Galan was still weak when morning came, but the ranger was insistent that they leave the cabin and start riding again. Moira fussed over him. The demon woman still unnerved Galan, and the ranger was even worse, cold and hard-eyed, terse and short when he spoke. He was terrible to look on, with those black horns and yellow eyes. Moira wasn’t much better, maybe even worse with her wrinkles and her nearly skeletal hands, but at least she spoke kindly enough when she changed his bandages or forced some vile-tasting medicine down him.

  He stood weakly as Moira fussed about him, setting his woolen cloak about his shoulders, making sure he had his gloves and the thick, knitted scarf she had fished out of an old chest for him. She was worried that he would get too cold on the road. With the cold winds and rainstorms or late, it felt more like a wet spring than a moon’s turn past midsummer.

  Blinking in the sun, Galan left the cabin, leaning a bit on Nora’s arm for support. Outside, the clouds had parted. Amon had the two horses saddled. Flax was gone. That had hit him hard when Nora had told him. He had seen the tears in her eyes when she spoke of how Amon had found Flax, killed by wolves. She had loved her mare.

  With only two horses, someone would have to ride double. That meant someone would have to ride with Amon on Shade. Galan had no choice. The ranger wasn’t going to let him ride Flint by himself, and the horse wasn’t likely to take two riders. Nora smiled at him and told him it would be fine. She claimed that she didn’t believe he would do them any harm, but Galan still saw her watching the ranger whenever the man’s back was turned.

  Nora was doing that now as Amon checked the saddlebags for the last time. She looked away quickly as Amon turned. “It’s time to go,” he said. He wore his hood now, the deep cowl shadowing his face so that only his yellow eyes were visible. The big gray wolf rose from where he had been lying stretched out in a patch of sunlight and padded over to Galan and Nora. For once, he didn’t leap on them and try to lick their faces. He seemed to know that Galan was in no shape to endure one of his enthusiastic greetings. Instead, he sniffed at the hem of Galan’s cloak, tail wagging lazily, and pushed his head under Nora’s hand so she could rub his ears.

  Moira, heavy shawl looped over her arms, went over to Amon. “Remember,” she said, “go slowly at first. I should like it to keep him here another week at least...”

  “We can’t wait that long,” Amon said. “Those Seekers will be on our trail again, and there’s something else out there as well, as I’ve told you. What do you want in return for all the help you’ve given?”

  “You know what I want,” Moira said, a twinkle in her yellow eyes. “But since you will not give me that, you can bring me the usual wagonload of supplies you always bring me before winter. That is more than enough.”

  Amon nodded. “Be wary in the next days. The Seekers may follow us here.”

  “I know how to take care of myself,” Moira said.

  Galan looked to Flint. The dark bay stood tied to the hitching rail, ears laid back, leg cocked, ready to kick. He was suddenly very glad he was not going to try to climb on that horse. He was certain Flint would buck him straight off.

  Amon swung easily into the saddle and held out his hand toward Galan. With some reluctance, he took it and let Nora help boost him onto the black horse behind the ranger.

  “We’ll go slow today,” the ranger said. “Just hold on, and tell me if you’re going to fall off.”

  Nora went to Flint and untied him. Oddly, the horse didn’t try to bite her today, though he did dance sideways when she mounted. She got him under control quickly, though.

  Amon kept them to a slow pace, leading them along a twisting game trail. To Galan’s amazement, Flint did not try to buck or rear or act horrible. He was glad of the slow pace, but every step sent needles of pain shooting up through his wounded shoulder. By midday, he was miserable, clinging to Amon for support. He might have fallen more than once if he hadn’t been there. His whole body ached, as though he had been splitting firewood all day. He was too cold and too hot by turns. He found himself constantly adjusting or loosening his cloak and scarf. The wound burned.

  Often throughout the day Amon slowed to check on him. Galan wished he wouldn’t do that. The ranger wore his hood, hiding those terrible horns, but Galan flinched every time he reached back. Several times Amon called a halt to pour some of Moira’s vile-tasting medicine into a tin cup for Galan to drink.

  They stopped early that night. Galan knew that was for his benefit. He hadn’t complained at all, though he had wanted to. When Amon and Nora helped him down from the saddle, he all but collapsed in a heap, unable to help with setting up camp. Ferron joined him, melting out of the undergrowth to flop down beside him. He was glad for the warmth and the companionship from the big wolf.

  Amon saw to the horses, carefully lifting their hooves to clean out the rocks and mud that had accumulated during the day and brushing out their coats while Nora took down their bedrolls and spread them out on the cold ground. No fire, again. Galan shivered, pulling his cloak tighter around him and huddling on his bedroll. He would have liked a fire now.

  Amon paused and looked carefully at Galan as he passed out the evening rations, more dried venison and hard cheese and flatbread. “Are you feeling any worse?” he asked.

  Galan jumped. He hadn’t been fully aware that the ranger was even beside him. He quickly shook his head, hoping that Amon would leave him be. Instead, the ranger knelt down beside him. He pulled off his gloves and put a cool bare hand to Galan’s forehead.

  Galan pulled back. “I’m fine,” he said quickly.

  “Tell me if you start feeling worse,” Amon said, rising. His voice suddenly sounded distant. Galan swayed, the forest suddenly darkening. He thought he heard someone calling his name. The ground seemed to rush up to meet him.

  When Galan next opened his eyes, it was full dark, stars sparkling in the black sky between the trees, a deep chill settling over the forest. Nora’s face hovered over him. She looked worried. “He’s awake,” she said. Slowly, Galan tried to sit up. A gloved hand pushed him gently but firmly back down onto his bedroll.

  “Stay there,” Amon said, looming over him. “You passed out. I told you to tell me if you were feeling worse.”

  Galan lay back and watched the ranger move away. Nora gently stroked his hair. He didn’t recall fainting, though he assumed that must have been what happened. Finally, Galan pushed himself up on his elbows and struggled into a sitting position. Amon returned, pushing a tin cup of that nasty medicine into his hand, along with his evening ration.

  “Drink that down and eat,” Amon said. “You need to keep up your strength.”

  Galan looked down at the vaguely greenish brew. Amon wouldn’t leave him until he drained that cup entirely.

  “You gave us a bit of a scare, boy,” Amon said, seating himself on the ground nearby.

  “I’m sorry,” Galan said quickly.

  Amon was staring at him from beneath the black shadows of his hood. “Do you understand how serious this is? You could die, boy. The poison is still in you. I’m trying to help you, but I need you to cooperate. Drink that.” He sighed. “I know you don’t trust me, boy. That’s fine. I wouldn’t trust me either if I were in your situation. Do you trust Liddy?”

  Galan nodded, staring down at his cup.

  “She trusts me to get you both to Hardcoast,” Amon said. “She trusts me to get you there alive and in one piece. I’ve been guiding men in these mountains since before you were born, and I’ve never lost anyone. I don’t intend to lose you or break Liddy’s trust. So, I need you to let me help you. Drink that, and next time, tell me if you feel like you’re going to pass out.”

  The ranger was right. Galan didn’t have to trust Amon, but he trusted Liddy. She had always looked out for him, as much as Mother had. “Okay,” Galan said. He made himself drink the bitter medicine.

  ***

  The morning light had barely begun to color the eastern sky when the ranger woke them. Galan looked pale and weak as he struggled to sit up. Bleary-eyed and sore from sleeping on the ground, Nora rose, tugged her cloak tight around her, and went to him.

  “How are you feeling?” she asked.

  Galan was watching Amon, who was cooking breakfast over a small campfire that barely put off any noticeable smoke. Moira had given them a supply of extra food for the journey, including a few strings of small, spiced sausages. Amon currently had half a dozen frying over the fire, and with a kettle of water boiling, for tea.

  “I want to go back to sleep,” Galan said. “I wish we could have stayed with Moira.”

  “Those Seekers are still after us,” Amon said. Galan looked up quickly, startled by his voice. “We have to keep moving.”

  They ate quickly. Nora changed Galan’s bandages under Amon’s direction. By the time the sun had broken over the mountains, they were riding. Amon had hidden their camp, destroying any evidence of the fire. Galan rode with Amon again, too weak and shaky to handle a horse on his own.

  Near midday, the ranger led them up a narrow goat trail that wound along the escarpment of a ridge, a deep canyon with a small river falling away below. Near the top, the trees opened up, affording Nora a view of the Amber Valley far below, the Amber River a silvery snake creeping along the valley floor. Ambermill was back there, somewhere around the bend of the river.

  Closer, a column of black smoke rose from the trees down below. Nora reined up and paused. Amon noticed her halt and glanced back.

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  “We don’t have time to stop,” he said.

  “There’s smoke.”

  “So there is,” Amon said, turning Shade and looking back down the valley toward where the smoke rose above the trees before dissipating into a dull haze. “I had hoped they wouldn’t find her.” He turned back to their trail.

  “Wait, is that Moira’s cabin?” Nora asked.

  The ranger did not deign to answer. Nora pushed Flint to a trot to catch up to him. “Is that Moira’s cabin?” she asked again.

  “Most like, it is,” Amon said quietly.

  “We have to go back!”

  “No.”

  “No? She’s your friend!”

  “Keep your voice down,” Amon said, turning to look at Nora. “I warned her this might happen. She can take care of herself. She’s been doing it for centuries. We press on. Those Seekers are behind us and I won’t have us walk into a trap.” He kicked Shade into a trot and rode out ahead, leaving Nora to her thoughts.

  Nora stared at the dark form moving between the trees ahead of them. The ranger wore his hood. A demon, and apparently willing to abandon his friends, at that. How could she trust someone like that? They should have gone back for Moira. The poor woman had saved Galan’s life, after all, even if she was a demon as well.

  Ferron burst from the undergrowth at a run, startling Flint. The horse snorted and danced. Nora struggled to keep him under control. No! she thought. No, Flint, it’s okay. Calm down. And then the horse settled. He was still tense, a bundle of nerves beneath her, but he quieted.

  Amon reined up. “Get off the trail,” he ordered. He helped Galan climb down as Nora dismounted.

  “What is it?” she asked. “What’s happening?” She looked around. There was nothing that she could see, though Ferron was more agitated than she had ever seen him before.

  “Do as I told you,” Amon said. “Get off the trail, hide yourselves and the horse, and keep quiet. Up the hill, quickly. Keep that horse quiet. I’ll lead them off.” With that, Amon set his heels into Shade and rushed past Nora and Galan, heading back the way they had come, his wolf running at his side.

  Something was wrong, that much was plain. An image blossomed in her mind, as fleeting as a cherry blossom in a spring wind. It was from Ferron. She didn’t know how she knew that. Four men on tall horses, red cloaks streaming from their shoulders.

  Nora led Flint up the hill into the forest. Galan followed as best he could. He was still pale. She found an overgrowth thicket and pulled Flint into the middle of it. They had a view of the trail down below.

  They watched the trail, barely daring to breathe. Stay quiet, Flint, Nora thought. Please, stay quiet. They did not have to wait long before hoof beats echoed through the trees. A moment later, Amon appeared. He was bent low over Shade’s neck, urging the horse as fast as he dared on the narrow trail. His hood had fallen back, his cloak streaming out behind him, white hair stark in the sunlight. Ferron was nowhere in sight. Several long moments passed, then four riders in red and black appeared, galloping single-file up the narrow track. One had a sword in one hand. Nora held her breath. If Flint whinnied, if he blew, if he stamped a foot...

  Then they were gone, riding hard after Amon. Nora dared to breathe. She patted Flint and looked at Galan.

  “What now?” he asked.

  “We wait,” she said. It seemed the right thing to do. “We wait for the ranger.”

  “What if they catch him?”

  Nora felt dread in the pit of her stomach. Those men were Seekers. They killed demons. That was what they did. What would they do if Amon did not return? Demon or not, he was their only real chance of getting out of these mountains. Nora thought that she might be able to find her way back to Moira’s cabin, but she had never been this far north, this deep into the wild mountains north of Ambermill. She had only a vague idea of where Hardcoast lay, somewhere on the northern coast, from an old map she had glanced at occasionally in the schoolhouse back home. Galan was looking pale again. Nora didn’t share her trepidations with him. Instead, she summoned up her courage and put on a brave face. “We’ll go to Hardcoast on our own, then,” she said. If Galan knew she was lying, he said nothing.

  Nora was trying to fathom just how to get to Hardcoast, when, an hour later, Amon reappeared, riding back down the trail, Ferron trotting alongside Shade. She let out a sigh of relief at the sight of him and Ferron. She led Flint and Galan back down to the trail to meet him.

  “I lost them down in the canyon,” Amon said. “It will take them some time to work out where I’ve gone. Come.”

  Nora helped Galan mount, then climbed back onto Flint and followed after him. The ranger spoke little for the rest of the day. They climbed up out of the canyon and gained a high, forested plateau. The mountain peaks rose high above the treetops. As evening fell, Amon led them to a small lake cradled in a shallow bowl of the land. To Nora’s surprise, a little cabin stood on the lake shore. Amon led them to it.

  “It’s a ranger cabin,” he explained. “We maintain them for travelers.”

  There was a small, lean-to horse shelter set against one wall, a second lean-to was stacked with split firewood on the other side of the cabin. A pile of unsplit rounds, a splitting block and an axe rested nearby. Ferron ran off toward the lake, splashing happily in the shallows as they dismounted before the cabin. As Amon was taking down his bow from his saddle, the wolf spooked a small flock of black ducks, which took wing, circled, and settled back down nearby. Amon strung his bow, nocked an arrow, and took a duck with a single shot in mid-flight.

  After the horses were settled in the lean-to, Amon retrieved his duck from the water and led them inside. The cabin seemed smaller on the inside than it had from without, if that was even possible. A single, small bed lay against one wall, a hearth and chimney stood opposite. A table dominated the center with two chairs. A large, roughhewn bookcase stood opposite the door, crammed with all sorts of baskets and pots and jars of all sizes.

  Nora guided Galan over to the bed, ignoring his protests that he was feeling better. As he sagged down, sitting on the edge of the lumpy mattress, he looked ragged and exhausted. The wolf had not followed them inside.

  Amon plucked and cleaned the duck, and soon had a kettle of stew bubbling over the fire. Along with the duck, he added an onion and two large potatoes that had been stashed in one of the baskets on the shelf.

  It was almost warm inside the cabin. For the first time since leaving Ambermill, Nora felt almost comfortable. It was warm enough that even Amon was compelled to shed his heavy cloak. Amon served the stew in wooden bowls. Nora sampled hers.

  “This is fantastic,” she said, surprised. Certainly, days of cold meals that consisted of some combination of dried meat, hard cheese and flatbread had something to do with it, but Nora was surprised to realize that the ranger was actually a good cook. Galan said nothing, but seemed to be enjoying his helping as well.

  They had barely finished eating when the door shoved open. Apparently, Ferron knew how to push open unsecured doors. As soon as the wolf entered, though, Nora knew something was wrong. He was whining and pawing at his face, shaking his head as though tormented by a hive of bees. Nora saw the problem immediately. Porcupine quills.

  “He’s got...” she started to say.

  “I see it,” Amon said with a sigh. He rose, and rather than going to his distressed wolf, he started rummaging through his saddlebags and the cluttered bookcase. “Set the bar on the door, if you will. He knows how to open doors and I don’t fancy chasing him around in the dark.”

  Nora rose and did as she was bid, setting a narrow oaken bar in the slots on the door. She turned and inspected Ferron. The wolf had a face full of quills. He had them in his nose, in his mouth, even a few that looked dangerously close to his eyes. His distress was plain. He whimpered and whined piteously.

  Amon looked down at his wolf. “You would think after nine years he would learn to leave those things alone. This is the third time he’s done this.” He held a length of rope, a stout piece of firewood, and a small pair of pliers. “Stand back, both of you. He will bite.”

  Ferron seemed to know something was up. He looked to his master and spied the implements in Amon’s hands. The wolf bolted for the door. He scrabbled at it, trying to hook a paw around the edge, but the bar held it fast. Amon took a step toward him. Ferron bolted. It was as though a small tornado had suddenly formed in the cramped quarters of the one room cabin. The wolf traversed the room without touching the floor twice, sending baskets and jars to cascade down onto the floor. He scrambled over Galan and knocked Nora off her feet, finally coming to rest in a growling ball beneath the table.

  Amon hadn’t moved. He had simply let the wolf settle on his own. He knelt down and looked under the table. “You’ve gotten yourself into a mess, haven’t you?” Ferron growled in response. On hands and knees, Amon crawled beneath the table. Nora couldn’t quite make out what was happening, but there was a great deal of growling and snarling and snapping and eventually Amon emerged, dragging Ferron out by the scruff of his neck. He had gotten the rope around the wolf’s jaws. He glanced up at Nora.

  “Come here and help me.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Come here and help hold him still. Sit on him.”

  Nora did as she was bid. Ferron was a big wolf, a hundred and twenty pounds at least of solid muscle. He did his best to throw her off, but she hung on. On his knees, Amon bent and began pulling the quills free with the pliers. There were dozens stuck into the wolf’s face, held fast with barbs. Ferron yelped and cried as Amon pulled each quill free. “I know it hurts, I know,” he murmured to the wolf as he worked. He was trying to be gentle, Nora saw, but there was simply no gentle way to pull porcupine quills free.

  When it was done, Ferron lay stretched out before the hearth, grumbling and growling to himself, rubbing his face on his legs and on the frayed rug, little drops of blood showing against the white of his coat where the quills had been. All of them were bleeding. Even Galan had somehow gotten scratched during the fracas. The wolf had nipped Nora on the hand. He had bitten Amon badly, though. As Amon had tried to get at a quill embedded inside the wolf’s mouth, Ferron had lashed out and sank his fangs into his forearm. Nora had heard the wolf’s teeth click together.

  Amon sat in a chair by the table, binding up his bleeding arm with a length of linen. Nora went to him. “Can I help?” she asked.

  Amon glanced up at her. “This isn’t the first time I’ve patched myself up,” he said. But he held out his arm and let Nora wrap the bandages. He had four deep punctures from the wolf’s fangs. He watched Nora curiously as she worked. She tried not to look at him, lest she end up staring at those horns.

  “Don’t you know it’s bad luck to touch a demon’s blood?” Amon said quietly. Nora paused and looked at him. His yellow eyes reflected the firelight. Nora said nothing and tied off the bandage.

  “Has he done this before?” Galan asked.

  Amon glanced at him, seeming surprised that Galan had asked him a direct question. “Three times. You would think a wolf would learn.” He nudged Ferron lightly with the toe of his boot, eliciting a growl. “He’s smart enough not to tangle with a bear, but he can’t resist going after a porcupine. I’ve seen wolves catch those things before, but he never learned how to do it right.”

  “Can’t you teach him not to bother them?” Galan asked.

  Amon shook his horned head. “He’s a wolf, not a dog to be taught tricks. He’s not a pet. He does what he wants. Wild animals have their own way of doing things. Some wolves never touch the things, but others learn the method from their pack. Well, he didn’t have that.”

  Nora looked down at Ferron, lying there at the ranger’s feet. “How old is he?”

  “Nine,” Amon said. “He’s nine years old. Old for a wolf. You wouldn’t know it by looking at him now, but he was coal black as a pup. He’s turned silver over the years.” There was an odd wistfulness in the ranger’s voice as he looked fondly at the big, silver wolf.

  Nora remembered an image that had appeared in her mind, back when she had waited for Amon to come back for her, of a black wolf pup riding on the pommel of Shade’s saddle. Had that been a real sending from the wolf? As she was wondering if the ranger would continue, he spoke.

  “I never meant to keep a wolf. I’ve had dogs, more than a few over the years. Dogs are good for a ranger. Wolves, you can’t train them like a dog. If they don’t want to do something, they won’t do it, and you can’t force them. He can be as good-natured as any dog with people he likes, but you saw him earlier tonight. That’s wolves. They’re never completely tame. That’s why he’s not a pet. He’s a friend. He was six weeks old when I found him. It was over by Redfern, on the west side of Lake Moran. Some shepherds were having trouble with a pack of wolves getting into their sheep. Well, they insisted on grazing their flocks nearly on top of a wolf den, what did they expect? Still, they were to the point of paying a good bounty, and I’ve never been one to pass up a bounty. It took a few weeks, but I got most of them. Traps are best for clearing out a pack. Wolves are too shy to take with a bow. I was going for the last adult, but I caught him instead. My trap broke his leg. That’s not a sight I want to see again. I pulled my traps that day, and brought him home. I really didn’t think he would live, at first, as skinny as he was. That was nine long years ago.” Amon fell silent, staring into the fire.