Iseult half ran, half skipped due west, back the way they’d come. Back toward Praga and Safi. She was exhausted, she was drained, but anger had gotten her this far. It would get her the rest of the way. Owl kept silent and obedient beside her. Dark clouds scudded across the sun as they moved; snow began to fall. A light, fluffy snow that Iseult would have thought beautiful several weeks ago.

Now she knew such snow made tracks easier to follow. Now she knew such snow killed, gentle as a mother’s embrace.

Soon conifers and old-growth forests swallowed them, muting the snow, and Iseult sensed hunters approaching. Three sets of hostile Threads—while countless more waited beyond. Then the first hunter reached them: a gray-haired woman, broad shouldered, with a carving knife drawn. “You are not allowed to leave.”

“On whose orders?”

“Our Threadwitch. No one leaves without her approval.”

“And I have it.” Iseult pumped authority into those words and copied her mother’s stiff posture. “Is there a trail leading through the fog?”

The woman hesitated. Then shook her head. “No.” Fresh aggression crystallized in the hunter’s Threads. “You’re not allowed to leave anyway. Come with me.”

Before Iseult could argue—or fight back—footsteps pounded close. Footsteps without Threads. Then Alma appeared, her face beautifully flushed. Owl’s face lit up. Her Threads too.

“They have Gretchya’s permission,” Alma declared, only slightly breathless. “Leave us.”

The hunter frowned. Alma’s eyes thinned. And finally the hunter cowed, slinking away into the trees. Alma didn’t wait for her Threads to disappear before rounding on Iseult. “Thank Moon Mother you aren’t gone yet.” Nothing in her face showed relief. “I ran as fast as I could.” In one hand she held a small traveling satchel. “Take this. It isn’t much, but it will last a few days.”

She thrust the satchel at Iseult, without waiting to see if Iseult wanted it. “And these.” Alma held up her other hand, revealing wind-spectacles. “They’ll let you see without damage to your eyes. Oh, and this.” She fumbled something from her pocket. Vellum and worn.

It was the Hell-Bard map.

A sensation Iseult didn’t know wrestled to life in her chest. Both heavy and light at the same time. Both cold and warm. Confusing.

“Take it.” Gripping Iseult’s hand, Alma opened the fingers and placed the rolled page upon her palm. “You need it more than we do.” Alma released her, but Iseult didn’t lower her hand, didn’t close her fist around the map.

“Why?” she asked. “Why are you helping me?”

“Because,” she said, her gaze dropping to Owl. Kind eyes, thoughtful eyes. “Moon Mother always protects her own.”

But I am not one of her own.