They took turns walking and riding, as dusk faded to night, moonless and dark save for the stars. Miriel was tired, and the riding far from comfortable, but she could at least take weight off her feet, and she found when she climbed down that her legs were rested a little. They walked now, careful of the placement of their feet in the dark. But they did not stop, and she saw by the stars that they had turned back west. On and on, neither of them speaking, until at last Anna said hoarsely, "We should eat."

She did not sit, only leaned against the horse, and dug into her pack for the food from the market in Kunebar. It was fortunate, really, for there was much that could be eaten without cooking, hard bread and dried berries and cheese. It was different from the cheese Miriel was used to, but she grimaced in the dark and choked it down.

A low chuckle. "I don't like it either. But it keeps for weeks. Good thing to have in the mountains."

They finished eating and went on, night slowly turning chill under bright stars. Miriel shivered a little when it was her turn to ride, wrapped her cloak around herself and tried to rest. She woke with a jerk, felt herself sliding off the horse, grasped desperately at its mane to haul herself back up. The horse snorted in protest, but seemed too tired itself to do any more. Miriel blinked, straightened and shook herself. But Anna stopped, dropped her pack with a grunt and dug inside, cursing softly but coming out at last with a coil of rope.

"Sit still." That was all, and Miriel obeyed, as she felt the rope tied around her and then passed under the horse's belly, around her again and then around the horse's chest. She thought about protesting but didn't. We need to keep going. I'm lighter than she is. A beat, and then, uncomfortable admission, Don't think I could walk much more. And she knows it.

But then, as if in answer, "Try to sleep. Rest, at least. You've done enough today."

She felt the bow in her hands, the soft shock of release, and men falling, dark on the sunlit grass.

"Rest," said Anna softly, and touched her knee before moving back to take up the lead rope.

She must have slept, for she woke to brightness, a cold white moon rising over the plains. Anna had stopped and stood silent, looking back the way they had come. At last, she nodded. "Nothing yet."

Miriel blinked, shook her head to clear it. "Will they…?"

"Depends. Might be able to follow our trail. But not at night. Or they might have found Cerlan." Anna's voice was flat, but Miriel felt the worry beneath it and asked no more.

Instead, she fumbled at the rope with chilled fingers. "I can walk now."

Anna looked at her for a moment, said nothing but nodded and helped her with the rope.

Miriel slid down, stiff legs nearly collapsing beneath her as Anna hauled herself onto the horse.

Holding out the rope, "D–Do you want me to…"

"No." Perhaps a faint smile, though Miriel could not be sure in the moonlight. "Not long until dawn. We'll rest then."

Miriel nodded, coiled the rope and slung it over one shoulder, and took the horse's lead. When she glanced back, Anna was lying against the horse's neck, but her eyes were open as she watched the stars.

At last gray crept into the east, the horizon appearing as a smooth line of light, half-moon luminous in the pale sky. They came to a riverbed, wide and stony and mostly dry, save for a small channel of flowing water near the western edge. They found a low spot in the sharp-cut bank and clambered down, boots and hooves rattling on dry stones. Anna slid off the horse and led them to a shadowed spot under the high bank. "We'll stay here. Go on tonight." She patted the horse's flank almost gently. "He needs rest as much as we do."

They both slept, the horse tethered to a rock near a patch of long grass beneath the bank. But when Miriel woke near midday, mouth dry and aching with hunger, Anna was not there. She groaned, coughed, fumbled with the water-skin and drank greedily. But before she ate, she tended to the horse, leading him to drink in the river and then tying his lead to the longer rope, so he could wander further in search of grass while she sat in the sun at the foot of the bank.

Yesterday morning. It was only yesterday. Scents of bread and meat, bright things of metal and cloth, voices crying in a tongue she did not know. Cerlan's eyes on them. The cool of the alley, the musty animal smell of the barn, the surge of the horse's muscles as it rose beneath her to jump the wall.

'Rangers are ready for anything.' Belegon's voice, raised above laughter in the Hall. Her father, slapping his back and steadying his mug before it spilled, coarse shouts of what Belegon might be ready for, roared threats should anything of the kind be tried. But this is what they mean. Friendly talk one moment and desperate flight the next. And now another crossing of the mountains, over a pass that may or may not in fact be passable.

She found Anna sitting just below the crest of a low hill, gazing back the way they had come. Anna turned at the sound of her footsteps, nodded but did not speak, accepted the bread with a twitch of her lips that was not quite a smile.

"Anything?" Miriel asked at last, though she knew the answer. If there was, we wouldn't be here.

"No." Flat, annoyed, mouth full of bread.

Don't ask foolish questions. She grimaced. Ask useful ones. "Do you want to rest? I can watch."

Silence, and she saw Anna's lips tighten, and cursed herself again for a fool.

But at last Anna let out a long breath, finished chewing and turned to her. A true smile now, thin and rueful, but her shadowed, reddened eyes were almost kind. "Been biting my lips to stay awake. Kick me if you see anything." She lay down in the grass, and pulled her hood over her face.

Miriel watched her, saw her breath slow as she slipped into sleep, and smiled a little before turning back to the plains.

There was no sign of pursuit, and they went on as soon as it was dark. But the summer day was long, and they both felt almost rested when at last the sun slipped below the western horizon. They did not ride, for in the dark they could go no faster than walking. "Save his strength, so he's fresh if we need him," Anna said, in answer to her questioning look.

"Can he at least carry our packs?" She said it half-jokingly, but her feet ached, and she longed to lessen the weight on them as she thought of the long, stumbling night.

"Never let go of your pack." Harsh, fervent, and Miriel frowned in surprise. Anna sighed. "What if the horse bolted? We would die."

That was incontrovertible. Without their supplies, with no food and no blankets, they would not survive the mountain crossing. Perhaps we could go back over Thurinrim…but every Druad in the land will be looking out for us now.

She nodded without a word, and settled the weight on her shoulders.

They heard nothing through the night save the occasional cry of an animal and the hum of insects and the wind in the grass. Anna let Miriel rest half the next day, but then they went on again, faster now in the light. She didn't sleep at all. There was a stiffness now in Anna's step, almost a limp, but Miriel watched the set of her face and said nothing.

The mountains were drawing slowly nearer, and by evening the ground had begun to rise. They could see far back over the rolling plains now, grass gilded with sunset ripping undisturbed to the horizon. Anna gazed long into the distance, and then at last turned back to their camping place with a deliberate, satisfied nod.

"We lost them?"

"I think so."

It was an unnecessary question, and the fact that Anna answered it without rebuke told Miriel more than any words.

But then Anna's face tightened. "Doesn't mean we're safe. The mountains are worse than any man."

She had heard it before. Aeglir anathu adan. One of those sayings that had come down from the old speech, from the days when the Dunedain traveled beneath the shadow of these very mountains. It lingered on the edge of stories, a whisper of danger, all the explanation that was needed when a man held out a hand with fingers lost to frostbite. But she had never given it much thought. Her lips tightened, and she repressed a shudder.

They slept in turns that night, more on watch for animals than men. When it was Miriel's turn, she stayed close to the horse, and listened for the shifts in his breath and the twitches of his ears. He will sense danger long before I do tonight. There were strange movements, furtive rustlings and shiftings in the dark, and once the far-off howl of a wolf, but when at last the sun rose, it showed her a land as still and peaceful as the evening before. Do not fear the things of the night. But she shivered, and could not help herself.

Anna let the horse go in the morning. "Wouldn't be able to take him much farther anyway, and he's a better chance of getting home if he stays out of the mountains." She untied the lead rope and tucked it in her pack, stroked his neck as if suddenly reluctant to let him go, and there was a softness in her face that Miriel had never seen before. At last put her hands on either side of his head, and looked in his eyes. "Thancas thu for us lifen."

Ritual in those words, that Miriel heard clearly, though she could not understand their meaning. Not the Druad tongue, but close. Rohirric? Must be. But Anna said nothing more, only patted the horse's flank and then gave him a little shove, and watched as he plodded off obediently in the direction from which they had come.

In the middle of the day, they crested a ridge and came down into a shallow valley carved by a small, swift-flowing river. There were clearly the remains of a track on the far side, eroded and grass-grown but worn deep into the stony earth. Anna's lips curved in a small, brief smile of satisfaction when she saw it. "That's our way." She gestured to the peaks high above them. "Can't see it yet, but Cirith Annun is there. Three-day climb, maybe. If we can use the road. Longer if not."

Miriel frowned. "Why would we not—"

"Think, girl," she snapped. "Roads don't maintain themselves. Rockslides, washouts – half the work of the garrisons is to keep the mountain ways clear. Cirith Annun was abandoned when the orcs took the passes, forty years ago and more. There's not much left of it now." She straightened, and smiled grimly. "Lucky for you I know the mountains."

They went down into the valley but did not at first cross the river, following it upward on the near side until rocky walls closed in and they could go no further. But it was narrower here, and they found a place where they could cross by leaping from rock to rock without getting more than their boots wet. Anna went first, sure-footed on the slippery stones, and Miriel tried desperately to fix the exact sequence in her mind. It's not that deep. I'll get wet if I fall, but likely nothing worse. Unless I break a bone. Or sprain an ankle. Or soak our food. Or—Shut up and go.

She went. Blocked out the fear of falling, blocked out Anna's eyes on her, judging her, and only watched the rocks, felt them under her feet, felt for balance and breath. One—two—three in quick succession, pause, breath—two more leaps, nearly slipped on the last one, recovered and managed one final jump to land with both feet on the far bank. She fell forward, hands and knees on rocky ground, breathing hard. A hand extended down, and Anna pulled her to her feet, satisfaction on her face, as if something had been proved that she had thought but had not been certain was true.

"Half the men in the Company couldn't do that." Nothing more, and she dropped Miriel's hand and continued up the valley, on the remains of the old mountain road.

The road wound up through the hills, to the west of the river along the bottom of an increasingly narrow valley. It was rough, worn away by spring meltwater and autumn rain, full of rocks and holes but still passable—until they came on the afternoon of the second day to a narrow place where the valley walls made almost a canyon. The road had been reinforced here with stones, but over the years they had been undercut and worn away, and lay tumbled now in the riverbed. Anna and Miriel scrambled down and picked their way carefully across them, one stone to the next, up and up, looking for those that were flat and would not move, and were far enough above the water that they were not slimed and slippery. They managed it, mostly. Miriel lost her footing twice, and Anna once, and ended up with boots full of water. But neither were hurt, and they kept their gear dry.

They clambered across a side stream on the remnants of a long-collapsed bridge, and beyond that the river rapidly narrowed until it became swift and deep. The mountainsides above them were no longer earth but brittle rock, and many times fallen stones blocked the road. They had to clamber over and up and around, but always they were able to keep moving forward, until at last they were high in the mountains.

Miriel's breath came short and her legs were heavy, and she thought they must certainly be near the pass—when they came around a shoulder of rock and found the road before them entirely gone. Floods had torn it away, torrents of water sweeping around a bend and eating away at the canyon wall. The roadway had clearly once been dug into the side of the mountain, but between hungry water and crashing stones, there was nothing left. Anna stood still for a time, eyes narrowed, looking up the valley, and then down, and then back up again.

"Too dangerous," she said at last.

Miriel felt a soft shock run through her; she had never heard that judgment from Anna before.

"Might make it, but we might not. Not worth the risk." She glanced back at Miriel, then up to the rocky heights above them. "Know how to climb on ice?"

"No."

"You'll learn."

They went back down until they came to a small valley that branched off, west and up. They followed it, scrambling over rocks along a stream and then up a field of rocky scree. Stones slid beneath Miriel's boots, and several times she nearly fell, until at last she put her hands down and half-crawled up the slope. Finally she came over a rise—and nearly flinched at the brightness. Before them lay a field of white, dimpled and bluish and dirty, snow packed into ice by the cycles of freeze and thaw. She stopped. Anna came up beside her, and pointed up to a saddle far above them, between two rocky spires.

"We get over that, and we should be able to come down on the far side of that narrow spot. Pass is not far beyond."

"Have you been here before?"

Anna nodded. "Twice. Over and back." Pause, and then, "Both times with Silevren." She looked away, cleared her throat. "Now. Here's what you do."

She showed Miriel how to use their small ax to dig out steps in the ice, how to test the footing, make sure it was solid before trusting it with her weight. Miriel made a few steps to her satisfaction, and Anna jerked a nod. "That'll do. But don't go straight up."

"What?"

"If one is behind the other, and the first falls, we both go down. If we're on a slant, the one behind might survive."

Miriel pressed her lips together but said nothing. Bodies, bloodied and broken on the rocks.

"I'll go first," said Anna. "If I fall, don't try to catch me. Wouldn't work, and I'd take you down too. Do you understand me?"

"I—"

"Do you understand me?"

"Yes."

"Good." And she turned to the ice and began to climb.

Foot by slow foot they went up, no sound but their breath, and the crunch of ax and boots on icy snow. The sun beat down on them; a pounding headache built behind Miriel's eyes. And still they went up. A cold wind began to whisper down from the heights, enough to chill her exposed fingers. But she grasped at the ice with her fingernails and dared not tuck her hands in her sleeves. Her heart was pounding now with more than thin air and exertion. One slip. One false step, one wrong move. But then, Don't think like that. One step and then another. This step is right, and so is this one. Feel for it, solid, step; feel, solid, step. And she found that it was in a way like the rhythm of shooting, the cadence in her head a hedge against fear. She did not look up nor down, but only straight in front, watching Anna's boots, one step at a time as she climbed.

The slope grew less steep, and at last they came to the top of the saddle. There Anna stopped, gasping, and sat down on the ice. It was beautiful, mountains gleaming beneath bright blue sky, and far away behind them the faint green of the plains, but Miriel had no desire to linger.

When at last they had caught their breath, Anna turned to her. "Down is harder."

Harder to reach down with the ax, heels in the ice less nimble than toes, and she had to force from her mind the image of sliding, flailing, grasping and falling. And it was far slower. But Anna was cautious and patient, one step at a time, never taking another until the footing was sure, until at last they stood again on rock. Miriel sank to the ground, shivering, legs shaking. Anna said nothing, but laid a hand on her shoulder, and gazed up toward the pass.

When at last Miriel was calm they went on, again picking their way among rocks and holes. But the stream here was much smaller, and had done less damage to the road, and as the sun dipped at last below the western peaks they came to the pass.

It looked, Miriel thought, remarkably like Thurinrim. Lonely and bare, hemmed in by rock and open to the sky, perched, as it seemed, on the top of the world. She shivered in the cold wind and was glad when Anna said they would stay there that night. They huddled in a corner of the ruined shelter where once the Dunedain garrison had guarded the pass. The roof was gone, the walls broken down to little more than waist height. But it was enough to block the wind, and Anna pulled her blanket over them both, and despite the rocks and the cold and the fierce ache in her legs, she slept.

Movement, and the loss of warmth, and she woke in the gray morning to find Anna gone. Cold wind still whispered among the stones. She sat up slowly, dry-mouthed and aching. She gulped water, and pushed herself to her feet, and stumbled bleary-eyed out onto the road. Anna leaned against a rock, gazing out over the northern plains. Hood pulled over her hair, she could have been any Ranger, tall and broad-shouldered, dirty and ragged, cloak pulled close against the cold. But she was not any Ranger. She's mine. The same as she had felt for Silevren, and she wondered a little at it. But not really, for she saw now that those two were akin, two halves, almost, of the same whole: older and younger, dark and pale, but the same fierceness, the same heart. And she knew now what Anna had lost.

She made her footsteps loud, but Anna did not turn, did not move, and she came to stand beside her, as the rocks turned rose with sunrise.