Then the elder’s father grabbed his wrist with astonishing strength. “Whatever happens, you must not let the Sacrifice escape. You must not allow him to leave the village. And you must impress him with the weight of his destiny, train him in every particular until he truly accepts it and will never choose flight. You must not be lenient or frail of heart. The castle has chosen him as the Sacrifice, and about that there can be no mistake.”

The elder quailed, thinking of the newborn child. How adorable, how helpless and priceless he had seemed. Even if he bore the horns of the Sacrifice, he was still just an innocent babe. How could the elder be stern with something so small? What words could he use to tell the child that his life would one day be offered up to the Castle in the Mist?

He could not protest his duty to his father. Instead, in a weak voice he asked, “What happens if I succeed in keeping the child from escaping, only to watch him fall ill? What if he is injured? What if he does not live to the proper age?”

“The Sacrifice cannot fall ill,” his father said with grim confidence. “Nor can he be easily injured. He will be exceptionally healthy, in fact. You need only raise him to become as solitary as the hawk, as pliable as the dove, and deeply committed to his fate.”

“Raise him?”

“Yes. As elder, you must raise the child born this night as though he were your own.”

“But what about the parents?”

“Once his birth mother is able to walk, the parents must be cast out from the village.”

“What? Why?” the elder asked, even though he knew what the answer would be.

“That is the custom,” his father replied. “The couple who has given birth to the horned child must leave Toksa Village.”