It was not enough, he thought, adjusting the crude circle of flagstone.  At the center was a splayed raven, wings pinned with stag, beak toward the northeast.  He looked over the pebbles piled at each side of the wings, his heart four years away to when he was only ten, when his village was swept away by the marauding slave traders.  Four years since his mother had pushed him into those long dormant ovens of his ancestors, the ones used for curing clay, or glass, or metalwork, he could not remember which.  When he thought too much about that day tears would come, and he would run away from everyone.  Run away from his adopted family, run away to his shrine, where he could be Cerdic.  Ce...

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