Wren pulls the parchment from under the breastplate, smooths it on her knee, and holds it across the fire. Old Maret doesn't reach for it. She reads from across the flames, eyes moving once along the words. "The Ember," she says. "You know what it is?" Wren admits she does not. "A coal from the first hearthfire ever struck in this valley. Kept in the ruins at Aldermere — north-west from here, past the stream and through the Hollowed Stand." A pause. "That's the way the other two went." Maret lifts the clay cup from the stone and sets it nearer to Wren's side of the fire. "Something in the Stand has taken a liking to travelers who carry a purpose. You'll feel it watching before you see it." She looks at Wren steadily. "The sun-sigil on that breastplate. Whose was it?" Wren's mouth goes dry.