“What?” He looked at her, startled.

Elain rested a hand on her belly. “Katrina.” She smiled. “I’m not blind. I know what you’ve done for her, and I’m proud of you. Not every man would go as far.”

“It won’t matter, if I can’t free her.”

The kettle began to whistle stridently. “You will, I’m sure of it—one way or another.” Elain poured the tea. “We had better start preparing for the trip. I’m going to sort through the kitchen first. While I do, can you go upstairs and bring me all the clothes, bedding, and anything else you think might be useful?”

“Where should I put it?” asked Roran.

“The dining room will be fine.”

Since the mountains were too steep—and the forest too dense—for wagons, Roran realized that their supplies were limited to however much they could carry themselves, as well as what they could pile onto Horst’s two horses, although one of those had to be left partially unburdened so that Elain could ride whenever the trail proved too strenuous for her pregnancy.

Compounding the issue was the fact that some families in Carvahall did not have enough steeds for both provisions and the young, old, and infirm who would be unable to keep pace on foot. Everyone would have to share resources. The question, though, was with whom? They still did not know who else was going, besides Birgit and Delwin.

Thus, when Elain finished packing the items she deemed essential—mainly food and shelter—she sent Roran to find out if anyone needed extra storage space and, if not, if she could borrow some in turn, for there were plenty of nonessential items she wanted to bring but would otherwise abandon.

Despite the people hurrying through the streets, Carvahall was heavy with a forced stillness, an unnatural calm that belied the feverish activity hidden within the houses. Almost everyone was silent and walked with downturned faces, engrossed in their own thoughts.

When Roran arrived at Orval’s house, he had to pound on the knocker for almost a minute before the farmer answered the door. “Oh, it’s you, Stronghammer.” Orval stepped out on the porch. “Sorry for the wait, but I was busy. How can I help you?” He tapped a long black pipe against his palm, then began to roll it nervously between his fingers. Inside the house, Roran heard chairs being shoved across the floor and pots and pans banging together.

Roran quickly explained Elain’s offer and request. Orval squinted up at the sky. “I reckon I’ve got enough room for my own stuff. Ask around, an’ if you still need space, I have a pair of oxen that could hold a bit more.”

“So youare going?”

Orval shifted uncomfortably. “Well, I wouldn’t say that. We’re just . . . getting ready in case of another attack.”

“Ah.” Puzzled, Roran trudged on to Kiselt’s house. He soon discovered that no one was willing to reveal whether they had decided to leave—even when evidence of their preparations was in plain sight.

And they all treated Roran with a deference that he found unsettling. It manifested itself in small gestures: offers of condolences for his misfortune, respectful silence whenever he spoke, and murmurs of assent when he made a statement. It was as if his deeds had inflated his stature and intimidated the people he had known since childhood, distancing him from them.

I am branded,thought Roran, limping through the mud. He stopped at the edge of a puddle and bent to examine his reflection, curious if he could discern what made him so different.

He saw a man in ragged, blood-stained clothes, with a humped back and a crooked arm tied across his chest. His neck and cheeks were scumbled with an impending beard, while his hair was matted into snarled ropes that writhed in a halo around his head. Most frightening of all, though, were his eyes, which had sunk deep into the sockets, giving him a haunted appearance. From within those two morbid caverns, his gaze boiled like molten steel, full of loss, rage, and an obsessive craving.

A lopsided smile crept across Roran’s face, rendering his visage even more shocking. He liked how he looked. It matched his feelings. Now he understood how he had managed to influence the villagers. He bared his teeth.I can use this image. I can use it to destroy the Ra’zac.

Lifting his head, he slouched up the street, pleased with himself. Just then, Thane approached him and grasped his left forearm in a hearty grip. “Stronghammer! You don’t know how glad I am to see you.”

“You are?” Roran wondered if the whole world had been turned inside out during the night.

Thane nodded vigorously. “Ever since we attacked the soldiers, everything has seemed hopeless to me. It pains me to admit it, but so it was. My heart pounded all the time, like I was about to fall down a well; my hands shook; and I felt dreadfully ill. I thought someone had poisoned me! It was worse than death. But what you said yesterday healed me instantly and let me see purpose and meaning in the world again! I . . . I can’t even explain the horror you saved me from. I am in your debt. If you need or want anything, just ask and I’ll help.”

Moved, Roran gripped the farmer’s forearm in return and said, “Thank you, Thane. Thank you.” Thane bowed his head, tears in his eyes, then released Roran and left him standing alone in the middle of the street.

What have I done?

EXODUS

Awall of thick, smoky air engulfed Roran as he entered the Seven Sheaves, Morn’s tavern. He stopped beneath the Urgal horns pegged over the door and let his eyes adjust to the dim interior. “Hello?” he called.