that must have gone into its devising; which indeed is part of its artfulness. For how many seasons did you work at making yourself thus, perhaps hidden away in some house where no other soul could observe what you were doing? In that time you might have asked yourself what was the point of so much striving. But I say to you now that in doing so you were setting yourself apart from these others who did not think to strive in such a way; or if they did, lacked the will or the wit to go on. That is why your place is at my table and not down here among these. For here in Town you will ever be the one who perches on the roof.”
Warm Wings made no answer, but listened with utmost care.
Egdod went on: “I see that you understand my words and know well of what I speak. Souls such as you are required in my Pantheon for a reason that is simple to explain: you see things to which I am blind and in various other ways exceed me. Come to the Palace with me, Warm Wings.” And she did.
The coldness of the winter compelled the souls of Town to adopt new ways. Some few who had the power to wreak great alterations in their forms covered their skin with feathers or hair to keep the cold out. Among others, the crafts of Knotweave spread, and souls made blankets, then garments of such rude fabric as could be fashioned from the fibers of fallen leaves and dead grass. That the same things could also be burned to make warmth they learned from Thingor, who, the better to work metal, had grown adept at making fire.
Some time ago Egdod had seen fit to imbue trees with the property of shedding branches from time to time, as when struck by a great wind, and in consequence they now lay heavy on the ground in certain places in the Forest. Those too would burn, as Thingor showed the cold souls of Town, who then made it their practice to venture into the Forest and carry away such branches as they had the strength to move. Others of Thingor’s inventions then were found useful for cutting the wood into smaller pieces, so that, by the time that winter began to relent, it was common for souls in Town to be seen carrying knives and axes.
Many though still suffered from cravings that the Land afforded no means of requiting. One day as the snow began to melt, Ward was flying over the Park when he made note of a soul standing before the little tower there, striking at its walls with an axe. He wheeled about and landed on the top of the tower and observed him for a time. Again and again this soul struck at the stone of the tower with the metal tools that Thingor had taught the Town how to fashion, but the stone of the tower was obdurate and nothing resulted save little showers of sparks. So fruitless were the soul’s efforts that Ward was uncertain as to his purpose in pursuing them with such ferocity. He flapped his wings once and dropped to the ground nearby. Sensing his presence, the soul turned to look on him, and left off beating the tower with the axe. “What is it you would achieve by this, Swat?” Ward asked. For he had recognized the soul as one who during the autumn had been a great destroyer of hives and eater of honey. Stung many times, he had learned to defend himself from the angry bees by swatting them dead, and had taught the practice to other hungry souls.
Swat answered: “Seeing how the axe bites into the wood of trees, I supposed it might have a like effect on the tower.”
“Egdod made the tower here as a thing of beauty for all souls to look on,” Ward pointed out. “It is not given to you to in any way alter its form.”
“It is full of honey,” said Swat.
“Honey that belongs to the bees—as Egdod said lo these many months ago before the feast of the apples.”
“Apples we have not eaten, or even seen, since that day,” Swat returned. “In the meantime our craving has grown powerful and we would now sate it by consuming the honey that is in this tower.”
“You may not,” said Ward, and held out his hand in the gesture that, since the beginning