Then he lost it. She had fallen or dived under and swam. He searched in widening circles around the area where he last smelled her, and in a short time found her again and followed her to the far bank.

He began to lope, and her scent grew with every step. Fresher, stronger. Through the woods he ran, the dampness there and the cover from the sun keeping her trail together, making her as easy to follow as a slow parade of cattle.

Stronger and stronger it grew until he broke from the woods upon a small farmstead.

Hunger paused and watched. A small herd of brown-and-white milk goats grazed in a pasture beyond the house. The scent was strong here. Exceedingly strong.

He followed the woman’s trail to the barn. The doors stood open and he strode inside and stopped. He smelled horse and hay and harness. He smelled her as if she were standing in front of him.

He had her, had her trapped in this barn like a mouse in a box.

Hunger closed the doors to the tidy barn behind him. There was a stall and a loft of hay. He looked in the stall and found it empty. She was in the hay in the loft then.

He leapt to the loft and landed in a crouch, watiting for her to try to run by him. He waited. Nothing. He kicked through the hay, reached in to the deepest parts. But she wasn’t there.

Hunger cursed and walked back out and circled the barn. Only then did he realize what had happened. He breathed in deeply to smell it for sure-she’d taken the horse.

He followed the scent a number of paces down to the trail that led from this house.

She’d taken the horse and was at this very moment trotting away. He looked at the hoofprints. She was not galloping. Not that woman. She had shown herself too smart for that.

Hunger almost chased after her, but he stopped himself. He could match the speed of a horse, but not for long. He needed food. He would fail along the way if he didn’t replenish his Fire.

He pushed the door to the house open and found only a table and an orange cat hiding under a chair, looking up at him in fear. An old couple must live here. He saw one pair of large, muddy, wooden clogs next to the door. Or maybe it wasn’t a couple. Maybe it was just an old man and his cat.

He left the house and cat and went to the pasture. The brown-and-white goats scattered at his coming, but they were no match for his speed. He caught one whose horns had split into four curls and devoured its Fire and soul. It was not enough, and he chased down three others, leaving their bodies lying on the chewed grass.

When he’d drained the last one and felt satisfied, he stood. The power surged in his limbs. The scent of the horse mixed with the female still lay thick along the road. The sun and wind would disperse it. But not before he caught her.

Talen squatted with Legs behind a tangle of blackberry brambles that grew at the wood’s edge. In front of them a small orchard of pear trees glistened in the moonlight. At the end of one of the rows and across a path stood Uncle Argoth’s home. And patrolling the grounds about the house were three Lions of Mokad, dreadmen all.

Talen had his bow and more than twenty arrows. He might be able to pin three regular soldiers down, might even be able to take out one of these Lions if his aim was true and the arrow took the man in a vital part, but the others would not stay put. And once they entered the woods, his arrows would be worth nothing.

So Talen sat and waited, and while he waited he practiced what River had taught him, to open and close himself. To pour out Fire and to stop it up. He could still feel the memory of suffocating, of her pressing into his being. And he wondered if what he did at this very moment was Slethery.

“He’s not coming,” whispered Legs. “It’s past time.”

What did this boy do-count the seconds? “Since when do the blind know what time it is?” asked Talen.

“The mosquitoes have begun to rise. The mice and deer are moving. Morning’s coming.”

Mice and mosquitoes? He realized he had indeed just shooed away a mosquito. He looked to the eastern horizon and saw the faintest lightening of the sky over the peaks of the mountains. The boy was right.

“So you’re not blind?” asked Talen.

“I’m blind. I just pay attention.”

Talen grunted. What had happened to Nettle? Was he sleeping peacefully, knowing to come out would only reveal them, or was he on some table being put to the question?

“What else have you paid attention to besides deer and mice?” asked Talen.

“Nothing,” said Legs. “If the dreadmen know we’re here, then they don’t care.”

“Or they’re waiting for daylight to get a good look at us. Give me your hand,” said Talen. “It’s time for us to go.”

“You’re just going to leave him?”

“I don’t see that we have much choice,” said Talen. “Besides, Uncle Argoth’s with him.”

“Maybe they have him too,” whispered Legs.

“Then our only hope is to muster the rest of this… Order.” “Nest” is what he wanted to say. But he just could not apply that term to Da, River, and Ke. He didn’t know what terms to use. Sleth, good soul-eaters, bad Divines-it was all a bewildering mess.

He took Legs’s hand and picked his way carefully down the line of brambles. The forest canopy here was thick, and as a result, squelched almost all growth on the forest floor. Still, he had to keep an eye out for branches.

They passed a fat chestnut and Legs pulled on Talen’s hand. “There’s something dead here.”

Talen paused and smelled the air. Some carcass was indeed rotting nearby. The leaves off to their left suddenly rustled.

Talen froze. The last thing he wanted was to stumble upon some bear’s or wildcat’s kill. But then, Argoth had dogs, and they would have smelled this out long ago. They would have chased off any cat or bear except he hadn’t seen or heard Argoth’s dogs.

The leaves rustled again.

Whatever made the noise, it was something smaller than a bear or wildcat, a weasel or badger perhaps. Talen’s heart stopped palpitating.

He realized he hadn’t seen or heard Blue or Queen last night. Where had his dogs been? They’d often go hunting in the evenings, but they never stayed away. They always came home before it got too late. Had they gone to River’s aid?

He thought of River running out to draw that thing and a gloom descended upon him. Da had fought it to no avail. It had eluded the cohorts of the fortress. Surely, one girl, even with River’s talents, could not best it. He wanted more than ever to get to the Creek Widow’s to see if River had arrived. They needed to move faster.

“This way,” he whispered to Legs and pulled on his hand. “We’re going to take the roads.”

“Won’t that be risky?” asked Legs.

“Yes, but I don’t know the woods in these parts like I do at home. We’ll be stumbling about. If we’re going to sneak, I want to do it quickly.”

They left the line of bramble and, as carefully as they could, took a direct route to the road that cut like a pale ribbon through the dark woods. When they came to the road’s edge, they stood in the darkness of the forest for some time watching and listening. When Talen was satisfied they were alone, he led Legs out into the moonlight. Hand in hand they went, Legs keeping his other hand out in front of him so something didn’t smack him in the face. Down the hill they walked, to the first crossroads, a left, over a muddy brook, around the bend where a woodikin had been spotted last year, and along the Misty Falls trail.

Their grip became wet with sweat. “Change hands,” said Talen. He released his grip and switched his bow to the other hand.

“We’ll go faster if you just give me a stick,” said Legs.