The branches stand out like fissures, stark black bands against the pale noon sky. Their lingering tufts of withering, yellow leaves rustle in a faint, chilly breeze. Evaluating their strength and angle with the eyes of a seasoned climber, she tries to decide which one would best swing a noose.

Not for her - she has no such desire, not yet. There are others more deserving. Men. Or wolves, for that's what they are, though they walk on two legs. Deserve it? Oh, she does that too, to be sure. She is fallen. Lost to the world. Fair game for the Merciless Hunter, with His bow of thorns and pack of wolves. She deserves His just punishment for eloping, as the hallowmen preach in the temple of the Herder.

But she has been on the run since spring and no Merciless Hunter has yet shown up. Only more man-wolves. Perhaps the Hunter is lost too. Perhaps even the Herder.

Perhaps the whole world is lost.

At least she has nothing more to lose now except the will to live. Maybe that will run out, too, in the end. Until then, at least she can afford to buy some food now. The hard, smooth little pieces in her hand, warm now to her clasp, will be her substitute for pride. Pride doesn't fill your belly and give you the strength to go on another day.

What she has sold had already been robbed from her anyway, sullied, made worthless. Why these men think it worth paying for is more than she can fathom. Still, the money will help this worthless body of hers go on serving for a little longer. For whatever reason.

Again, she looks up into the trees where she climbed just a month before, picking pears, barely earning her keep with some pride still left. The orchard, belonging to all the villagers is deserted now, a good place for dishonourable business, the little road past it only leading to the likewise deserted pastures in the uphill country. No more fruit to pick here now. The season may be over, but perhaps these barren branches can be of some use again if she can only find a good noose and a way to lay it about the right neck.

A reason to go on. Anger rises in her like hot, acrid bile and she conjures up images of all those men, the kind that rob and the kind that pay, all alike, swinging from those branches, a macabre harvest of the fruit of hate. Yes. That might be a reason to go on. Not likely to happen, though. If no Hunter has come to punish her, who would come for them?

A wild rush seizes her heart as an intoxicating thought strikes her. She sees herself with shining eyes, a thorny bow in hand and wolves at her command. Huge wolves that do not hesitate to rend apart the men who have preyed on her. She - the Merciless Hunter, they - the wicked ones whose time has come to pay...

Through clenching jaws, a sound somewhere between a groan and a growl forces its way out. She shakes her head slowly, rubbing her hair against a crush of leaves, as fallen and discarded as herself. Too many tales in her head - perhaps that was what fooled her into believing she could elope and find a better life elsewhere. The world is not a tale where a rainbow can be caught. No, although she finds both the men and herself loathsome, most of her loathing is reserved for this bitter world. This indifferent world where tales are just glimmering fancies, the empty comfort of the powerless, never to come true, while reality is pain, simple and plain and as inevitable as death for those of her lot.

Growling and muttering, she finally bothers to wipe herself off with a handful of fallen leaves and cover up. Then she sits, props her elbows on her knees, buries her hands in her thick, luxuriously blonde hair - her curse and her blessing - and lets her head hang between them. The pain in her scalp helps to spin a flimsy cobweb over the hole in her heart. Perhaps it can help her think clearly about what to do with the money.

Soft footsteps alert her that someone is approaching. Another man with more money than honour, perhaps? She raises a weary head and frowns, then blanches and scrambles to her feet. By the clothes, the newcomer looks like a man of the woods, which could mean a forester or a robber. The former might either pay for her services or jail her, probably confiscating her ill-gotten money. What the latter might do, there is no telling, but most of it won't be to her liking. Such men are the wolves undisguised, the kind that the Hunter is most often said to prey on. She's never heard of any highwayman ever falling prey to the Hunter though, the king relies more upon his vassals and their knights to keep them in check.

No knight in shining armour for a fallen wench like her, caught outside the flock. She is on her own. She scouts frantically for a way to escape or call for help, but freezes at the sound of the stranger's voice, her jaw dropping.

It's a woman's voice. That is in itself astonishing. But what it says is all but incomprehensible.

"Do you want to be free?" 

Gnawing the last morsels off the club of some small fowl, smoked and dried but still surprisingly tender, she wonders what the strange woman opposite her means by being free. But as she swallows and licks her fingers, the first thing she asks is not about that.

"Are you a... a hunter?"

The woman raises her eyebrows, smiling gently, then looks down and laughs dryly to herself. "I guess I am, in a way. But that's not what I would call myself."

She finally takes her time to look closely at the stranger. The woman's face is round and serene, framed by dark, curly hair cropped short just like a hallowman's. Still young, perhaps a few years older than her. The eyes have a faraway look, giving no hint of any thoughts behind them.

"What would you call yourself then?" she asks.

The question makes the woman look straight and hard at her for a moment, then away into the forest as vacantly as before. They've left the barren orchards, avoiding the closeness of the road, and moved into a little glade just past the eaves of the forest. There are more leaves remaining on the trees here, but even so there's little shade, so they can still bask in what sun the late year still offers.

The woman seems to find an answer and looks back at her. "I call myself Tirisi. My friend calls herself Arkteia. She is the one who will explain things better to you if you truly want to be free. What do you call yourself?"

She hesitates. Since she ran away, she has given away her real name to none. Though the woman seems friendly enough, it's too soon to give that up. Suddenly, she remembers a tale of a clever little bird that flew higher than the eagle.

"I call myself Wrenne."

The woman, Tirisi, accepts her new name without a glance. "Then, Wrenne," she says, "I ask you once more. Do you want to be free?"

Wrenne, liking her new name even better when hearing it like that, huffs and tosses her hair out of her eyes. "You mean I'm not free now? I ran away. I fly free. No one can tell me what to do."

"Are you saying that you have freely chosen the way you live now?" Tirisi asks, cocking her head slightly.

Wrenne glares at her and bares her teeth, but then looks down. No use lying. "No."

"So," Tirisi continues, "what life do you want?"

Wrenne thinks about the sturdy branches of the pear tree. She looks up, jaw set, and searches Tirisi's eyes.

"Can you teach me to be a hunter?"

Half an hour later, she wonders why she is here, stumbling through the woods, following a strange woman on half a promise to learn about hunting. If this mysterious Arkteia woman deems that it's what she needs to be free, as Tirisi said. But that woman knows more about hunting than anyone else Tirisi has met, she assures.

It's worth a little madness if it can make the impossible come true.

She expects only silence from this riddlesome woman and baulks at showing too much interest, so she utters no words save curses as she tries to keep up with the long-legged, certain stride of her guide. Tirisi makes no misstep, whereas Wrenne is tripped by every other root, gets her gown or hair tangled in every third shrub and staggers on like a drunkard on the uneven ground.

Now and then, Tirisi pauses to let her catch up, barely glancing at her over the shoulder. When the woodswoman startles her by suddenly beginning to talk, she is so out of breath that she couldn't utter a word of reply, even if she could think of one.

"We will soon meet with Arkteia. If all goes well, there will be a few others like you with her. Arkteia will explain how we can help you. Then you can decide if that's what you want." Wrenne wonders what the woman means by people like her, but hasn't got wind enough to ask. Tirisi seems to guess at the question anyway. "I mean people who also seem to be in need of freedom," she explains. Then glances back, smiles wryly, nods down at her and speaks again. "A gown is nice in the village, by the way, but it does hamper your freedom to move in the wild, don't you agree?"

That stops her. Wrenne grabs a low-hanging branch for support, gasping for breath. Tirisi walks on for a few strides, then notices and slows down, turning around with an eyebrow cocked.

"What if I agree?" Wrenne manages finally. "What is it to you?"

Tirisi shrugs. "No, it's none of my concern. Take it as friendly advice, heed it or not. Like what Arkteia will tell you. We offer another way, a way of freedom that she has found and showed me. But a way to freedom must be walked freely, of course. Shall I show you the shortest way out of the forest instead, or will you come?"

Wrenne eyes the strange woman, wondering if she is being patronising or just as carefree as she appears. Then she remembers her image of the tree of nooses. Perhaps these woodswomen can really help her. Teach her to be a hunter. See them swing and be free from shame. If not, she has lost little and will at least be wiser for it. So she straightens her back and nods to her guide, who simply returns the gesture and walks on in silence.

A short while later, Tirisi brings her cupped hands together and blows an owl-hooting signal through her thumbs. After a moment, they step into a little glade, shaped by a tumble of fallen gravel, rocks and boulders beneath a low but steep knoll. Around them, the trees are low and straggling in the thin soil, leaving sunlight enough for the manifold herbs, small shrubs and coarse grass that sprout among the rocks, a few bleak leaves still reaching for the last of the ever lower sun.

Four women are spread out in the glade, seated atop a boulder each. One is old, grey of hair and wrinkled, yet her back is straight and strong. Her eyes, black as coal, have a hard glint as she regards the newcomers. Her mouth reveals neither humour nor hostility, but in the corners of her eyes, the wrinkles tell of laughter.

Two are younger, though one seems old enough to be Wrenne's mother. Her auburn hair is plaited in a crown around her head, the hands in her lap show signs of hard and long labour, and she squints doubtfully at Wrenne. The younger looks like any poor farm girl, small and grey and cowed, a patched scarf hiding every last strand of her hair.

But the fourth woman must be the youngest, barely older than Wrenne herself, though she must be this Arkteia of whom Tirisi spoke with such awe. She is dressed in the same way except wrapped in a hooded half-cloak as well, and her dull, light brown hair is also cut short. Wrenne can see nothing else remarkable about her, except perhaps the way she seems to look through her rather than at her. Then she smiles and beckons for them to take a seat on another couple of boulders.

As soon as they are seated, the cloaked woman draws a deep breath. "Welcome," she says, "to our little meeting. I am Arkteia, as some of you know." She nods to the old woman and the young farm girl. "For the rest of you, this is Ma Crowth and Linder"

"I am Tirisi," says Wrenne's guide, then indicates the auburn woman and then Wrenne with her hand, "and I bring you Ardele and Wrenne."

Arkteia lets her gaze drift around the assembly. Again, Wrenne has the feeling that Arkteia looks right through her and it raises goosebumps on her arms. Then the young woman speaks again. "You all came here because you were asked if you want freedom and because you hearkened to that call. You were told little more than that and yet you came. As you can see, we didn't ask just anyone."

Wrenne wonders about that. The old woman stands out somehow, like a cliff out of the forest, but the farmgirl and the other woman look nothing out of the ordinary. Looking harder, she sees shadows around the auburn woman's eyes, like faded bruises, and a hard and bitter streak about her mouth. Then she meets the eyes of the farmgirl and is taken aback by the manic gleam that shoots out from underneath that scarf. Quickly she looks back at Arkteia and in a flash understands what Tirisi meant by people like her.

"I do not know what went through your minds at the word freedom," Arkteia continues. "We might have asked you about hope, or justice, or strength instead."

Power, Wrenne thinks and then, as all turn towards her, realises she said it aloud. For a moment, Arkteia focuses straight on her and Wrenne feels her eyes trapped by that gaze. It feels as though she is opening a window shutter on a dark winter night to stare out into a cold and barren world, filled only with an icy wind that sends the goosebumps spreading over her entire body. Then the shutters close and Arkteia's gentle smile returns. "Power. Yes, perhaps. But what we offer might not be what you have in mind. What would you do with power, Wrenne?"

Bile rises in her as she sees again before her inner eye that pear tree and its gruesome fruit.

"I would become the Merciless Hunter," she growls through her teeth. She glares defiantly at Arkteia but is only met with a quizzical frown. "You don't know of the Merciless Hunter?" she asks.

Arkteia shakes her head. "I come from leagues upon leagues northward and walked many weeks before I came here. Who is this hunter?"

Wrenne looks at the other women. They all know of the Hunter and the Herder, of course - possibly not Tirisi, if she also hails from foreign lands. None of them speak, but the old woman - Ma Crowth, she remembers - encourages her with a nod and she looks at Arkteia again. "The Good Herder," she says, voice slightly quavering, "is said to care for all who stay with the flock and do what they are told. And the Merciless Hunter preys upon all those who betray the flock, defying the Herder. But it's all a lie."

This time, there is a murmur from the other women. Wrenne isn't sure if it's in agreement or shock, but she will not stop now. "There are wolves in sheep's clothing that run free in the flock, claiming to speak for the Herder and unafraid of the Hunter. They prey upon young..." Her voice fails her and she has to fight down a burning feeling in her throat before going. "They prey upon young girls... upon anyone who seems easy prey, they take what they will and go without looking back, leaving someone in ruins behind them."

She glares around, daring anyone to question her. Don't they see the proof before them, carved in her body? Baring her teeth, she turns back at Arkteia. "So the Herder must be blind or dead and the Hunter as well. No one will make those wolves pay. You ask what I would do with power? I'll tell you what I would do. I would be that Hunter and root them out myself!"

Arkteia draws a deep breath and her voice comes out in a choked whisper. "Root them out?"

Wrenne rises from her boulder and raises her fists. "I would see them all swing from the highest branches of that pear tree where your friend found me!"

But her sudden burst of flame is smothered when those shutters are again flung wide and the chilling wind bursts anew from Arkteia's eyes, wide open and dark. Wrenne sits down again, teeth clenched and heart pounding.

Half expecting an outburst in return, she keeps her stare still locked to Arkteia's. Then the window closes again and instead of hostility she sees tears, as if frost formed by the wintry gust is thawing again. Arkteia looks aside and softly speaks. "That is no path to freedom as I see it. If you ask me, that is just another way to be a slave."

Wrenne shakes her head. The Merciless Hunter, a slave? It doesn't sound right. But she can think of no way to protest against Arkteia's gentle words, and the memory of the cold lands beyond the shutters of those eyes keeps her silent.

Then a dry but firm voice is heard and all turn towards Ma Crowth, whose voice it is. "What is your path to freedom then, that you would lead us down, young woman?"

Those words seem to draw Arkteia back out of a reverie and light a spark in her eyes. "It is a vision. You may think it wild, even mad, and perhaps you are right. I cannot say if it can be made real, but I will make it so or die trying."

The look in her eyes as she turns towards them leaves no doubt that she is sincere. Again, Wrenne remembers the chill world behind her unshuttered eyes and shivers. But here is another world in her, here is passion to dispel that chill. Wrenne begins to understand the reverence in Tirisi's voice as she spoke of this Arkteia back in the glade.

"I have walked far through the world of men," she continues, "and seen nothing but the strife for dominion that leaves the weak starving and helpless. Unscrupulous men wield the power, yes, the raw strength to keep us under their heel. But in my mind, I can see a world where the weak have power, not to dominate but to help each other to be free. Where the laws are made to protect the weak, not to fetter them."

She pauses and a hush falls over the glade. Even the birds seem to listen, staying their ceaseless song to marvel at these rash words. Arkteia seems to have grown as she speaks, but then she smiles and the ordinary world returns.

"Tirisi has shown me a secret valley that only she knew, many days out of the way for travellers, where many people could thrive, living off the land. In such a place, we could build a new world together, where we make our own laws. Where freedom, justice, yes even hope is for all, not only for those with power."

Arkteia takes her time to look each of them deep in the eyes, Wrenne last of all. She searches for any hint of that disturbing, cold world in this strange woman's eyes, but if it is still there, it is hidden behind the steady glow of her vision.

"It is no little thing to ask of you, I know," Arkteia says at last, "and I do not expect you to follow us so lightly. I mean to show you a place where we can meet in a week's time, at dawn. By then I hope that you will have made up your minds."

Before Wrenne has time to reflect on what she has heard, the farm girl jumps off her boulder with gleaming eyes. "I need no week," she exclaims. "I will follow you now!"

Wrenne can see Arkteia exchange glances with Tirisi before she answers. "We are honoured and glad, Linder, but we will not go to this secret valley at once. We will visit the villages around to see if we can find more people to share our vision." She hesitates, then goes on. "I and Tirisi are used to walking far and fast through wild country, which I think you are not. And you have brought no clothes or other gear that we mean to ask you to bring if you want to follow us. Can you not wait for a week?"

But Linder shakes her head vigorously. "I will not go back there! I'll follow you at any pace you go. Or wait here. I won't go back."

Arkteia bites her lip, but before she can reply, Ma Crowth speaks. "You can stay the week with me. I have also already decided to join, but I am in no rush. I live on my own in a small hut at the edge of the forest. Two people will make it cramped, but if you can live with that, you are welcome."

Linder looks at her with quivering lips and eyes shiny with restrained tears. "Anything, anything as long as I needn't go back."

Arkteia smiles gratefully at Ma Crowth and turns to Wrenne. For a moment she just gazes wistfully at her in silence. Wrenne frowns back. "What?"

Arkteia catches herself, shakes her head and sighs. "I just admired your hair. It's so beautiful... I remember wishing I had such hair, before..." Her face clouds over and she bites down on her words. Then she grunts and gives Wrenne a lopsided grin. "I had in mind to advise anybody who wants to follow us to cut their hair short. I've found it the most convenient in the wild. But I couldn't ask that of you."

Wrenne waves the words aside. "It's a curse and a blessing. I sometimes wonder if I would have ended up like this if not for my hair. It seems like a honeypot for man-flies."

"If you come with us, we will help you ward off those flies," Tirisi says.

Before Wrenne can answer that she'd rather have them swatted, Arkteia asks her if she can manage to wait for a week. Wrenne feels the little lump of coins tied into the waist of her skirt and nods. She can always find a barn or stable to sleep in. While summer was still in the air she could sleep outdoors, but last time she tried it, she nearly froze to death before she gave up and roamed the fields through the night just to keep warm. The year is too far gone for that.

Lastly, Arkteia turns to the auburn woman. "And you, Ardele, can you wait for a week?"

Ardele shrugs and draws her lips in a brief grimace that is nothing like a smile. "I have survived for this long, I can hold on for another week. And I need to think. To be honest, your vision frightens me and I am not sure if I wouldn't just trade one terror for another. Build your own world? You make it sound easy. But where's the ruler that would tolerate it? This is still a world where men are in power and they don't want to share it."

"This valley is so remote," Arkteia begins to explain but is interrupted by Tirisi.

"She is charmed." All look at Tirisi and she spreads her hands wide. "She is! If you had seen her do the things I have seen, you would know I tell the truth. Arkteia, is it not true?"

Arkteia smiles grimly. "If it is a charm, then it was dearly bought and I will have to spend the rest of my life making it worth the price. But I have received certain... gifts, that is true. Most of them I cannot show you here and now, but as a token of faith, I will show you the one I can. But you must not be alarmed, there is no danger." With that, she turns and calls into the shades of the trees on one side of the cliff behind her. "Brun!"

At first, it seems to Wrenne that a great, fallen tree starts rising off the ground in the shadows and her hairs prickle at the thought of what strange beast this may be. Then the shape lumbers into the slanting sunlight that filters through the low trees to the west and she can see clearly what it is. The fear of the unfamiliar is replaced by a familiar fear.

It is a bear.

"This is my ally," Arkteia explains. "She will not harm you. Her name is Brun and she would like to greet each of you in person."

The bear walks up to Arkteia, rises on its hind legs, places one paw over its chest and bends forward - it takes a bow, Wrenne suddenly realises and cannot hold back a choked giggle. Then the bear walks towards Ardele, but stops a little out of reach. Ardele leans backward, hands pressed against the rock behind her, round-eyed and pale of face. Brun looks back towards Arkteia and makes a few grunting noises.

"She asks if she may come closer," Arkteia says.

Ardele looks at Arkteia, then back at the bear, takes a deep breath and makes a jerky nod. Brun takes another step forward, snuffles the woman gently and looks her in the eyes. Then she looks again at Arkteia and makes more noises. Arkteia nods. "She says that you must have great strength to have carried such a burden of fear for so long."

Ardele looks from one to the other and back in awe. She swallows a few times and her voice comes out in a rasp. "How... how..."

"She can tell much about people by smell alone," Arkteia answers. "And she has learnt to see a lot as well since we met. When I name her an ally, I do not mean a simple comrade-in-arms. We share much more than that."

As Brun leaves Ardele, the woman's breathing soon comes easier. The bear next walks over to Ma Crowth, who smiles and leans forward. She lets Brun smell her and look at her, then Brun lowers her head and grunts back at Arkteia, who nods. "She wishes to pay her respect to you as a woman wise in the ways of the forest."

"Yes," Ma Crowth replies, as if she had understood the bear noises perfectly. "And I wish to return mine. I have known a bear or two in my days, but I can see that she is one of a kind."

Brun makes a gasping noise and Arkteia chuckles. "Oh, no false humility, Brun. You are one of a kind and you know it."

Then Brun moves over to Linder, who stares spellbound at the bear. She reaches out with a trembling hand but stops herself and looks at Arkteia. "Can I... can I touch her?"

Arkteia nods at Brun. "Ask her."

Linder looks at Brun, who takes another step forward so that her great head comes against Linder's outstretched hand. Linder gasps and then smiles in disbelief, stroking the fur with both hands, around the ears and cheeks, while Brun smells her in deep sniffs, eyes closed in palpable enjoyment. "She is..." Linder stutters. "I mean... you are so soft. I have never... you are... this is magnificent."

Brun makes a noise in her throat that sounds a lot like a guffaw, then grunts something at Arkteia, who cocks an eyebrow. "Yes, that is my impression too." Then she turns to Linder. "Brun says that you are a fierce one."

Linder blushes and looks down but cannot hide a broad smile. Then Brun walks to Tirisi, who sits between Linder and Wrenne, and greets her by butting her gently on the shoulder with her head. "It's good to see you too, Brun," Tirisi says.

"Can you talk to her, too?" Linder asks in awe. But Tirisi laughs and shakes her head.

"Oh, no! Not like Arkteia, it's her ally. But I've come to understand her fairly well without words during the weeks since we met."

Finally, Brun reaches Wrenne, who has been following the exchanges in half disbelief. But all doubt evaporates as soon as she looks into Brun's eyes. This is no mere well trained circus animal. This is a person.

An ally. Wrenne reaches out and puts her hand on Brun's neck, feels the raw strength there. A bear for an ally. If she could have one too... no, a wolf! Then she would have power. She could be a hunter. She could track them down, one by one, and pay them all back for what they have made her suffer with their malice or foolishness. A grim smile draws her lips as she envisions scenes of retribution and blood.

Then Brun makes a curious whistling sound through her nose, turns away and makes quite a few champing and grunting noises to Arkteia. Wrenne looks up and meets her eyes and for a moment, there the shutters slam wide open again and a chilling gust shoots through her before the bear woman looks away.

"What did she say?" Wrenne asks.

Brun lumbers over to sit beside Arkteia, who looks up and smiles at Wrenne. "Oh, she merely confirmed what you told us in your own words. That you are yearning for revenge. But Wrenne, I have to be clear. On such a quest, you will receive no help from me."

Fire and ice rushes through Wrenne at those words and she sits as if paralysed. No help. She has come here in vain. All that talk of freedom, hope, justice, but no help. Not with what she really needs to redeem herself.

She was about to ask how she can get an ally of her own, but now it's no use. No help. As clear as can be. She clears her throat and tries to sound merely disappointed, without betraying any of the anger that is rising in her. "I see," she says simply. With her thoughts reeling and raging, she almost misses Ardeles words.

"I don't know," the auburn woman says and her voice trembles, "but this seems a lot like witchcraft to me. Are you truly talking to that bear?"

Ma Crowth snorts. "Witchcraft?" she asks. "Phaugh. That word is mostly used by the ignorant of anything that is beyond their ken. Or by the hallowmen of anything that doesn't fit into their herder talk. Witchcraft indeed. I have been working for the better of men and women since I came of age, saving the lives of more sick and wounded, mothers and babes than I'd bother to keep count of. All with plain knowledge that is within the grasp of any reasonably bright human, if they would only care to look further than the warts on their noses that they want me to remove. Nothing mysterious at all. And yet they call it witchcraft!"

She rises and walks up to stand scowling before the woman and the bear, arms akimbo.

"But there are powers that are beyond mortal humans. To call those powers witchcraft is like naming the wild cat cattle and cursing it for eloping the pen. And it is clear to me that these gifts of yours were given by one of these powers. I think I have an idea about which one, too. So tell me now, young woman. Are you in their service?"

Arkteia clutches at her cloak and draws it closer about her, her face a shade paler than before so that her freckles stand out and make her look like nothing more than a frightened runaway girl. But then she in her turn stands up and faces the old woman. "I served the sisters only once and that was more than enough for me. No, I am not in their service."

Ma Crowth peers hard and long at the young woman before her. Then her face softens somewhat and she nods to herself, retreating once more to her boulder. Arkteia, too, sits down again.

"That is well," Ma Crowth says when she is seated again, "or I'd have had to spend the week in careful thought over whether I should change my mind about coming with you."

In the silence, Wrenne tries to grasp the meaning of what the old woman says. Powers beyond mortal humans? That Ma Crowth knows? Perhaps there is a way to find these powers and receive gifts of her own, if this Arkteia will not help? She leans forward not to miss anything.

Ma Crowth drums her fingers against her knee a few moments before speaking again. "Witchcraft, indeed. They might have already stoned me for a witch if it weren't for these pesky diseases, mishaps, childbirths and warts that they keep coming to me for. But it's only a matter of time before someone denounces me, for jealousy or fear or any petty little reason they might justify themselves with. I don't care to wait for that time. Let them find another midwife." She looks Arkteia square in the eyes and winks. "It wasn't only out of curiosity that I had made up my mind to join you, young woman. There are others in the villages that know about midwifery. In that valley of yours, I reckon suchlikes would be scarce. And you never know when they might come in handy, do you now?"

Arkteia's eyes widen and she looks aside, then shrugs. "You are right and I shouldn't be surprised that you can tell. Yes, I had that in mind when I sought you out. But I also heard the talk among the villagers. It is a thankless vocation you have, Ma Crowth. With us, you would be duly revered."

At that, Ma Crowth laughs aloud. "Revered, my dear? That would be a welcome change. But not too much reverence, mind you. I am also simply a lonely old woman looking forward to better company."

"Wait!" Ardele suddenly exclaims, looking at Ma Crowth. "Do you mean that she is with child?"

"Yes, Ardele," Arkteia answers her. "I am with child. What of it?"

"Well," Ardele replies, still glaring at the old woman, "I am of course only an ignorant woman who cannot tell witchcraft from immortal powers. But you must forgive me if in my ignorance I find this all quite fearsome." She shudders and turns at last to Arkteia, eyes narrow. "Pray tell me, whose child is it that you bear?"

Tirisi shifts in her seat and clenches a fist. Arkteia meets Ardele's eyes with her lips pressed together and shoulders squared. "My child was sired by a man, of whom I will not speak. Please, Ardele, you must not think me a monster even though I have been touched by eerie powers. I am also still a woman just like you."

"Not altogether like me," Ardele retorts with venom. "I have been in league with no uncanny powers. How did that come to be, pray?"

Wrenne strains her ears even more at that, but Tirisi disappoints her by cutting in. "You'll have to earn the trust to hear that tale, lady," she hisses with an anger that seems all the more fierce after her usual serenity. "And you're not making a very good start of it!"

Ardele shakes her head and makes a sign to ward off evil spirits. "Then you had better spare me. I came here hoping to escape a demon, only to find that I'm offered the company of demons!"

"More ignorance," Ma Crowth mutters. "Demons indeed..."

"Please," Arkteia interrupts and all fall silent, even Ardele. That single word from her, while softly spoken, somehow carries more force than the mere sound of it. Then she surprises them all by rising, walking up to Ardele and kneeling before her.

"I understand your fear," she says softly, "and do not judge you for it. You are right to fear these powers, just as Ma Crowth may tell you. I fear them myself, and deeper than you do! I know what they are capable of. But I swear that you need not fear me, whether you join us or not."

She stretches out her open hand towards Ardele and slowly, inch by inch, Ardele reaches out her own. Their fingertips rest against each other for the space of a heartbeat, then the elder woman quickly draws her hand back and looks down.

"If I may," Arkteia continues, "I would like to give you the directions to the place where you can meet us in a week's time, if you change your mind about who is a demon and who is not."

A hollow, sighing laughter arises from Ardele's chest. "I suppose you mean well, but I would just trade one fear for another. I cannot see myself joining you and your... ally, demon or not. But since you ask so nicely, by all means, tell me and have done."

"Perhaps we could meet at Ma Crowth's hut in a week?" Linder suggests. "Then she wouldn't have to walk so far, and I'm sure Ardele knows where it is."

"That is most considerate of you, my dear," Ma Crowth retorts dryly. "But there is ample power in these old bones yet. Besides, not only Ardele knows where to find me. You never know when some nosey brat will sneak up to touch the witch's hut on a dare. Or some lovestruck, misguided youngster believing a love potion will solve their problem or suchlike. And I have a feeling that our Arkteia would prefer some less well known spot?"

"You are right, Ma Crowth," Arkteia agrees." We cannot afford curiosity. And I must ask you all to take an oath not to reveal our plan to anyone."

She looks first at Ardele, who draws herself up haughtily. "I can see nothing for you but disaster. Do you really believe you can defy the laws of the land and prosper?" She laughs cheerlessly. "I will leave you to your untimely end, but I see no reason to hasten it. I swear to say nothing."

Then Arkteia turns to Wrenne. "I hope to meet you in a week and then to have you with us. I said that I will not help you if you seek revenge. But I would be glad to help you to be free, if you can only leave those thoughts behind you. I beg you to search within your heart. Is revenge really so important? Is power over others? We offer you power over yourself. Is that not a more worthy cause?"

Wrenne searches Arkteia's eyes. What she wouldn't give to find out the secret of how she found her ally! But this woman, this girl barely older than herself, doesn't consider her worthy.

It isn't fair. But she smiles as she answers. "I will think about it. And I will not reveal your great plan. I swear."

Arkteia holds her gaze for a little longer and her smile is getting strained. At last, the bear woman nods and turns away.

"Then I will tell you a few last things before Tirisi takes you to see the meeting place. Listen carefully, for it's getting late and we don't want to keep you in the forest until dusk."

Bleak, narrow rays of sunlight on her face and near frost in hands, feet and nose wake her up shivering. She sits up groaning and searches for her tunic that served as cover during the night. It seems to have slipped to the floor, and the odd left-behind rags she managed to rummage together for extra blankets have been more or less scattered.

Yawning, stretching and puffing, she blinks owlishly as she shoves her feet into her shoes and stiffly pulls the shawl around her. Spending the night in the shieling that the woodswomen have chosen as their meeting point seemed like a good enough idea, instead of starting to look for better in the encroaching dusk. But a shieling is only built for living in during summer, when the cattle is grazing the high and far pastures and need watching. It keeps the autumn winds and rain mostly out but not the cold. As she jumps and jogs for some warmth, she tells herself that she must find better shelter for the coming week. Or better clothes.

At least Tirisi left her some more meat and bread for breakfast, and there is a little spring just uphill, so she needn't begin the day hungry or thirsty. That was the least they could do, she reflects, bile rising at the thought of how they had shown her a way to power only to bar her from it.

She tries to sort out her clogged mind while she eats. Her sleep was poor, not so much from the cold as from her dreams, full of bears and wolves and mysterious, tantalising shadows that she knew she had to catch but that kept slipping out of reach with a mocking laughter.

She needs an ally like Arkteia's. That bear woman has been given such gifts only to squander them. Building an impossible world by fleeing from the one where the wolves run free. Pretending that it is somehow noble and wise, a poor disguise for the cowardice it really is.

Wrenne wants revenge, true. But not only for herself. What about poor Ardele? And all other women like her, that will not or cannot run away? Throw them to the wolves and run to some hidden valley, how will that make anything better?

She can feel steel forming in her heart. There must be a Merciless Hunter for the wolves to fear, to make them think twice. And if the one in the hallowmen's lore is nothing but a lie, then someone will have to make it true.

And if no one else will, then why not Wrenne?

If only she had the power. But now she knows that there is power to be had. And as she washes down the last few morsels with clear spring water and rises to find her way down into the valley, she begins to have a clearer idea about how to get it.