Nora did not recall falling asleep on the hard cabin floor, but when she opened her eyes, pale dawn light streamed through the open shutters that had been closed the night before. Still buried beneath the bearskin blanket, she heard Moira bustling about. The smell of porridge reached her nose. Light, but she was hungry.

  For a moment, Nora didn’t move. The events of the previous night came back all at once. Moira and Amon were demons, and demons were evil, all the stories said so. Yet Moira had saved Galan, and Amon had ridden back through the storm for her when he could have left her.

  Galan.

  How was he? Did he make it through the night?

  Pushing down her fear and worry, Nora sat up. In the daylight, the cabin seemed even more cluttered than it had been the night before. She spied a deer skull hanging over the hearth, jars and bottles cluttering shelves and poking out of baskets. The ranger’s big silver wolf was gone, she saw. As was the ranger himself.

  Nora climbed to her feet, stiff from sleeping on the wood floor. She immediately went to Galan, who was still asleep, pale but breathing. Nora gave a sigh of relief.

  “Good morning, dear,” Moira said. “Come and sit, breakfast is ready.”

  Nora did as she was bid, taking a rough-hewn chair at the little table that dominated the room. Moira set a bowl of porridge and a mug of hot tea before her. The thick oats were well-sweetened with honey and butter. It was just like her mother would make. It was strange, Nora thought, that something should be so ordinary when the situation was so bizarre.

  “Where has Amon gone?” Nora asked.

  “He went to look for your missing horses,” Moira said. She seated herself across the table from Nora. “Amon tells me you can do some interesting things.”

  Nora looked up sharply, wooden spoon falling from her fingers to splat into the oatmeal.

  Moira smiled. “Don’t fret, Not everyone holds the same view of Mana as you Westerlings. I myself have a touch of the Talent, you know.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Nora said, wiping a splash of oats off her tunic. She studied the wizened old demon woman. “I don’t do anything like that.”

  Moira smiled knowingly. “It’s alright, child. No one here will share your secret with the Scarlet Brotherhood.”

  The need for uncomfortable conversation ended as Galan began to wake. Nora left her breakfast and rushed to the bedside. His eyes were just fluttering open as she reached him. Those eyes so often reflected the colors around them; today they were light brown, reflecting the walls of the cabin.

  “Where…” Galan asked weakly. His eyes found Nora’s face. She took his hand and patted it.

  “Amon brought you to a woods witch,” Nora told him. She wasn’t sure how to tell him or how much he would understand in his weakened state.

  “Amon… the ranger?” Galan’s voice was strained. He hadn’t seen what Amon his under his hood, nor had he yet seen Moira, and Nora worried that the shock and fright might be too much for him. She glanced over her shoulder at Moira, who nodded.

  “Galan, I need to tell you something. The ranger, he’s a demon.”

  Galan’s eyes went wide and he drew in a sharp gasp. He tried to sit up, but Nora put a hand on his shoulder to steady him.

  “It’s okay, though,” Nora said. “Amon, he saved you. He fought a leshy and drove it away. He carried you here in the rain and then came back for me. We’re in Nora’s cabin now. Moira treated your wounds. She cured the poison in you. Galan, Moira is a demon too.”

  Eyes wide, Galan forced himself up onto an elbow. The blankets slid down his chest. His tunic had been slit open, his shoulder wrapped in bandages. Angry red tendrils still snaked out from beneath the stained linen wrappings. He managed to sit up. He shrank back as Moira approached.

  “Now lad,” she said, wrinkled hands planted on her hips, “I won’t have you reopening those wounds. Lie down and rest. The poison from the leshy’s claws is still in you.”

  Galan obediently settled back down, but he did not take his eyes off Moira. Nora took his hand in hers.

  “It’s okay,” she said as Moira bustled about the hearth, putting the kettle on the fire and mixing powders from several jars in a mug. Nora lowered her voice. “She’s been really nice to me so far.”

  “Where’s the ranger?” Galan asked.

  “He went out to find our horses. Only his came back last night.” She quietly told Galan what Amon looked like under his hood. As she finished, Galan’s eyes were beginning to flutter closed again.

  “Let him rest,” Moira said gently. “This ordeal has taken a lot out of him.”

  Nora nodded, but she did not move from the edge of the bed. It hurt to see her friend in such a state. She patted his hand and glanced out the small window above the bed. The fog still clung heavily to the forest, but she spied movement through the mist. It quickly resolved into a dark figure riding a dark horse and leading a second. Amon had returned.

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  There were only two horses. The second horse, the one he was leading, could only be Flint, judging by the dark coat and long legs. Where was Flax? Where was her sturdy, faithful mare? Nora rose and pulled on her cloak. She went out into the morning mist.

  Amon wore his hood pulled low over his face and his cloak pulled tight around him. The air held a damp chill that seeped up through Nora’s boots and soaked through her woolen cloak. He looked at her, yellow eyes strangely bright in the depth of his hood, as he swung down from his saddle.

  “Where’s Flax?” Nora asked, dreading the answer. Amon did not immediately answer. He started to lead Flint to the hitching rail that stood just outside the lean-to that served Moira as a stable. Nora followed. “Did you find Flax? Where is my mare?”

  Finally, Amon stopped. “I found her,” he said. He turned, yellow eyes making Nora halt in her tracks. “The wolves got to her before I did. I’m sorry.”

  His words hit Nora like a boulder. She stood, struck dumb, staring. He had tried to sound sympathetic, she thought, but he seemed unaccustomed to removing the icy edge from his tone.

  Tears sprang unbidden to Nora’s eyes. She wiped angrily at her eyes with her sleeve, unwilling to weep in front of the ranger. Flax, her good mare, gone. The flaxen chestnut had been her horse for six years. Her father had bought her from Master Callahan for her tenth nameday and the mare had carried her up and down the Amber Valley ever since. She had been able to talk to Flax. Well, not really, but she could get images from her, just like the ranger’s wolf. That beast was currently nowhere in sight.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “Wolves,” Amon said. “There was nothing I could do.”

  Nora nodded.

  “This will slow us down,” Amon said, tying Flint to the splintered hitching rail, which looked as though it might rip right out of the ground if the horse set back on it. Shade, the ranger’s black horse, stood patiently where Amon had left him in the middle of the yard.

  “We’re still going to Hardcoast?”

  “Of course,” Amon said. “Just because Galan’s been hurt doesn’t mean we turn back. Liddy gave me the task of getting you both to Hardcoast in one piece, and I mean to see it done.”

  Galan’s injury hadn’t been what Nora meant, but she kept quiet about it.

  The fog did not lift that day but instead hung like gray curtains amid the trees. Most of the day passed in uncomfortable silence inside the little cabin. Galan slept for most of the day, though when he did wake, he stared at Amon and Moira. It seemed that Amon was extremely uncomfortable having other people look at him. Once, he tried to put on his hood and cloak, but Moira stopped him.

  Moira cooked a hearty stew of vension, carrots, potatoes and onions for supper. Galan managed to eat a bowl, though it clearly took some effort. He was looking far better to Nora’s eyes. Some color was beginning to return to his pale face and his eyes were not so sunken anymore.

  After supper, Amon went out into the foggy gloom. Nora watched him stride toward the woods, swathed in his thick cloak, bow in hand.

  “Where is he going?” Nora asked.

  “He’s gone to make sure no one has followed you three here,” Moira said quietly.

  The next day dawned just as dreary as the one before. Amon returned sometime in the night, his wolf with him. The Seekers had followed them as far as the swamp, he claimed. Nora wondered if they had run into the leshy. Then she thought of poor Flax and was nearly in tears again. Galan had improved to the point that he could get out of bed. With that news, Amon was determined to ride at first light the next day.

  “The boy is far too weak yet,” Moira protested over their morning tea and porridge.

  “It can’t be helped,” Amon said. “The longer we stay here, the more chance those Seekers will find us. I don’t fancy having to deal with all four at once.” Nora thought she heard a hint of fear in his voice as he spoke.

  “You will go slowly at first, at least,” Moira insisted.

  Amon nodded.

  “And watch him closely. The poison is still in him. Too much stress can be dangerous in the early stages of recovery.”

  Amon nodded again. “I’ll be careful with him.” He set his mug of thistle tea aside and looked at Nora. “We need to do something about that horse of yours. He’s too wild for Galan to ride.”

  “Flint isn’t my horse,” Nora said.

  “He is now. Come with me. I have a few ideas that might settle him down.”

  Nora reluctantly followed Amon out of the cabin. She didn’t want another horse. She wanted Flax, but there was nothing to be done about it.

  The fog had lifted, revealing blue sky above. It was almost warm, at least when she stood in the sun. She went and fetched Flint from the ramshackle lean-to. He tried to bite her as she untied the rope and led him out. He tried to bite Amon as well when Nora handed over the lead rope. She stepped to watch, curious to see what the ranger had in mind.

  Amon shed his hood and cloak. The sun gleamed off his white hair. Nora tried not to stare at his horns as he tried to work with the horse, but it was hard not to. In the daylight, he seemed less a menace and more a curiosity.

  “He’s defensive,” Amon said, avoiding a snap from Flint as he tried an experimental pull on the lead rope. “He expects punishment for doing the wrong thing, but no one’s ever taught him the right thing.”

  Standing at the horse’s shoulder, he held the lead rope tight until, at last, Flint bent his neck to the side. Amon released the rope, gave the horse a pat, and then reached into a coat pocket and produced a bit of carrot.

  “I expect he’s been beat more than a few times,” Amon said. He repeated the exercise a few times. Flint caught onto the game quickly. “It will take time to overcome what’s been done to him, but he’s not hopeless.” He gave Flint a pat on the neck. The horse responded by trying to bite. Amon stepped nimbly out of the way. “Ignore it when he does things like that. Punishment isn’t what he needs. Now, bring me his saddle. I want to check the fit.”

  Nora did as she was asked. She pulled the saddle down from the beam under the lean-to roof and brought it to Amon. He took it and set it on Flint’s back. He ran his hand between it and the horse, checking for spots where it might pinch or rub.

  “A bad saddle fit will cause a bad attitude,” he explained. “Can’t blame an animal in pain for acting out.” He frowned. “Here, see this? It sits too low on his withers.” Nora looked where Amon indicated, to the front of the saddle where it crossed the horse’s withers. The saddle barely cleared Flint’s back. “You should be able to fit your entire hand between the top of the gullet here and his withers. See the white patches on his back? Those are from the saddle rubbing. We can try to pad it a bit, but he’ll need a new saddle eventually. These high-withered horses are hard to fit.”

  They spent some time trying different saddle blanket configurations until they finally found one that Amon seemed satisfied with. He did up the girth, dodging Flint’s teeth as he did so, and climbed into the saddle. Flint danced about, unhappy as always with a rider. Amon went through a series of exercises, showing Nora how to stop Flint from bucking or bolting using one rein.

  “You’ll want to practice with him every day, if there’s time,” Amon said as he slid from the saddle. He patted Flint, who responded by trying to kick him. “You know, this might be the worst-tempered horse I’ve ever met.”

  “Have you had a lot of horses?” Nora asked.

  Amon nodded and sighed. “More than a few. I’ve been wandering this isle since before your grandparents were born. A good, sound horse can mean the difference between life and death. I always seem to end up with the ones no one else wants. I think Shade is the first horse I’ve bought that didn’t have years of baggage and ill training to undo. Flint will come around, just give him time.”