Excerpt 2

A swath of fog, milky-white, wound around the streets of Vettebern. It settled comfortably along the muddy roads --- evidence of a recent rain --- and pressed against the bolted shutters of houses, as if waiting for an opportunity to get in. No such opportunity was granted. All the doors were shut, as they have been for months; not a soul was out in the chilly early-spring air, and the fog was quite alone.

Wrapped up in this alabaster sheet, the timbers of houses appeared grey, which created the unsettling impression that the roads were lined with little sepulchres. The illusion, in effect, was not very far from the truth. The squat, round-timbered structures were sprinkled across a dull and sombre landscape: it was the end of a particularly long, cruel winter.

The house at the westernmost edge of the village --- closest to the forest --- belonged to the Yssen family. Large in comparison to the others, it stood aloof, separated from the community by a wide and empty paddock. Brown, prickly grass covered the traditional Amman turf roof, and its beautiful painted shutters, once the pride of the family, had begun to fade and peel. It, like all else, was falling into disrepair.

One thing in particular set this house apart from the rest of the little town: it was, at the present moment, the only source of noise. A dull banging sound emanated from within its depths: a consistent, measured banging --- someone was hammering nails.

It went on for a good long while, and then the pounding stopped. Eventually the heavy door swung open. A woman walked out onto the cluttered dirt goat-path, and a few steps behind her followed a man carrying a long, wooden box.

The woman was none other than Irradene Yssen, young widow of the late Elǒ Yssen, and the man --- may it be known --- was a hired carpenter. Normally he helped men build homes to live in; but circumstances sometimes forced him into a more sobering occupation.

"Amà," he said, "I would ask you, if you please, that my fee be paid in bread rather than silvers. If you can spare it."

"I can, lande Teёlaŋ. A silver minne won't feed a family any more."
"I thank you with all my heart, amà. You are saving both of us, me and my poor wife."

Six months ago there had been three.

"And I thank you for taking this task. My father deserved more than a pit in the ground."

"And so he did, he certainly did! The finest man to live in this town, without a doubt. Rain or shine, amà, his good spirits never flagged, and he was the pleasantest host and most reliable arm to be found in all Amanna. If I had my way, I'd build him a silver sepulchre to outshine Liödøn..."

They reached the furthest point of the village --- marked by an old, weathered vannoteёm, a sculpture cut from the stump of a felled pine, this one in the shape of Arstagan the god of Luck --- and walked on along the meandering path towards the forest.

The carpenter stopped momentarily as they advanced deeper into the fog. "Don't go far, amà," he warned. "Or we might not come back out again."

"Here." Irradene pointed to a kingly red pine. It stood tall and broad-shouldered next to a clearing, a quiet, sympathetic old god.

"So be it," agreed the carpenter, and placed the casket at the god's feet, like an offering. Stepping back respectfully, he knelt upon the needle-littered earth, and fell silent.

Irradene took a small piece of soft white stone from the folds of her simple gønmel. Upon the smooth lid of the casket she traced the lines of her father's face, just as she remembered him: the winking eyes, wispy, feathery hair, thinning fair beard framing a deeply lined but smiling mouth. It was not an artist's work, but the work of a devoted daughter, and that would have been enough for him, she imagined. When the portrait was finished she put the stone away, and sat, and sat.