Wren picks up the bowl. It is warm against her gauntlets. She sits. "The Ember of Aldermere," she says, and watches Maret's face. Something shifts in the old woman's expression — not surprise, exactly. More like recognition of a word she had hoped not to hear again for a while. She stirs the pot once, then sets the ladle across the rim. "Your village sent a girl in dead man's armor after the Ember," Maret says. Not quite a question. "They sent the only person who said yes." Wren wraps both hands around the bowl and does not apologize for it. Maret is quiet long enough for the fire to pop once. "It's deeper in the wood. Past the iron-lichen standing stones, then north to where the path forks at a hollow oak wide enough to sleep four. Don't take the left fork from there. Not under any circumstance." She pauses. "The Ember is real. I've seen it. But the hollow where it rests has a keeper, and the keeper does not give things away freely." "What kind of keeper?" "The kind that requires an honest answer to an honest question." A small, assessing look. "Which, to your credit, you seem to manage." She picks up the ladle again. "Eat your soup. Then I'll tell you what they ask."