“This should have been measured by someone with eyes,” Loric said. The words were out of his mouth before he could rethink them. The cart before him looked less like the beginning of a sacred procession than a merchant wagon that had lost an argument with a chapel.

Father Aven had used several solemn words when he had placed the route slate in Loric’s hands before dawn. The chapel at Windmere had been repaired at last, and the devotional objects kept at Greenhollow were to be returned before the Feast of First Shelter. Loric had copied the procession order twice. He knew the opening prayer, the closing prayer, and the blessing for crossing running water.

The cart Loric had found at Greenhollow matched none of Father Aven’s words.

The processional lamp hung near the front, already lit and already troubled by the wind. A wrapped bell lay in a padded crate beneath it, bound so it would not sound before arrival. The painted panel of Saint Calder VII had been strapped upright against the left side, covered in waxed cloth.

Behind all of that, lashed diagonally across the cart because it fit no other way, rested the feast banner frame.

Mistress Ysolde made a small approving sound. She was old enough that no one called her sister anymore, though she had served shrine roads longer than most clergy had served altars. Her cloak was patched at both elbows, and her boots were thick with old dust.

“It was measured by Brother Ommic, so we forgive the road in advance,” she said, her face calm in the manner of someone who argued with landslides and considered the matter still open for debate.

“That is not the road’s fault.”

“It will be by noon.” Ysolde patted the lamp’s brass housing as the flame leaned hard behind its glass. “Sorry, little flame. He is new.”

This time, Loric held his tongue, but the thought flashed behind his teeth. It cannot hear you.

Ysolde motioned toward the cart’s mule, who seemed to be eyeing the banner frame with open distrust. “If I complain to the lamp, I do not complain to him.”

The mule flicked one ear, as though accepting this arrangement.

They set out with six people, one mule, four sacred objects, and, in Loric’s eyes, less dignity than the Saint required. Father Aven walked at the front with the route staff. Loric and Ysolde kept to either side of the cart. Two village boys followed with spare cord and oil, the younger one watching the bell crate as if it had teeth, while a widow named Hessa carried the arrival cloth and reminded everyone that mud had no respect for mourning hems.

The first trouble came before the road left Greenhollow. The chapel gate had been built for people, handcarts, and modest livestock. The mule pulled the cart through it until the banner frame struck both gateposts at once.

The cart stopped. The lamp swung. The bell crate gave one dangerous wooden knock, but no sound came from inside.

Everyone froze.

Ysolde leaned close to the crate. “Not yet, bell.”

Loric held his breath. Father Aven closed his eyes as if selecting patience from a crowded shelf. Hessa examined the frame.

“Turn it,” she said.

“There is no room,” Loric said.

“There is always room if enough people become inconvenient.”

This proved true. The frame passed through only after Loric climbed onto the cart, one boy crouched beneath the rear axle, Hessa stood on the low wall holding the left corner above her head, and Father Aven took a step back, assuring watching villagers that no, the procession had not formally begun yet.

Saint Calder VII stayed covered and upright, though the cloth slipped enough during the ordeal that one painted eye now regarded Loric with disappointment.

Ysolde adjusted the cloth. “Mind your face, Seventh. The wind is opinionated today.”

By midmorning, the wind strengthened.

The Calderan Corridor did not blow in one direction so much as make suggestions from all sides. It pushed at the lamp, tugged at the waxed cloth, and filled the banner frame like an invisible sail whenever the road turned across the slope. Whatever Loric had expected, he instead spent most of the morning with one hand on the panel frame and the other reaching after whatever strap had loosened next.

At the first bridge, the mule stopped. The bridge was a narrow stone crossing over a dry wash. Perfectly safe. Perfectly old. Perfectly placed where turning back meant reversing the cart along thirty paces of thornbank.

The beast lowered his head and refused the bridge on theological grounds known only to mules.

Father Aven tried the lead rope. Hessa tried grain. One boy tried encouragement until the mule sneezed wetly against his sleeve. The lamp trembled as the wind curled beneath the bridge.

“Sorry, little flame,” Ysolde said, cupping both hands around the glass. “The bridge was built by optimists.”

“It has stood for eighty years,” Loric said.

“And yet our mule has concerns.”

From the looks of it, the mule had many concerns. Father Aven pulled. Hessa pushed. The younger boy held the bell crate steady as though restraining an animal. Loric kept Saint Calder VII from tipping into the rail, and Ysolde walked backward in front of the lamp, shielding the flame with her whole body.

Halfway across, one cart wheel dropped into a gap between stones.

The bell rang.

Only once. A soft, muffled note, barely more than a thought inside wool. Still, everyone heard it.

Father Aven stopped pulling. Hessa closed her mouth on whatever word had been coming. The boys looked as if the Saint himself might step down from the covered panel and ask who had authorized music.

Ysolde bent toward the crate.

“Not yet,” she said. “We are not dressed for arrival.”

It took three of them to get the wheel lifted. It rose, scraped forward, and dropped back onto the bridge. After that, the mule crossed the remaining distance without hesitation, stopping on the far side to eat a weed.

By noon, Loric’s polished buckle had mud on it. One sleeve had come loose. The lower edge of Saint Calder VII’s covering had acquired a smear of green from a mossy milestone. The bell had not rung again, though Loric had begun to suspect it wanted to. He nearly bent toward the crate to scold it, then caught himself with his mouth half open.

They rested beside a low road shrine where travelers had left pebbles, ribbons, and one turnip of uncertain devotional purpose. Ysolde checked the lamp oil. Father Aven inspected the bell cord and murmured an apology when the knot resisted him. Hessa shook dust from the arrival cloth and glared at the sky.

Loric took the route slate from his satchel and stared at the neat marks he had copied the night before. The road on the slate looked simple. It did not include gateposts, bridge gaps, or the musings of mules.

Ysolde sat beside him with hard bread.

“You are angry,” she said.

Loric realized his grip on the slate may as well have been a chokehold. “I’m not… This was supposed to be done properly.”

“It is being done properly.”

“The bell rang.”

“Once.”

“The lamp nearly went out.”

“It did not.”

“The Seventh has mud on him.”

“On his covering. His dignity remains intact beneath waxed cloth.”

Loric looked toward the cart. The lamp flame moved gently now. The bell crate sat still and innocent. The covered panel leaned against its straps. The banner frame stretched over everything, absurdly large and impossible to ignore.

“When the road is bad, someone gets blamed,” Ysolde said after a moment. “Sometimes they deserve it but aren’t here to receive it. Better to give the first complaint to the road. The road does not mind.”

“And the artifacts?”

“The lamp goes out if you bully it. The bell speaks before it should. The banner…” Ysolde stood, brushing crumbs from her hands. “The banner is Brother Ommic’s sin, and we endure it.”

Despite himself, Loric almost smiled.

The last mile into Windmere climbed between terraced orchards, where the road narrowed and the wind found speed. People had gathered along the upper lane, feast ribbons snapping in the gusts. Someone began the arrival hymn too early.

Father Aven muttered something that was probably not part of the route prayer.

The cart struck a rut just as the hymn reached its second line.

The banner frame lurched. One boy grabbed its rear corner and was pulled sideways into Hessa, who hooked the back of his tunic without losing hold of the arrival cloth. The bell crate slid toward the edge. Loric lunged and braced it with his knee before the cord could strike the wheel. At the same moment, the lamp flame bent low, thinning to a blue thread.

Ysolde was on the wrong side of the cart.

Loric cupped both hands around the lamp glass and leaned close enough to feel heat against his palms.

“Sorry,” he said, before he knew he meant to speak. “We are nearly there.”

The flame steadied.

Behind him, the bell shifted once in its wrappings.

At the shrine gate, the hymn began again from the beginning. Father Aven lifted the route staff. Hessa unfolded the arrival cloth. The boys untied the bell with grave care. Loric stood beside the lamp while Ysolde loosened the waxed covering from Saint Calder VII.

The painted face emerged clean beneath it, solemn and dry, untouched by mud, wind, bridge, mule, or complaint.

Then the banner frame struck the shrine gate.

The bell rang once, bright and unmistakable.

For a moment, no one moved. Then Ysolde sighed and looked up at the frame.

“Forgive the road,” she said.

Loric looked at the gate, then at the bell, then at Saint Calder VII watching over all of them with painted patience.

“And Brother Ommic,” he said.

This time, even Father Aven laughed.