forts were . . . uncanny. There was always a little dread, under the surface. Dread of the unknown. But when I think of desecrating a grave, I do not feel dread but revulsion. I am not afraid of what lies in the grave, but it would be dishonorable. Disgusting, even. I do not fear retribution; I fear what sort of person I would become by doing it.” The dust-wife slowed then and gave Fenris a sharp, appraising look. The brown hen gave an indignant squawk and rocked on top of the staff. One of her rare smiles crooked her lips. “You are still wrong, Hardishman,” she said. “But you are wrong in an
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