The matron, stout, sweaty and worn, only lets the barest sympathy show, genuine or no. "Sorry, lass, we have no work for you here." She leans against the post of the open door to the crude, small man-house, as if to block any entry.

Outwardly putting on a crestfallen face, Wrenne breathes a secret sigh of relief. The vagarune on the fence-post had looked fairly fresh, but you never know. Getting actual work would spoil the plan.

"Are you sure? I haven't eaten for two days, I can work just for a loaf of bread."

"Huh, I bet you could," the woman sneers, then squints towards the fields. "Tell you what, I'll give you a bun and a sausage, then you'd better hop along before my husband comes in from the fields. He doesn't take too kindly to vagrants."

"Oh, thank you, lady!" Wrenn effuses, dropping a curtsy. But the matron has already bustled off and promptly returns with a shrivelled, black little lump and a bread roll that looks like yesterday's or one of the days before. Again, Wrenne makes sure to curtsy and give thanks well in excess of the value of the actual gift. "This at least will last me a little on the way until I can find some work. If only I knew where to go!"

"Try the Solbeck farm, a bit westward," the matron says through the closing door, "they're not above hiring vagrants. Stingy with the penny, mind you, but they'll feed you and let you sleep in the barn. Now shoo, lass, shoo!"

And with that the door slams shut. Wrenne can't resist sticking her tongue out at it before returning down the lane to the main road. As she passes the fence post with the vagarune, she glares at it. Sure the husband doesn't take kindly to vagrants, the rune told her as much. But that matron wouldn't take too kindly to a pretty young lass sweating about under the eyes of her husband either, that much was apparent. She spied on him in the fields before coming in, and she got that distinct feeling about him, hairs prickling all down her neck.

It's amazing what you can learn after a few months on the road, if you meet the right kind of people. Or the other kind for that matter, but Wrenne has had enough of that sort of learning for a lifetime. That's what helps her steer clear of the wolves. But the vagarunes she learnt from Eskyr, a man old enough to be her grandfather or even great-grandfather. Signs carved by vagrants to inform others about what they can expect from a visit to this or that farm or village. No work here, that's what the rune on the fence-post had said. Other runes might tell of the opposite, or of angry dogs, draughty barns, kind housewife but mean husband or the other way around. Eskyr had taught her all of them. When she had asked if there was one warning young girls about man-wolf in the house, he had chuckled sombrely and remarked that there wasn't much use for one, seeing as young girls rarely went tramping. But he had never pressed her for why she was an exception and she never got around to telling him.

They had travelled together for many weeks and Eskyr had passed as her grandfather, which offered a protection of sorts. He could play a merry tune on his flute and she... well, she was no dancer, but she could let her hair down and spin around so that men didn't pay attention to her clumsy feet. It had made some pretty pennies, but she started having nightmares from all the lustful looks she got from the men. When she got the offer of fruit-picking, it was a relief, in the trees you could hide from looks among the branches and leaves. But Eskyr had moved on westward, being too old for tree-climbing and seeing that there were nimbler fingers about to weave withies into baskets for the fruit.

Maybe she ought to have stuck with him, gotten used to being gawked at like that. But he wouldn't live forever, especially not with that nasty cough of his. And after all, if she hadn't stayed behind, she wouldn't have stumbled over this sliver of a chance at real power.

Until the end of the week. That's how much time she has for setting her trap, five more days and there are still plenty of pieces missing. But the Solbeck farm keeps cropping up as a source of work, so that's settled then. Time to find out which village is at a suitable distance from there.

Lewden. From her perch in a tall oak near the edge of the forest, it looks large for a village, almost a small town, with a simple palisade around it. Not surprising, as it sits on the road from the north to Haledon, the King's capital, in the south. Northwards the road runs through the forest, southward across the bridge over the river marking the border to the next barony. It's also a good point for people heading inland to leave the main road, since the mountains to the east are lower here - that's the way she came wandering into these lands with Eskyr. To the west are the farmlands by the great lake, where another village - Morbie-on-the-something - offers a little port where you can get a boat across if you have a reason to go to whatever lands lie beyond.

Lewden has a largish herder temple and therefore a hallowman, which is crucial. From the Solbeck farm, it's on the other side of the western reach of the forest, about half a day's walk away. About as far to the east is the village where she spent her time picking fruit and all that... hopefully far enough that nobody will recognise her.

Village Lewden it is, then.

She clambers down to the ground, brushes herself off, takes her shawl from the branch where she hung it and covers her head with it. Then she squares her shoulders and sets off towards the northern gate. As she draws near, she shrinks into a stoop and her stride slows into a hurried shuffle past the open gates, unguarded in times of peace such as these.

Following the main street, she soon reaches the temple by the village square. Opposite it there's a prosperous-looking inn, the sign swinging lazily in the faint breeze announcing that this is The Baron's Arms. That's where the baron stays on the occasions when he's this far from his castle. No kind of place for vagrants, that much she learnt from Eskyr, she'll have to look for some barn or stable outside the village where she can either sneak in after dark or offer to wash or tend the cattle for a spot in the hay and perhaps something to eat.

Later. Now for the temple. The great gates are shut, but the smaller door set in the one on the right is ajar. Keeping her eyes to the ground, she hurries towards it.

Before she gets there, an odd-looking wagon trundles in from the south, drawn by a stocky and shaggy horse. It turns towards the south-west corner of the square and draws to a halt. It's painted a dark, velvety green and covered with canvas of the same colour. The side of the canvas is adorned with a midnight blue circle, containing three smaller circles in pale shades of red, green and yellow. Wrenne vaguely wonders if that's some nobleman's coat-of-arms, but the only passenger seems to be a woman, maybe twice Wrenne's age and heavily draped in colourful shawls over a black robe. On her head is a garish kerchief, not covering her hair like a pious woman wears it but tied behind the back of her head, leaving her many-ringed ears and beaded locks free.

Goaded by curiosity as well as by the opportunity to perhaps learn something useful about the lands to the south, Wrenne approaches the driver as she locks the brake lever and hops down from the box seat. She's not alone - many of the villagers about are drawn closer by the newcomer - but she's the closest, and when the woman sees her, she smiles and nods.

"Fortune told, young lady?"

Wrenne stops and shakes her head. "I'm no lady and I can't spare what little money I have."

But the woman laughs and beckons her closer. "You're in luck, then. First one I meet in a new place I do for free. Good for business, I've found. Just one moment."

She deftly unhitches the horse and leads it to the trough by the well, tethering it loosely, then returns, smiling and nodding at the gathered dozen or so and then at Wrenne.

"I like to be a day early for the market, got the best spot here, didn't I? You may call me Miravia. And what shall I call you?"

"W..." Wrenne almost gives her taken name, then remembers that she is here as another. "What, my name?" she covers up. "It's Ardele."

She's decided on using that name here, reasoning that the auburn woman will probably never know and perhaps being able to shift the blame to her if anything goes wrong.

"Ardele," Miravia repeats slowly, walks to the back of the wagon and folds down a stepladder. "Please step up and I will be with you shortly." Then she walks up to the front and leaps up, nimble as a cat.

Wrenne climbs the stepladder cautiously and enters through a flap in the canvas at the back. Inside, there is a space hung about with shimmering curtains of shifting colours, barely discernible in the scarce light coming through the loose flap. Within their enclosure, there is just enough space for two cushioned stools and a small table, hidden under a tasselled cloth embroidered with strange runes. In the middle of the table, a crystal orb rests on a burnished copper ring, next to a wax candle in a glass candlestick and an incense holder.

Presently Miravia enters from behind the curtains, gestures towards the stool at the back of the wagon and places herself opposite. She reaches behind her, brings out a tinder box and opens it, blowing on the embers nestled inside. Then she takes the candle and lights it on the embers before carefully stowing away the box again. After placing the candle between Wrenne and the crystal orb, she takes a stick of incense and holds it in the flame until it smoulders, then puts it in its holder, between the candle and the orb. At last she looks at Wrenne and smiles.

"Now gaze deeply into the orb."

Wrenne nods briefly, adjusts her seat and stares through the flame and smoke at the orb. There is movement inside, which she realises is Miravia's movements on the other side, distorted through the round glass. She glances for a moment at Miravia and sees her also looking into the orb, wide-eyed and intent.

"Keep looking," she mutters and Wrenne obeys. The heady incense makes her a bit dizzy and keeping her eyes fixed at the orb makes the world seem to twist around the centre of her vision, but within the orb she sees nothing out of the ordinary.

It seems that Miravia does, though, for suddenly she draws a sharp breath between her teeth and looks up, silent, her brow furrowed. Wrenne shifts uneasily, but just as she is about to ask what's the matter, Miravia speaks.

"It seems you're headed for some mighty deep waters, girl," she says, a slight tremble in her voice. "I can tell you're a good swimmer. Question is if you're good enough."

Wrenne grimaces. "I've been in deep waters for a long time already. What's the difference now?"

"Trust me, there's a difference," Miravia answers with a hollow chuckle. "I'm truly sorry, but this is not for me to pry in. I can't tell you more."

"Can't or won't?" Wrenne says impatiently.

Miravia's eyes darken and she curls back her upper lip. "Let me put it like this: it would be unwise of me to scry further into your future."

What is the matter with all these women? Wrenne thinks to herself. Then, on a hunch, she blurts a question. "Something to do with sisters?"

This time, Miravia's face turns to stone. She licks her fingers and snuffs the candle.

"You talk too much. Please leave."

"Right," she mutters. "Thanks for nothing."

She rises and starts to climb down the stepladder. But before she reaches ground, Miravia calls out to her. She stops and looks back. The woman's eyes gleam eerily in the darkness within.

"I'll tell you this much, since I feel sorry for you. You'll pass by two safe harbours before you hit the stormy sea. If I were you, I'd drop anchor in one of those."

Wrenne scoffs. "You're not me."

"Thankfully no," Miravia bites back, "and I don't doubt that you'll ignore this warning. But now at least I can wash my hands of it all. Go with all the luck you deserve and pray it'll be enough."

Not bothering to think up a scathing reply, Wrenne skips down and turns her back to the woman. Behind her, she hears the fortune-teller offering her services for free to the closest of the gathered women instead, her voice as cheery as before.

Good riddance, then. At least she learnt that tomorrow there's a market here. That changes things, as the Solbecks are likely to be there. She'll have to wait until they've left before making her move.

There's still time enough for her preparations and the market might provide useful information or even opportunities, but she'll need some business there. Time to get to work.

Next day, it's not before noon that she finally makes it to the market. Her basket is hastily woven, the withies barely stripped of their leaves, and the late-season berries, fruits and roots in it are not much to look at. Perhaps she can get some of it sold, every penny earned helps, but more importantly it provides legitimate reason to join the market.

Even so, she hasn't moved around for long, listening in to the gossip, trying to guess where the sellers and buyers are from and how their fortunes go, when she is accosted.

"Ho there lass!" A man in his forties, weather-worn and grizzle-bearded but clean and well fed, stands before her. "Who be you then?"

Wrenne resists the urge to snap at him and instead cowers down, pulling the basket close, gazing up at him with her largest eyes.

"I... I beg your pardon, good sir?" she squeals. The man relaxes a bit.

"Ach, lass, don't take fright so. I'm a tythingman in Lewden and I didn't recognise you, so it's my business to ask. Where do you hail from? What's your name?"

"I'm... Ardele... from the east... I'm going west and noticed there's a market here so I..." She gulps audibly and holds out her basket. The man wrinkles his nose at it and shrugs.

"I can see that. But some loose girls just want an excuse to hang around the market for a spot of begging, or thieving... or whoring, mind you. And I'll have none of that, you get me?"

"Why sir!" she exclaims, using the flush of anger on her face as a sign of offended modesty.

"Just telling," he says, waving his hands. "No need to be prissy about it, just telling that's what we get here. Now run along and don't do no mischief, unless you're spoiling for a day in the pillory... or a week." He turns away, shaking his head and muttering. Wrenne checks her face in case someone watches, keeping up the innocent girl facade while getting her fury in check, coiling it up around her heart like a lash at the ready.

She pretends not to notice the sneers and pointing fingers as she weaves about the market, making mental notes of all she gathers. The Solbecks are indeed there, with quite a crop for sale, plants and beasts as well as home-brews and foodstuffs. Clearly up on their luck, but she steers well clear of them. The hallowman is apparently not around, but she'll have time enough to seek him out tomorrow. She manages to sell some small wild pears to a merciful soul for a trifle, adding it to her tiny hoard. To celebrate she buys a couple of hot butterbuns, and for later some ageing cheese rinds and spare pieces of cured meat that she gets almost for free. Feeling pleased with herself, she withdraws between a couple of stalls and huddles up against a wall, savouring the taste of fresh bread and the juicy saltiness of melting butter.

It's about halfway between noon and sunset and she decides that she probably won't gain much more from hanging around any longer. Just one more round and then she'll leave. With her basket in front of her, offering its meagre spoils to the passers-by, she drifts again onto the square, half-heartedly calling out her wares.

And freezes.

She knows the man in front of her. He was one of those that used her and paid for it, before she met Tirisi and Arkteia. And he's looking straight at her.

At first, he seems only confused, but when it dawns on him where he has seen her before, she can see how embarrassment and lust rise in his eyes and wrestle for dominion. Her own first pang of shame quickly gives way to fear, shouting at her to run away before he calls her out. But then a sudden spark of anger ignites her and grows into a hot blaze of hate.

No, she will not be chased away now. It's time to bite back. Besides, she remembers how this man approached her, anxious and almost apologetic. No wolf in sheep's clothing this, more like a sheep in wolfhide. So she dons Ardele's innocent face again and moves towards him.

"Roots, fruits and berries, good sir?"

She can see him glancing about before answering her in a subdued voice, lust plainly having won out.

"That's not all you sell, now is it girl?" he smirks. "I just might be interested..."

"I'm sure you would," she replies sweetly, "but I don't sell that anymore. But here, look at this!" She grabs a bunch of rocksweet roots and holds them up for his inspections. When he's close enough, she lowers her voice to a growl, still keeping her timid smile. "You don't know me. If you even whisper the merest words about me to anyone, even to your dog, I will shame you from the mountains to the great lake and back. I'll shame you so that your wife throws you out and your mother turns in her grave even if she ain't dead. And if you ever touch me again or even make any suggestion of the kind you just did, I will cut off your filthy member and feed it to the pigs."

Still smiling, she relishes the shock on his face. "It wasn't that bad, was it?" he stutters. "I thought you seemed even to enjoy it."

"Of course, you mudwit," she replies, holding up a handful of rosehip for the appearance of bartering. "If you were desperate enough, you could probably pretend to enjoy being rolled around in chicken shit and strung upside down nude in the village square, if you got paid. Right?"

"But... but..."

She cuts off his babbling, noticing a couple of well-dressed women coming close enough to hear them.

"Five pence for the rosehip, good sir? Why, that's mighty generous of you. At that price, I'll give you the rocksweet as well."

His eyes are bulging by now, but as the women pass by and throw a look in their direction, he meekly fumbles with his purse and pulls out a fivepenny coin.

"There you go, miss," he blurts, a little too loud and a little too shaky. She accepts it with a deep curtsy and hands him the berries and roots, which he holds sheepishly, shifting on his feet. She glances behind her and deems the women far enough away.

"Now just swear that you won't talk of this and then you can go home and just forget you ever met me. Go on!"

He has to swallow several times and his voice comes out like a raspy sigh, but he says it, fervently nodding. "I swear."

"Swear by the crook of the Herder and the bow of the Hunter!"

"By the... by the crook of the Herder and the bow of the Hunter. I swear," he gasps.

"Good man. And if the Hunter doesn't get you if you squeal, remember that I will. Run along now."

With that, she curtsies again and backs away, then turns and leaves the marketplace without looking around. Although she would like to get a last look at his expression, she fears it would ruin the impression she hopes she's made on him. And then she rounds the corner of a pigsty and is out of sight.

Suddenly, through her triumphant mood, she feels all weak and trembling. And as she comes back to herself, she realises that while she may have handled this sheep, there'll be bound to be a few real wolves on her scent by now, sensing easy prey. So she makes sure to leave the village unseen, slinking through the shadows behind the houses of the village and out through the south gate.

To the west she has spied some farms with outlying barns where she can probably find shelter for the night. There are some to the east too, but she feels better not staying on that side, since it's closer to that sheep-wolf's village. Not that it should matter, but... she draws the shawl closer around her shoulders, not bothering to cover her hair now that she's out of sight from the thronged villagers.

She has a mind to go scouting around the farms, learning the lay of the land better, but the wind picks up and judging by the sky, there's rain coming. That ought to send most of the market-goers homeward, so if she wants to slip in somewhere unnoticed, she'd better get there now or she'll be stuck in the wet for the while.

With a sigh, she hurries her step and steels herself for a long and fretful afternoon and night in hiding with nothing to occupy her mind but brooding on her plans, on her luck, and on the stormy seas ahead.

Safe harbours indeed. Arkteia is probably supposed to be one of them, with her gifts and her hidden valley. No, the only real safety lies in having power of your own, not relying on that of others. She'll dare any storm and then make her own safe harbour. Just wait and see.

Gritting her teeth against the chill, she digs herself out of the hay and starts picking straws of it from her hair and clothes. Today is the day to beguile the hallowman. Warily, she sneaks up to the door, peers and listens through cracks in the timbered walls along the way. Then she pushes the door softly ajar, ready to dive into hiding if needs be, and squints out.

There's no more rain and farm folk are already about. She can see them even from this outlying barn, their breaths coming out in white billows in the damp chill as they fetch water from the well, cheese and sour milk from the cellar, eggs from the henhouse, fresh-ground flour for the baking and all the other things that set breakfast on the table. Wrenne's stomach growls at the thought, but that'll just have to wait. As soon as no-one is in plain sight, she slips out the door and around the corner.

Behind the barn, she relieves herself before bringing out what's left of yesterday's cheese and cured meat. Throwing cautious looks behind and about, she starts walking back to the village while she gnaws them down. She stops at a clear brook, where the recent rainfall is busily scuttling down to the river, and washes the inadequate lumps down, still wishing there had been more of them.

Again, she draws the shawl over her hair and cowers down before entering the village, all the while keeping a lookout for that insolent tythingman, or the sheep-man or any other troublemakers. But all she sees is a few early birds about their businesses and she makes it to the temple unaccosted.

Inside, she blinks against the gloom until her eyes acclimatise. She hears quiet voices, mumbling somewhere further in. So the temple already has visitors, good. A slight tang of incense and old tapestries sneaks into her nostrils. So familiar, somehow reassuring even though she knows that if they knew her truths, she would be thrown out of the place.

Now she can see shapes up ahead by the altar, dimly illuminated by a couple of prayer candles. Still hunched and eyes downcast, she shuffles over and kneels beside them at the altar, quietly muttering snatches of half-forgotten prayers. The voices fall silent. For a few more breaths, she keeps on muttering, then she rises and curtsies to the Herder idol before glancing at the people by the altar.

They seem like ordinary temple visitors in reverence to the Herder, but she can tell that they eye her surreptitiously, curiously. Now she pretends to notice them.

"Did I interrupt you? I'm so terribly sorry!" she blurts out in a hushed voice.

"By no means, dear," one of them, an elderly woman, replies. "We are all alike before the Herder."

"We were finished anyway, I suppose," the man drawls and stretches his body. He looks younger, perhaps her son.

"Thank you," Wrenne whispers. "Oh, I wish I could afford a candle like you, but I hope at least my humble prayers will be heard."

"What do you pray for, dear?" says the woman.

"You're not from Lewden, are you?" the man asks at the same time.

"Oh, ah..." Wrenne does her best to look confused. "No, I came from the east looking for work. I heard the Solbeck farm can offer some, so that's what I was praying for. I've only had a bun and a bit of cured meat in two days."

A blatant lie, of course, although she really hasn't eaten her fill for months. But she needs to garner sympathy and it seems to work.

"Poor dear," says the woman, "here, Arlan, don't you have a penny for her?"

"Might have," the man says and reluctantly draws his purse out.

"Oh," Wrenne stammers, "I shouldn't... I mean, I wouldn't beg..."

"You're not begging, are you, dear?" the woman chuckles. "We'll give it in the Herder's name to one in need. Go on, Arlan, give her the penny already."

The man fishes a coin out and hands it over to Wrenne, who doesn't forget to curtsy.

"You're too kind. Pray tell, is there no hallowman here? I ought to pay him my respect in case I find work here over winter."

"Did you come here from the east all alone?" the man asks, ignoring her question. "I think I saw you at the market yesterday."

I bet you did, you wolf, she thinks to herself. "Heavens no," she answers aloud, round of eye, "that would be the death of me. I followed some traders moving west, but they've gone on to find a boat across some big lake." She draws her face in a grimace. "Wouldn't catch me on a boat, sir. I thought it best to try my luck in this nice village. There's no work to be had where I come from, you see, there's been a drought and my parents are dead from consumption and we were too many..."

She lets her voice break and lowers her eyes, pretends to wipe them and gives a pitiful little sniffle. The woman tuts pitifully.

"Oh you poor little thing! Well, we've had no drought this side of the mountains so we're doing fair though we aren't rich for sure..."

"But the Solbecks have indeed done well of late," the man cuts in, "they've been blessed with health and crops alike. You must have seen them in the market, they had more to sell than anyone else. Right in front of the inn they were."

She slaps her hand to her mouth as if in dismay. "Those were from the Solbeck farm? Oh, what a fool I am! I could have asked them... I was so busy trying to earn some little, I never thought... Oh, bother!" she moans and hangs her head.

"Come now, dear," the woman says, leaning over to pat her hands, "it's not the end. And it's not as if their farm is at the end of the world either. Why, you could be there long before sunset of you leave soon!"

Wrenne sighs with a shudder. "I suppose you're right." She looks up he offers them a brave smile. "My mother used to say, bless her memory, that what you haven't got in your head, you'd better have in your legs."

The woman chuckles and even the man smiles a little although without any discernible warmth. "So you'd better put your legs to good use, then," he says sardonically. "We wish you luck." He beckons for the woman to come along and turns to go. "Oh," he adds over his shoulder, "and the hallowman is not likely to come in before sunset reverence. He comes for special services like weddings, of course, but there's none of that anytime soon. Daytime, he's usually busy helping his brother about the farm."

"Oh yes," the woman adds, "and that's on the other side of the river, the next barony don't you know, but we don't mind." She chuckles. "Just cross the bridge and turn east in the second lane, ask for the Hoaglye farm."

The man clears his throat impatiently and they leave, the woman giving her a good-luck sign on the way out, the man never turning around. Wrenne frowns after him. She's seen that sort of behaviour in men before, making a grand show of uninterest openly only to come sneaking when nobody watches. Better look out for him. At least he won't know where she'll be staying when night comes. She doesn't know that herself, but it certainly won't be at the Solbeck farm.

She glares at the Herder figure, spreading its arms to embrace all its flock in its divine protection, shepherd's crook in its right hand, poised to catch any straying sheep and bring it back to the fold. Even if there were any use praying to that atrocity for an easily fooled hallowman, she wouldn't. Instead, she whispers the rudest word she's picked up on the road at the smug face of the idol and leaves.