Wren picks up the cup. It smells of something herbal and bitter, with woodsmoke underneath, which is not reassuring but is at least honest. She drinks. It tastes of juniper and something earthier she can't name — almost sweet, like the last warm day before the first frost — and spreads through her chest faster than ordinary heat accounts for. She decides not to examine that too closely. Old Maret watches without comment. The mist against Wren's shins seems, if not less cold, then at least less meaningful. Her breathing slows. "The long way," Old Maret says, as though Wren had already decided aloud. "Follow the sound of the river west, then climb where the bank turns to stone. You'll find a gate. If the water speaks to you before you reach it —" a pause, for proper weight — "answer plainly. No bargaining. Only the truth." She takes the cup back without ceremony. Wren stands, wobbles once in the armor, and faces the dark.