimney almost shut.

Something was wrong. Something was very wrong, and he could not find Gran and he could not wake up, not without a great struggle, as if the dream did not want to let him go.

He reached out with his hand. He found the bedclothes cold. Paisi was gone, nowhere to be found. He was alone in the bed, and he sat up, flinging the covers back.

A strange sight met him, Paisi sitting on the hearthstones in the other room, a huddled shape just sitting on the hearth between two good chairs. The light of dawn was in the windows, a gray and icy dawn.

“Paisi?” he said, but Paisi didn’t move.

He fought his way to the edge of the thick feather bed and rolled out and down, his feet meeting the icy floor. He dragged a coverlet off, wrapping it around him as he went.

“Paisi?”

Paisi still didn’t move. Otter sank down to his knees and shook Paisi by the arm. Paisi was cold on one side and overly warm on the other.

“The fire ain’t lit,” Paisi said, gazing into the coals. “She’s abed sick, an’ the fire ain’t lit.”

He felt chill himself and thought to wrap the coverlet around Paisi, who let it fall.

“Paisi?” He closed Paisi’s hand on the cloth. “Take it.”

Paisi’s hand closed and he held on to it, still looking into the coals, shaking his head slowly. “I can’t see ’er, Otter. The cottage is dark, an’ the fire ain’t lit.”

“I dreamed, too, about the chimney being out. I dreamed it just now.”

“She’s fevered,” Paisi said. “She’s got the fever, she ain’t fed ’erself since yesterday.”

“What can we do, Paisi?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know what to do.” The note of unreasoning fear in Paisi’s voice would have sent a chill through him if none had been there to start with. “You dreamed it, too?”

“I dreamed about the chimney.”

“The fire,” Paisi said. “The fire not bein’ lit, in this weather—”

“We can tell the king!”

“About what, Otter-lad? Can we tell him we dreamedit? Can we talk about dreams wi’ these Quinalt priests hoverin’ near? She’s sick abed, is what. That damn chimney’s choked up again, and it never were right. I wanted to tear that crooked thing down this summer an’ build it anew, an’ she wouldn’t have it, no, no, the fields wants weedin’, the shed wants the door fixed, it ain’t no great matter, run a stick up it, and it’ll do, it’s always done. If the smoke don’t kill us in our sleep… Damn it, Otter-lad!” Paisi ran his hands through his hair so it stood on end. “Maybe I’m makin’ trouble that ain’t trouble. Maybe she’ll wake up and take one of ’er potions, won’t she? She’ll poke the broom handle up an’ unstick that chimney.”

“If she can reach it.”

“Oh, I was worri’t leavin’ her! We stacked that firewood high as she could deal with, but the rest in the shed, it’s all big pieces, an’ if her coughin’ starts up fierce…”

“Look, she can bring the animals inside. Remember the winter we did that. They’ll heat a room.”

“That don’t feedthem. Or her.”

He drew a deep breath. “Paisi, it’s just three days back there.”

“It ain’t three days wi’ this storm.”

“But wouldn’t you go?”

“Aye,” Paisi said. “Aye. I would. I would. But she’ll skin me. I swore I’d watch over ye!”

“We could tell the king, all the same, and he’d keep secret how we knew. He was Lord Tristen’s friend. Wizard-work isn’t any surprise to him.”

“There is that.”

“He could just write a letter to Lord Crissand.”

“Oh, aye, and they’d take their time, and some soldiers would come out t’ th’ house an’ ask if she was well, and she’d swear she was well if she was dying.”

“Then go, go right this morning and see how she is, and fix the chimney. And then I’ll tell the king what’s happened, and I’ll come after, soon as I can.”

“No, now, me lord, don’t be foolish.”

“I’m not ‘my lord.’ ”

“Ye’re his son. The king give ye them fine clothes for holiday. He’s got ’is mind set, is what. It’s what you got to do. I’ll go see to Gran, and you stay an’ do as ye have to.”

“And what will I do if Gran died?”

“Don’t say it!” Paisi said, and made a ward sign against the thought. “Oh, I should ’ave prepared better! I should ha’ fixed that damn chimney…”

“You did everything you could! We didn’t reckon with the snow just keeping on and on like this. We didn’t plan on Gran needing help, but you know what she says: some dreams are a warning, is all, and it’s what may happen, not what ishappening.”

“Oh, aye, an’ I’ll walk in and she’ll curse me for a fool. But if it is a warning-dream, we’re summat ahead of it, ain’t we? But ye’re right. I’ll see to that chimney, then come on back, wi’ no delay.”

“You’ll get there before the Bryalt holidays start, as is. And if it’s nothing, Paisi, you should just stay the whole holidays with Gran. This isn’t going to be like ours.”

“Oh, that ain’t fair, an’ you wi’ nobody to see ye get meals…”

“I can perfectly well see to myself! And you can be there to spend holiday with her, so she’s not alone.”

“I ain’t at all sure.”

“Have a cake at the shrine and think of me. I’ll be perfectly safe, and you can write to me straightway as you get there and let me know how things are.”

“Now ’ow will I get a letter out?”

“Well, they change out the Guard every month, don’t they, even in bad weather. And if it’s a message to somebody in the Guelesfort, they’ll carry it. They will. And coming home, you know they’ll go as fast as they can.” He took comfort in the plan. It was one of his best. “Which is as fast as the king sending somebody, isn’t it? That’s how the merchants send things.”

“Still,” Paisi said.

“If it turns out I have a place here through spring, you know, you’d only have to go back when the garden goes in. You know Gran can’t do the heavy plow—she’ll put the garden in, but the rest will take the push-plow, won’t it?”

“Farmer Ost’ll bring his oxen over. He’d do it for her. That were the plan, that were what she said, if need be.”

“Well, but then Gran will have your help doing the other things. So you could just stay on a little.”

“You’re trying to make me stay there the spring, and I said I wouldn’t!”

“I’m not.”

“Are so. You and Aewyn are having a rare good time—as should be, m’lord, don’t mistake me.”

“We’ll be perfectly well.”

“Only so you stay friends while I’m gone and don’t get in any trouble. Boys is apt to quarrels.”

“I shan’t, with him, Paisi. He’s my friend, he’s my true friend, besides being my brother.”

“Gods hear that ’un, Otter-lad. But I’ll feel better if I know Gran’s set.”

“And you come back to me when the chores are done and the planting is in.”

“But if I go—if I go, how’s you even to draw your bath or get your food in this great place? You don’t know the ways…”

“Once you’re well away, and they can’t stop you,” Otter said, “then I can tell the king, and he’ll see I have someone.”