72

In the middle of a spruce forest, a lone apple tree bloomed, tall and so old that its bumpy roots rose almost a palm above the ground. A warm wind tore off the white petals from her and threw them on the ground covered with needles.

Recognizing the outlines of three gentle hills, Lyramel looked around in bewilderment. Neither the White Castle nor the road was in sight. There was such silence around, as if the world had become uninhabited. Even the birds did not chirp, and only a string of red ants flowed from north to south, skirting a white pebble sticking out of the ground.

About a dozen men on foot descended the eastern hill silently and quietly. Dressed in long, belted tunics, they looked tired and depressed. Two were carrying a stretcher, on which lay a body tightly wrapped in a white cloth. A tall girl walked in front of the stretcher. Long black hair was braided into two thick braids, a white dress, already dirty at the hem and heavily wrinkled, clung to her slender legs an