There is a moment when my head seems to swim, and then I look up, and there is the scrying mirror, but I cannot see my own reflection. My image has disappeared, and in my place there is a swirl of snow, and white flakes falling like the petals of white roses. It is the battle I saw once before, the men fighting uphill, a swaying bridge that falls, throwing them into the water, the snow on the ground turning red with blood, and always the swirling petals of the white snow. I see the iron gray of wide, wide skies; it is the north of England, bitterly cold, and out of the snow comes a young man
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