"What became of them?" Wren asks. Her voice comes out steadier than she feels, which she considers a personal achievement. Old Maret takes her time with the pot. The fire pops. The mule shifts its weight with the patience of something that has stood beside difficult conversations before. "The first was a young soldier," the old woman says at last. "Wanted glory more than he wanted sense. He went in through the Ashgate — there's a way, past the black barrow, if you know to look. Came out three days later from the north side, boots muddy to the knee and both hands empty. Couldn't say where he'd been. Couldn't say much of anything, after." A pause. "He'll be himself again one day, I expect." "And the second?" Old Maret looks at the fire. "Hasn't come back at all." She sets down her spoon and picks up her own cup. "Drink your broth, child. It's not a short road and you're already cold."