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Horsa, in the city of Angelesford, many miles away. And though no one ever said it, Havgan knew that they were moving away from Dorfas because he had done something bad. And he thought how unfair it was. For they had taken him away from the sight and the smell of the sea. They had taken him away from that shining road that led to other places, places that he might have been able to call home. For six years Havgan worked for his uncle in the tedious, sweat-soaked business of rending salt from the brinepits. For six long years he spent his days winching up bucketfuls of salty brine from the pits and pouring the heavy liquid into huge pans of lead. For six years he built fi res to boil and stir the mixture,
    to evaporate the water and skim the salt. For six years he drew the salt from the boiling water with a long rake, pouring the salt into baskets and setting basket after basket after basket under the hot sun to dry.
    After a time his young body grew strong and hard with this heavy labor. He began to outgrow tunic after tunic, his muscles bulging against the material. His skin darkened to bronze, mak- ing his amber eyes seem lighter than ever, and his tawny hair shone like spun gold in the relentless heat of the boiling sun.
    Ever since he could remember, his dreams had been vivid. Sometimes he would wake up, his mind a jumble of images he could not understand—a throne fashioned in the shape of an eagle; silver dragons and black ravens with opal eyes; pearl- white swans and blue nightingales; black wolves with eyes of emerald and hawks with wing bands of bright blue. But he did not understand these images, though they called to him in a way that puzzled and frightened him.
    Sometimes he dreamed of the harp that he had seen on a dead man long, long ago and what it would be like to go to the land where the man had come from. Sometimes he dreamed that the sea called to him, and that he walked her path to come to his true home.
    As he grew he watched the warriors of the Alder of Apuldre, the man who ruled the shire. He saw these strong, big men as they rode out to the hunt, to border skirmishes, to tournaments and fairs. He saw their glittering weapons, their armlets of gold, their arrogance and assurance. And his dreams began to change. He dreamt of a time when he, too, would be a warrior. He would receive rich gifts, booty from wars that he himself won singlehandedly against all odds. He would give his life to
    save his warband, and the walcyries, the women who collected the souls of dead warriors, would fi ght amongst themselves for the honor of gathering his spirit to take to the One God.
    When he was thirteen years old, his parents sent him to work for the Alder as a kitchen boy. It was then that he understood that this was the best he could hope for—that his life would be to serve meal after meal to these great warriors, to clean up af- ter them, and to survive the occasional casual beating when he was not quick enough with the mead. He would never become a warrior. Because he was only a fi sherman’s son.
    Often while wrestling with platter after platter for the eve- ning meal, Havgan would catch sight of the Alder’s son, who sat at the high table with his father. The boy, Sigerric, was a few years younger than Havgan. And Havgan envied him bitterly his place in the world. Envied him the love that shone out of the Alder’s eyes. Envied him his beautiful mother and her tender- ness. Envied him his rich tunic and his easy smile. Envied him his bright future.
    And though he was still bitter, he continued to hope that one day something might happen to him, some great thing that would lift him out of the fi lth in which he lived.
    And then, one day, something did. That day the fair came to town. And he had a silver penny to spend. His mother had given it to him when he fi rst went to work in the kitchens. She had said no word, merely pressing the penny into his hand. Havgan had never spent it. He had been saving it for