When Ayensha groaned, Kerian took a step toward her.

Jeratt held up his hand, his eyes gone suddenly hard again. “Leave her alone. She’s here now. I’ll take care of her.”

Who was he, her father? She didn’t think so. They hadn’t the look of each other. Kerian wondered, is he her lover then or her husband?

The silence between Kerian and Jeratt deepened, seeping out into the shadows. A small breeze kicked up, sighing low around the boulders and the trees.

“So here you are,” Jeratt said. “In the heart of a place you don’t know, far from anyone you do know, all so you can find-”

“Kill her!”

A woman’s voice screeched, high and ragged and shrill, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere, behind and before and around. The hair on Kerian’s neck lifted, hackles rising at the sting of a primitive nerve. It was all she could do not to bolt and run.

“Killer!”

Kerian’s heart slammed against her ribs; her hand dropped to the knife at her belt. Jeratt’s eyes widened, his own hand lifted to warn.

“Don’t move-”

“Kill her!” screeched the banshee voice.

With an odd kind of gentle scorn, Jeratt said, “Don’t worry. No one’s killing anyone. At least not yet. Take your hand off your knife, Kerianseray.” When she hesitated, “Do it now, or I’ll give you to the old woman.”

Kerian dropped her hand from the bone-gripped knife, and as she did, a cold grin changed Jeratt’s expression to dangerous.

“Come to think of it, I’ll give you to the old woman anyhow.”

Shadows shifted. All around the basin the shadows gathered and seemed to coalesce as elves. Men and women came from three directions. Rough-dressed in leathers and buckskins, in oft-mended shirts, in boots they cobbled themselves, they drifted down the slopes.

Though they appeared to be folk who took their livelihood from the forest, they were not Kagonesti, for none showed tattoos. One or two wore bits of armor, a breastplate polished to shining, a leg-guard, a gorget.

As these revealed themselves, Kerian saw one shade-shape among them, a shadow that moved more slowly. The elves around it moved off. Like warriors they took posts around the basin, leaving Kerian and Jeratt and Ayensha alone in the center as the shadow advanced.

Kerian’s mouth dried.

The shadow stopped, standing outside the small ring of fires. In the space of a breath, it began to change shape.

“Elder,” Jeratt said, his voice colored by wariness, by respect and-Kerian felt it-humility. “Here she is.”

She whom Jeratt addressed as Elder looked neither right nor left. She did not look up, and she did not look around. She was not breathing. Not even the least flutter passed her lips or caused her bony breast to rise and fall. She sat like a creature born of the earth, still as stone, her eyes strange and unchancy as wind in the mad season between winter and spring.

“So here she is,” said Elder, her voice cracked as ancient parchment. Her glance never shifted. Kerian wondered whether she were blind, but she saw no milkiness of eye, no scar, no wounding at all. The woman simply looked into some middle distance, some place into which no one else could glimpse. “I see you, child.”

Killer. I see you.

Kill her… killer!

“No!”

She tried to say more, but the old woman’s intrusion into her mind, her soul, had addled her wits and left her feeling like all her words had been scrambled, her tongue changed into something unwieldy as leather. She could not see clearly. She could hardly hear. The sounds around her were muffled as by distance or as though she were under water.

You will kill again. Men will die because of you, women will die, and children will weep. Because of you!

Around her, Kerian felt the world grow cold. She heard a hard wind howling, though she felt no wind on her skin, none in her hair. The voice of the wind became the throaty roar of flames, and before the fire she stood, screaming, killer and victim.

A hard hand grabbed her, then two, holding her back from a fall. In the moment she realized it, Kenan’s knees sagged, her belly went suddenly tight, and bile rushed like fire up her throat.

Kerian’s gut wrenched, the pain doubling her over. Jeratt let her go as everything she’d eaten since daybreak came spewing out. Her belly spasmed again, and falling to her hands and knees, she gagged. The golden chain round her neck slid and slipped, Gil’s ring falling outside her shirt Light glinted sharply off the facets of the topaz. Sweat cold and thin slid down her neck. Confused, her head spinning, she looked around and saw but a forest of legs.

A hand reached down, big and brown. It took her wrist, not roughly, not gently.

“Up,” said a deep voice, a voice not Jeratt’s.

The word rang in her head painfully, like a clapper in a bell. Kerian winced. She tried to pull away from the hand but had no strength for resistance. The man’s hand slipped down her wrist.

“There can’t be much more left in you, so on your feet, Kerianseray of Qualinost.”

She knew him then. In the scornful twist of his voice, in the subtle insult of the naming, she knew him. He pulled, she rose, and Kerian looked into the eyes of her brother, Iydahar.

Kerian stood hefore her brother, but she didn’t know him. She knew the shape of his face, the cut of his shoulders, the way he held his head. She recognized him, but not the hardness of his eyes, or the way he looked at her as though across a gulf of distance and time.

“Dar,” she said.

His eyes grew colder.

Elves in their rough gear stood still. The little shadow that had been a screech-voiced old woman was gone.

“Brother,” she said.

Iydahar turned from her. Silently, he held out his hand to Ayensha. “Ayensha,” he said, and in all the years she’d known him, Kerian had never heard such tenderness in her brother’s voice. “Wife,” he said to the woman Kerian had rescued, “where have you been?”

Wife! Kerian drew breath to speak, to give words to her wonder. She fell silent, the words unshaped, for one tear, perfect and silver, slid down Ayensha’s cheek, making a shining trail through the grime of days.

“Husband,” Ayensha whispered. “Ah, I have been on hard roads.”

Kerian saw again the haunted, hunted woman jerked into the Hare and Hound, hobhled and hands bound. She watched in silence, breathless, as her brother took in Ayensha’s words and the meaning Kerian only guessed.

Iydahar opened his arms, gathered his wife to him, and held her gently.

A hand closed round Kerian’s arm. Gruff, his voice like gravel in his throat, Jeratt said, “Give ‘em peace, Kerianseray.”

Jeratt led her away, across the basin to the foot of the hill. Someone came and brought her water. Kerian drank without tasting. All the elves who had been hidden in shadow stood now in the light of day, and there were at least a dozen of them. By design or instinct, they ranged themselves so that their backs were to the two weeping in each other’s arms, so that they formed a wall of privacy for the wounded pair.

Kerian did not see or speak with her brother for a week after her arrival at the outlaw camp. Iydahar and Ayensha kept to themselves. That her brother was angry, she did not doubt. No sign of it did she see, but she felt it. At night sometimes, sitting beside a fire at meal, sitting alone and looking high to the glittering sky, she felt Iyda-har’s anger.

“Man’s planning,” Jeratt said to her, one evening when all slept around them. He poked at the fire, sending a plume of sparks dancing up. “Man’s planning. You can see it on him.”

Kerian could see very little to recognize in her brother. His eyes were cold when he looked at her, his expression stony, and that had nothing to do with his grief or his anger.