The halfling woman stood in the larder and took inventory without writing anything down. Thirty years of counting had made it second nature. The grain barrels, the preserved fruits hung in their cloth, the smoked meats, the wheels of cheese aging in the cool stone alcove all lived in her memory. She ran one weathered hand across the shelf. The year had been lean. Everyone in the valley knew it. The early frost had taken the early apple crop, and the spring planting had been late. But she had planned for lean years when the years were fat. That was Yondalla's teaching, the part they sang about in the temples but which really lived in the patient work of the larder. Her daughter came down with the child, Yondalla's great-granddaughter, who was four and perfect and had never known hunger. The woman's eyes followed the girl to the dried fruit hanging in braids from the beams. 'Can she have one?' 'Yes.' The child's teeth closed on the date and her eyes widened at the sweetness. The woman felt the weight of that moment. This was power. Not armies. Not magic. This was knowing that if the winter came early and the stores ran low, her people would still break bread together at the winter solstice. Yondalla, watching from the kitchen that evening, was satisfied...