“You speak, brother, without knowing what you’re talking about. You make assumptions about things you don’t understand. If you wish to talk with me, find a place apart and we will talk.”

The circle shifted, men and women looked at each other, wondering what Iydahar, so clearly used to deference, would say to his sister’s reply.

“Sister,” Iydahar said, haughty, “I’m not used to begging.”

“Neither, does it seem, are you much used to courtesy.”

The breeze off the hill shifted, growing cold. Kerian saw the shadow of the hawk whirling, spinning round and round across the stone of the secret fastness, and it seemed to overlay another shadow, that of a wolf running. Startled, Kerian looked away. Her eyes now held by the keen gaze of Elder. In her heart she heard words no other did.

Killer! You have killed, and the Invader has killed. Each of you will kill again. For what will the deaths you make count, Kerianseray of Qualinost?

Frowning, Kerian lifted her chin, firmed her shoulders. The red-tail screeched across the sky, its whirling shadow vanished, taking with it the phantom of the wolf. She turned from Elder and met her brother, eye to eye. Her hands were fists. She lifted one and opened it.

“Give me the other half of my ring, Dar.”

He snorted. “This ring you got from your master, the puppet king?” His fingers closed over the glittering gold and the topaz. “Will you go running back to him now, Kerian? Will you scurry home safe to your lover’s bed?”

Her eyes narrowed at the insult. Murmuring rose up from all those gathered, questions, and again the cry, “Spy!”

Kerian ignored the suspicion turning suddenly threatening. She spoke to Dar alone and felt the eyes of Elder on her. “You are a fool, brother, but one I loved well enough to leave the city and come to find because I saw our cousin dead and thought you might be in need. It is true I killed a Knight and caused this sorrow to fall on Bueren Rose. It is also true that I rescued Ayensha and took chances with my own fate. I see now that you are not in any danger and have no need of me. I see that you have plenty of friends for yourself.”

She glanced at Bueren Rose, swiftly, then back.

“Give me what is mine, Dar.” She lifted her head, and from her lips came words to startle her brother, the outlaws gathered, and most strongly-herself. “Never again in my presence refer to Gilthas as a puppet He is our king, Iydahar-he is mine, and he is your king and lord of all these here as long you feed and clothe yourselves on the fat game of his forests.”

She said no more. She walked out of the circle and felt the eyes of all upon her. Most keenly, she felt the eyes of Elder. Surprised, she knew it in her bones that the ancient elf woman was pleased.

That night winter came, and it was a night filled with snow falling, kissing the cold cheeks of sleepers. Kerian, sitting before the highest fire, that in the center of the stony basin, watched the flakes fall. She did not watch them gather upon stone or cluster upon the boughs of pine trees. She had eyes only for those spinning madly down into the flames. Dar had left, Ayensha and Bueren Rose with him. Kerian had not heard their departure or said farewell. She did not know where they’d gone, into the forest alone or to some hidden camp of Kagonesti. Now she knew that she had a decision to make: go or stay. Her brother no longer mattered. She’d learned what she came to find out, that he was alive.

Kerian sat a long time in silence before the fire until she looked up to see Jeratt sitting outside the light.

She said, “What?”

He came closer and sat across the fire from her. For a moment he watched the snow as closely as she. Then, “This king of yours, Kerianseray of Qualinost, is he worth anything?”

“Plenty.”

“Is he worth your brother? Because Iydahar didn’t leave happy.”

Kerian shrugged. “We come and go, Dar and me. I didn’t trade him for the king; I’ll see him again.”

“So. That king?”

She drew closer to the hissing fire. “ He walks a tightrope, balancing between a dragon and a Senate that spends all its time and mind trying to reckon how to stay comfortable and alive rather than how to take back an ancient kingdom from the … invader.”

Jeratt edged closer. “Your king, he’s got a sackful of trouble.” He looked around at the sleeping outlaws. Many, Kerian had learned, were one-time Forest Keepers dismissed from service under an edict Gilthas had been loath to sign; some were Wildrunners from Silvanesti, come out with Porthios in his noble-hearted and ultimately doomed quest to unite the elven nations. “Trouble your king’s got, but he’s got no army.”

“No,” she admitted. “He doesn’t have an army.”

No army yet.The thought startled her.

As winter came down, locking the eastern part of the forest into a cold season and Kerian into her decision to seek shelter among the outlaws, the startling thought stayed with her and became, through familiarity, less and less startling.

Practice with borrowed bow and targets drawn on trees,” Jerrate ordered her, “but you’re not gonna step a foot out to hunt until y’ve made your own bow, strung it with your own string, and fletched your own arrows. Till then, y’sit and clean the catch.”

So over the weeks of winter Kerian practiced, savaging the trunks of trees with skill that grew from both practice and the return of memories of her Kagonesti childhood. Those memories, it seemed, resided in muscle and bone, in the sure understanding how to draw a bow, how to sight a target. She remembered how to account for even the slightest breeze when preparing to loose her arrow, how to sight only a little bit higher than one would imagine must be correct. With delight, she knew again the swift satisfaction of seeing her arrows hit where she sent them, and if this required yet another set of muscles to become used to long-forgotten work, she stretched these sore muscles with the contentment of one who has earned the right to grin and groan.

All the while, she strove to make her own bow, a thing she’d at first thought impossible without the tools available to even the poorest bowyer in Qualinost. With Jeratt’s guidance, she’d found a fine yew tree, assured herself of the goodness of the wood by testing both its strength and its ability to yield. Under Jeratt’s direction, with borrowed tools crudely made but well kept, Kerian freed the heart of the wood, the strong dark center.

“No one around here uses anything else but yew-heart for bow-wood,” he’d said. Then he’d laughed, as though over a fine joke. “Unless we can get a bow for free.” Stolen bows, reclaimed arrows, a sword taken from the hand of one it had failed to defend-these were free weapons not always the most trusted. “We like the yews from our own hands better.”

Kerian had accepted that for the sake of learning but wondered why a bow crafted in the forest would be better than one made by an elf who had learned his craft from his father. Jeratt had only told her that in time she’d know the difference.

Kerian planed the wood until it became a stave, one long enough for her reach. She bound a stop onto the stave in the middle, a piece of wood no thicker than her finger, only enough for an arrow to rest before flight. This she placed just a bit higher than the exact center of the belly of the bow. In the making of the bow, she learned the names of all the parts.

“Know your weapon,” the half-elf told her, “the way you know a lover. Youil be counting on it like a lover.”

In the making, Kerian learned to twine gut and make a strong bowstring. No one had to tell her how to keep her bow polished and clean and dry. Memory of things like this came back to her with dawning delight. Over the weeks of winter, she studied the craft of arrow making until she began to know it for an art-the making of the slender shaft, the crafting of the deadly point. She learned to survey closely the small bodies of the fowl she had to clean and to salvage especially the feathers of geese for fletching her arrows.