Summer passed into autumn as they roamed the North Downs, and autumn at last into winter. They saw nothing, and Anna said that was how it was in the Wild, nothing and nothing and nothing until suddenly there was something. "And if you get through it and don't die, nothing and nothing again." A dry smile, and Miriel chuckled, though she knew it was more truth than jest.

Even nothing was not easy, as the weather turned cold and wet and their supplies ran low. Most Rangers spent the winter in the villages, but there were always a few patrols out, and the watchposts guarding the approaches to the Shire and Bree. Anna was not most Rangers, and Miriel knew without asking that they would not be returning to Elenost. But even Anna did not patrol alone in winter, and so they made their way at last to Sarn Ford.

Anna cast back her hood as they neared the river, and pulled aside a fold of her cloak that had covered her star. Miriel felt her heart beat fast, and though she had expected the whistle, still she drew a sharp breath when it came, and felt her body tense. But Anna gave the answer without hesitation and strode toward a thicket on the north side of the road. Two Rangers emerged to meet them, one young and one older, heavily cloaked against the cold. Miriel recognized them both, knew she had seen them in the Hall in Elenost, though she could not put names to their faces.

The younger man smiled, and reached out to grasp Anna's arm. "Mahar said you'd taken a maethorneth." He chuckled. "I'm not sure I believed him until now." He turned to Miriel. "Dalbarin son of Dalraen. And you're Sirhael's daughter. All grown up, eh?" At her look of surprise, his smile widened. "Your father was my saethir. Ten years ago, not long before he was hurt." A softening then, and he reached out an arm in greeting. "It is good to have you with us." He turned to Anna. "Are you staying?"

She nodded, unsmiling. "Until I'm tired of your bullshit."

He laughed. "For about a day, then."

"Two. If you're lucky."

He turned to Miriel. "Which means the rest of the winter."

"Don't count on it." A wry smile tugged at her lips. "But food and fire would be a start."

"That we have." He turned to the older man. "Do you want to take them?"

The Ranger shook his head. "Go." Little more than a whisper, but Dalbarin nodded, then turned away and gestured Anna and Miriel to follow.

When they were well away from the watchpost, Anna said quietly, "He's speaking now?"

"A little." Dalbarin glanced at her. "Better than it was."

A pause, and then Anna said carefully, "And you trust him?"

Dalbarin nodded. "He's given Mahar his word."

Anna raised her eyebrows, let out a breath. "That he would not break. Not to Mahar."

"No."

They walked on a few paces in silence, and then Anna glanced at him, gestured with her chin to Miriel.

His lips tightened, but he nodded. Yet he did not speak, and at last Anna said quietly, "You know more than I do."

"You know enough." Soft, cold, almost bitter, and Miriel was startled at the change in his voice.

Anna turned to Miriel. "Stay the fuck away from Tyrn Gorthad," she said fiercely. "That's all I know."

Dalbarin let out a breath, gave her a long look. Then he turned to Miriel. "Faron was with a patrol sent to rout out a band of brigands from the South Downs last spring. A few of them broke through the ambush, and fled across the Road into those cursed hills. Faron and two others followed; he was the only one who came out." He sighed, shook his head. "The Brandywine patrol found him wandering on the road east of Bree, days later. Naked, shivering, thin as a rail. Wouldn't say anything, or couldn't. They cleaned him up, brought him back to their camp." His lips tightened. "But as soon as he got hands on a knife, he tried to kill himself."

Miriel gasped, felt a cold flush run through her. "I—I heard…" And she remembered: Low voices in the Hall at night, not long before the Lossoth attack. Her mother called to the brannon taid, a healer sent away south the next morning escorted by two Rangers, returning many days later with drawn face and shaking hands.

"He has not done it again," Dalbarin said quietly. "But he would not to return to Elenost. Refused to enter any village of men, and would not speak. A healer came, but she couldn't do much. He flatly refused to go back with her. Would have fought them, so I heard. So they didn't force it. Instead they brought him to Mahar, on the South Road. Mahar made him swear on their bond he would not harm himself, nor others." Dalbarin shrugged. "And so it has been. They were on the South Road all summer, and then they came here."

Anna gave him a long look. "Do you believe him?"

Dalbarin forced a mirthless smile. "Since when has my judgment meant anything to you?"

Anna shrugged, but the corners of her lips twitched. "That was a long time ago. You were an ignorant little shit, and so I called you."

"And now?"

"I'm still taller than you. Reckon I could still beat you in a fight."

Dalbarin smiled, wide and real. "True, and, in all honestly, most likely true."

"But you know him, far better than I. Before this and now."

He nodded, all mirth gone. "He certainly means it. Mahar thinks it is true, and I trust him."

Anna pursed her lips, gazed away into the trees and then jerked a nod. "So do I." She glanced back at Dalbarin, and shrugged. Again the hint of a smile. "He's the one who decided to trust me."

Dalbarin chuckled. "There we might have a problem."

Woodsmoke had begun to filter through the trees, gleaming in shafts in the pale afternoon light. They came into a clearing, and found the the Rangers' winter camp, sheltered in a south-facing hollow of the hills.

Mahar stood on the bare dirt in front of the hut with two others, empty-handed and breathing hard; as Miriel watched, he grappled one of them around the waist and threw him to the ground.

The other whistled, and Anna called out, "Old man."

Mahar's head jerked up, and he turned. Bent shoulders straightened, and he strode toward them, grinning broadly. He wrapped Anna in a bear hug; she stiffened a little, instinctively, but to Miriel's utter surprise she allowed it.

"Thought we might see you, sooner or later." Mahar turned to Miriel. "Your face looks better."

Anna frowned in question, and Mahar laughed. "Halbarad didn't tell you?"

"No."

"Miriel. Tell your saethir how you met her oath-brother."

Miriel flushed, but obeyed. When she was done, Anna chuckled. "Stubborn bastard."

"Is and always has been."

A pause, and then, "He didn't tell me it had been that bad."

Mahar snorted. "He wouldn't." And then, more gently, "Sil wouldn't either."

"No."

He smiled a little, shook his head. Then he clapped her on the shoulder. "Well. Are you staying?"

"Meant to. If you don't mind."

"Mind?" One of the others chuckled. "Four watches instead of three? No, we don't mind." And then to Mahar, "Sorry, captain."

Mahar smiled. "My thoughts exactly."

And so they were welcomed to Sarn Ford.

There were eight of them, with Anna and Miriel, and they watched the road in pairs, for warmth as much as safety. Days ran one into the next, in grayness and cold and ice. It did not often snow here in the lowlands, many leagues south of Elenost and the downs, but there was cold rain, and a constant damp chill that had them all coughing and cursing. The hut was small and cramped and smoky, but at least it was warm, when winter winds hissed down from the mountains across the hills and plains of Eriador.

The travelers who braved the road in winter were few, and not inclined to linger and talk. There was the occasional halfling pony cart going south, mostly pipeweed but also barrels of cider that it was said the Dunlendings were fond of, though apples would not grow in their stony, windswept land. Up from the south came metals and gold and colored stones from the mountains, and southern wine, dry and clear, made from grapes that would not grow in the north, and finer things still from the great city of men, white-walled and half legend, where once there were kings.

Most of the traders were Dunlendings, or men of indeterminate origin who could get by in half a dozen tongues, and drive a hard bargain in any of them. They submitted grudgingly to inspection and then hurried on their way, eager for the inns and firesides of the South Farthing. But sometimes one would stay, arriving late in the afternoon or in bad weather, or simply one who favored talk over trade, and then the Rangers would get news.

Miriel never spoke to them, though on occasion, when it was clear a man's mother tongue was Rohirric, Anna took a turn. But usually it was Mahar, and they all listened eagerly. News of any kind broke the monotony, any story they had not heard before, but most especially they listened for anything that would be of use to the brannon taid. Anna had told Mahar what they had seen in the north, and he carefully questioned any who would speak. Most knew nothing, though some spoke of the wizard Saruman with guarded words and furtive glances that made Miriel think perhaps there were things they did not say. There was enough for caution, then, and watchfulness, if not quite for concern.

But one day a man came to them with a strange message. He was alone, had no cart but led a laden packhorse, and wore a sword on his back, a rarity among traders. Miriel was on watch with Dalbarin, and the man halted obediently when they stepped out in the road, empty hands held out before him.

"I mean no harm." He gestured to the horse. "I come with goods from the south. See for yourself."

Dalbarin searched, while Miriel stood back watchful, alert for any sudden movement. But the man seemed to be who he said he was, packs filled with fine embroideries and things of metal and glass, not so valuable that a man would be unwise to carry them alone, but rare enough to fetch a good price from the housewives of the Shire and Bree. At last Dalbarin stepped back, satisfied. "You may go on your way. But if you are willing, we would welcome any news from the south."

The man glanced from one to the other. "I have a message," he said at last. "For the captain of Rangers at Sarn Ford. Are you he?"

Dalbarin frowned. "What is the message?"

The man eyed them warily. "I was told to give it only to him."

"Told? By who?" Miriel saw Dalbarin's shoulders straighten, heard a ripple of tension creep into his voice.

The stranger shrugged. "Another like myself, or looked to be. He came up to me in the market, in one of the villages along the road in Anorien, asked if I was heading north. I said I was. He gave it to me, and said I would be paid in gold if I brought it to the captain of Rangers at Sarn Ford, or the watchpost on the road south of Bree." He shrugged. "So I have done. Where is your captain?"

Dalbarin glanced at Miriel, and jerked his head toward the trees.

She came into the clearing breathing hard. "Where's Mahar?" she gasped to Faron, who sat on a log outside the hut, repairing a swordbelt.

"Inside," he murmured. "Asleep."

"Can you wake him? There's a trader from the south, says he has message he will only give to the captain."

That apparently meant more to Faron than it did to her; he started, rose at once and disappeared in to the cabin. Mahar came out soon after, drawing his cloak about him and rubbing sleep from his eyes. But there was a strange edge of tension in his voice, as there had been in Dalbarin's.

"Tell me again what he said."

She obeyed, though the words seemed to have nothing to them. Mahar glanced at Faron—and to her utter shock, a smile flickered across the silent man's lips. He disappeared inside, returned a moment later with a pouch that he handed to Mahar.

"Be careful, gwador nin," he said softly.

Mahar smiled. "Always."

They returned to find Dalbarin still standing by the road, talking to the stranger. The man straightened as they approached.

"I am Mahar son of Marhalion, captain of Rangers." He looked the man up and down. "I am told you have a message for me."

"I was told you would give me gold for it."

A thin smile. "And so I will." He lifted the purse, counted out three small coins, held them in his palm. "Once I have the message."

The man frowned, less certain now. Almost hesitantly, "I was given also…a thing to say, and the response that you should make."

Mahar nodded without speaking, but his lips tightened.

The man seemed not to notice. "Only a bit of rhyme, I suppose." He shrugged, glanced round at them. "I was told to say, 'All that is gold does not glitter.'"

Dalbarin gave a small, pleased grunt, and the tension left his shoulders. But Mahar only nodded, impassive, and said quietly, "Not all those who wander are lost."

The man raise his eyebrows. "That is it. Means nothing to me." And then, eyeing them, "But it seems it does to you. Well, here is your message." And he pulled a scuffed, worn leather pouch out of his saddle bag. Mahar reached for it almost eagerly, handed over the coins as if they were nothing.

The man looked from one to the other, snorted softly, shook his head. "May you have joy of it."

Mahar raised his eyes from the pouch and looked at him. "You are an honest man," he said, a smile edging his lips. "The road is not always kind to honest men; I pray it is so to you. Fare you well."

The man nodded, chirruped to the horse, and headed north up the road to the ford. Mahar waited until he was out of sight around a bend before he opened the pouch. Within was a waxed paper packet, folded and sealed. And marked on one side—Mahar pulled off a glove, brushed the tips of his fingers gently, almost reverently over the flowing knot of script. Dalbarin gave a small laugh of relief, and Mahar let out a shuddering breath. But he said only, very softly, "He lives."

Mahar stared at the packet a moment longer, and when he raised his head, there were tears in his eyes.

"What is it?" Miriel asked, alarmed. "What is wrong?"

"What is right, do you mean?" And then, looking her in the eye, "This is from the Chieftain."