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just this day. He had made up his mind that when the fair came to town he would go there and see the valla, the seeress, who traveled with the fair. For the price of a silver penny, she would read his fortune, and then he would know if any of his dreams would
    ever come true.
    Havgan hurried to the valla’s tent, easily identi fi able by the dark blue cloth marked with silver stars and crescent moons. He sidled up to the entrance where a thin, bearded man sat crosslegged on the ground, paring his nails with a sharp hunt- ing knife.
    “I’ve come to have my future read,” Havgan said breath- lessly.
    The man didn’t even bother to look up. “She don’t do it for free, boy.”
    “I have money.” Slowly, Havgan handed out the silver penny. The man grabbed the coin and bit down on it. “One sil-
    ver penny will buy you one seid with the runes,” the man said. “And that’s all, understand?” Havgan nodded. “Go in, then,” said the man as he drew back the tent fl ap.
    Havgan entered the tent and stood still for a moment, wait- ing for his eyes to adjust to the dim interior. He smelled the sweet, cloying scent of burning incense. The tent was illuminated by the soft light of two white candles set on a low table that squat- ted in the middle of the fl oor. A woman sat crosslegged behind the table on a small, woven carpet. She wore a dark blue robe, embroidered with rune signs in silver thread. Her head was completely covered by a long, gray veil. He could not make out her features behind the veil, but he could see the fl ash of her eyes in the dimness. She gestured with a bony hand, and he sat down behind the table on the small carpet opposite her.
    For a time she said nothing, merely studying him behind her veil. At last she spoke, “My name is Anawin. I am the valla. I am the keeper of secrets. I am the teller of truths. I speak for the Wyrd, the three goddesses of fate. I speak for past,
    for present, for future. What is it that you wish to know?” Her voice was ageless, neither old nor young, a voice of power and, therefore, a voice to be feared.
    But Havgan, undaunted, took another step down the path he was following. “I wish to know if . . . if I will ever be a warrior.”
    “This question from a kitchen boy?” she asked quietly. “I’m not. Not just a kitchen boy. I am Havgan. My mother
    says that I am her gift from the sea. A gift from the God, she says. And once, one time, something strange happened to me.” He seemed to be babbling. Why was he doing that?
    “Yes, something very strange did happen to you. Do you know what you are?”
    “No,” he said, leaning forward eagerly. “What? What am I?” Her hands were clenched together tightly. “You ask two questions, boy. I will read the seid for you. But you may ask only one question at a time. Do you wish to know if you will be
    a warrior? Or do you wish to know what you are?”
    And it was then, in that dim tent of the valla, that he made a decision from which he would never turn back, a decision that would remain unchanged, even to the last moments of his life. He would not ask about this dark thing inside. Not ever.
    He licked lips that were suddenly dry. “My question is, will I be a warrior?”
    “Very well. We will answer that question. You will choose three runes—one for the past, one for the present, one for the future. Then we shall see.”
    She picked up a golden bowl from the table, fi lled with
    small, fl at sticks of wood. On each piece a rune was carved deep into the wood and fi lled with gold. “Close your eyes and choose one piece,” she said. “The fi rst piece is for the past.”
    Havgan did as he was told, plunging his hand into the bowl and pulling out a piece of wood. “Open your eyes and lay the rune on the table,” she ordered. Havgan did so and she stared at the wood. “This rune is for your past. It is called thorn ,” she said quietly. “Your past has been haunted by a dark force. But you have fought this