Wren plants her feet wider and does not sit. "What's in the pot?" she asks, because if she is going to trust a stranger in a mist-wood before breakfast, she would at least like to know what sort of stranger. Old Maret does not look offended. She looks, if anything, slightly amused. "Barley, three root vegetables, and a handful of dried sage I've had since spring," she says. "Good against cold. Moderately good against foolishness. Your boots are already soaked through — you'll want both remedies before long." Wren looks down. The boots are, in fact, soaked through. She had not noticed. "Sit down," Maret says again, not unkindly. "I'm not going to rob you. That armor's worth less than the mud on it, and stranded false knights are not a commodity I have use for." She ladles a wooden bowl and sets it on a flat stone beside the fire. "Tell me where you're trying to go. I've spent three seasons in this wood."