Wren looks at Old Maret, then at the mule, then back at Old Maret. "Come with me," she says. "To the Warden's Cairn. You know the way, you have the key, and—" she glances down at the armor — "I could use someone who knows which way is upright." Old Maret studies her for a long moment, the clay pot still steaming between them. Then she makes a small sound that might be a laugh, might be a sigh, and rises from her stone with the ease of someone who has spent many years rising from stones in cold forests. "I was headed that direction anyway," she says, which may or may not be true. She scatters the fire with her boot, lifts the pot off the stones, and clicks her tongue at the mule. "Three days. Try to keep up." She sets off down the path without waiting to see if Wren follows. Wren follows.