No more words than that did she ever speak, nor did she need to. When he offered her coin for serving as guide to Lincoln, she only looked at his outstretched hand, shook her head, and stayed silent. Her expression said that though she was not offended at the offer, she had no interest in his payment. It said that she let him travel with her because she wanted to, and no other reason. This morning when she turned the mule eastward, he asked why – and her answering look said as plainly as any words that they went this way because it would lead to their destination.

The paths they had traveled ran parallel to the wide north road and now that they turned east, they must cross over it. As she did so often, she sent the dog ahead before them. When it came trotting back from the road with an expectant look, her obvious relief told him without words that she was no more eager than he to encounter other travelers.

They emerged at a crossroads. Lincoln was to the north, and Gryff had opened his mouth to ask her which villages lay to the east and west when he saw the gibbet. It was empty, and looked as if no criminal had rotted there in recent memory.

Sometimes he dreamt he was hung on one just like this, burning in a desert sun, bored. He would ask passing travelers who had put him here and why, and the answers were always different: the sheriff because he was a thief; the king because he was a traitor; his father for no reason at all. When he woke, it always took too long to remember that it was only a dream.

Gryff did not realize he had stopped to stare at the gibbet until something at his feet drew his attention away from the grim sight. It was little Bran. “Fuss,” he said, trying out the name.

He followed the dog to where Nan waited on the far side of the road, and they walked into the trees together. It was true forest here, and on the narrow way he must walk behind her. But this place made him uneasy, and he could take no pleasure in the sight of her now.

As if to confirm his fears well-founded, the dog began to bark at something ahead of them. It was a frantic noise, and caused Gryff to grip the only thing he had that could serve as weapon: an eating knife he had bought in the same market where he had sold the hawk.

It was nothing. He knew it was nothing even before he saw her quick movement, a flash of something in the underbrush and then stillness. He could see it was nothing by how unconcerned she was, how she only tried to quiet the excited dog, how no one and nothing came at them through the trees.