The root-ridged rise is harder to climb than it looks — armor clanking, mist clinging at her knees — but when Wren crests it, the firelight is warm and the smell of something cooking makes her stomach announce itself at considerable volume. A stone-ringed fire. A clay pot. A loaded mule standing philosophically in the shadow of a broad oak, and beside it, a small wiry old woman who does not look up from her stirring. "Sit," says the old woman, as though she was expecting Wren some time ago and is mildly disappointed by the delay. "You're letting the cold in." Wren sits — clanks, really — on a mossy stone. The woman's coat is dead-leaf brown, her hat worn felt, her face a map of patient and well-earned wrinkles. The spoon goes round and round. A crow calls somewhere in the dark below. "You're looking for the Ember," the old woman says. It is not a question.