The guard there waved. “Going far?” he asked.

“Later,” Arian said. She mounted and legged the horse into a strong canter. Kieri would know which way she had gone, if he had her followed, but she hoped—she hoped he would not, and she hoped he would.

The bay, frisky in the cold weather after two days in the stall, kept her busy for the first half-glass—he shied at everything, buck-jumped twice, and tried to bolt. After that he settled, and Arian had all too much time to think as the forest closed around her.

Her father. The Lady. Kieri. Most of all, Kieri. I am not a child. I am not an adolescent. The realm matters more. Her father could be—had been, her mother always said—self-indulgent and irresponsible, but she was not. For the sake of the taig she had served as ranger, for the sake of the king she had served as Squire, for the honor of Falk … she reached out to the taig, as she had so often, but it did not answer. Well. It was still upset because the king and the Lady quarreled. They would get over it. The taig would get over it.

Blackwood, fireoak, pickoak and holm, yellowwood, holly, ash and hornbeam … she recognized every tree by its bark, its pattern of branches; she knew every leafless bush, every fern’s brown fronds, now winter-marked. She rode one of the ranger trails, heading west, not thinking yet whether to turn south toward her home vill or north toward the river. For now it was enough to be back in the forest … she slowed, since her mount was willing, and opened herself to the taig once more. Nothing. She told herself winter had not yet turned; they were resting and not minded to bestir themselves without a good reason. One half-elf ranger was not reason enough.

Down at the root level, where tree touched tree, Arian tried to feel along them, back toward Chaya, but could reach nothing … only cold reluctance. That bad, then. She listened: a little wind, the rattle of a falling leaf here and there, no birds nearby. The ground lifted into one of the low ridges of western Lyonya. Up, up … rock outcrops, splashed with brilliant lichens. Through the bare trees she saw only sky, clouds moving in, one shelf above another.

She was hungry but did not want to stop for a meal; cold finally forced a stop so she could pull a heavy cloak from the travel pack. If only for the warmth, she wished she’d not left her tabard back in Chaya. And it would be stupid to ignore hunger; she took one of the wedges of travel bread to eat in the saddle and rode on.

As clouds thickened, the day darkened and visibility drew in. On this trail, she should reach a ranger camp by dark or shortly after. There might be no one there, but she could use the shelter and whatever food and fuel they’d left. She smelled the woodsmoke before she saw the flames, bright against the darkening forest, and rode in to find rangers she knew: Forlin, Mards, and Cuvis, all half-elves like herself, all former comrades.