Crier shook her head. “Our best bet is the woods. Even if we can’t hunt, I can find—mushrooms, winterberries, seeds, something.”

“How do you know how to forage in the wilderness?” Ayla asked. For once she didn’t sound accusatory, just curious.

“My father has a lot of books on herbology and botany,” Crier said. “I read about edible mushrooms and flowers and bark and—lots of things. I know what will be growing in this region at this time of year. It’s difficult, because warm days and overnight frosts kill off a lot of seeds before they get a chance to grow, but I think I’ll be able to find something.”

Ayla opened her mouth and then shut it again. “I see,” she said. “Foraging it is.”

They crept through the forest, Crier listening for bandits, hunters, any footfalls that did not belong to her or Ayla. But after an hour of nothing but birdsong and rustling leaves and the trill of river frogs, Crier let herself relax just a fraction. The ground was soft and spongy with moss, eventually giving way to a carpet of dead leaves as they wandered farther from the river. Crier breathed in and the air smelled of sap, wet soil, the earthiness of moss and the rain-smell of rotting wood. It was strange, the absence of salt. Back home—back at the sovereign’s palace—the sea was inescapable. The air was tinged with it. The rushing tide sounded like the world itself was breathing, in and out, in and out. Filling and emptying those gargantuan lungs.

“There,” said Crier, pointing to a cluster of white mushrooms at the base of a tree. “Those are safe to eat.”

Ayla gave them a doubtful look. “You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

Crier expected an argument, but Ayla just nodded. She picked and ate the mushrooms right there, crouched over the tree roots, first in tiny hesitant bites and then in mouthfuls, hunger taking over. Crier tried not to think of her own hunger. She hadn’t had any heartstone for . . . two days now? She had finally run out. Right now the hunger was a faint ache, a restlessness, an itch, but soon it would become far more serious. Already she was feeling the side effects: the wounds in her back still ached, and staying awake all night had been unexpectedly difficult. She’d nearly nodded off a couple times.

They kept going once Ayla had finished off the mushrooms. It took a while to find more sustenance, the frostbitten forest having little to offer, but there were more mushrooms and a handful of pale green winterberries. Enough to fill Ayla’s belly for now. They began the long walk back to their riverbank shelter, and as the morning went on without any sign of bandits, the stretches of uncomfortable silence between them grew shorter—and less uncomfortable. Crier pointed out the gathering clouds and Ayla said, “I hope it doesn’t rain, that’s the last thing we need,” and Crier said yes and Ayla said, “Maybe we could find a better shelter. These woods are surrounded by farmland, maybe we could hide in someone’s barn.” And Crier said, Oh, that’s a good idea, and Ayla looked pleased. At one point Ayla started humming, absentminded, and Crier recognized the tune. Hadn’t Ayla sung this for her once? Listen for my voice across the wide, storm-dark waters. Listen for my voice, let it guide your way home. It had sounded melancholy then as it did now, even accompanied by sunlight and birdsong and the tumbling river. A sad, lilting song. A yearning song.