They did not open it. The message was not urgent, Mahar said, running his fingers again over the Elvish script around the seal. Miriel could not read it, knew it must be code, and pressed her lips together in frustration. She longed to hear the words of this unknown man who was her lord, to whom she would swear when she took her star, this man whose return they awaited with no assurance but hope.

But the message was for the brannon taid, not the border guards, and Mahar sent Amloth riding with it at once to Bree. The captain saw the eagerness in Miriel's eyes, and shook his head. "Five days to Bree on horseback, and five to return, even with good luck and good weather. Can't spare two of you." He paused, considering. "But we do need supplies, and two backs to carry are better than one." He glanced at Anna, and chuckled. "Just don't talk to those fool halflings more than you can help."

"I do not talk to fools." Flat, almost hard, and Mahar frowned. But when she said nothing more, he shook his head and shrugged. "As long as you get the food."

Miriel was intensely eager, bored of the monotony of camp, and also curious about the halflings. They did not much like nor trust Men, she knew. But they were also practical, and Rangers paid in coin. So when the garrison's supplies ran low, they made the journey to the South Farthing farms.

The road was rough with winter rain, but the day they left was fair, and they made good time. Anna brought only her sword, Miriel bow and knife, for they did not expect danger, and the less they brought with them, the more they could carry back. At first the road ran through bare brown hills much the same as the land south of the river, the emptiness relieved only occasionally by thorny bushes and stands of bare trees. But after a time the land gentled, trees drew together into woods, and at last small fields began to appear beside the road, rough with dry stalks, waiting for the plow in spring. There were houses too, low-built of wood and stone, set well back from the road, thatched and rounded almost as if they were part of the land themselves.

Miriel saw no folk about, but Anna seemed to know where to go, passing the first farm and then the second, and turning in at the third. This one too seemed quiet like the others, almost empty. But as they came into the yard, a sudden cacophony rose, and dogs raced out to challenge them. Anna stiffened, stopped dead, and her face went pale. But she held out a hand and spoke quietly to them, and they calmed a little, though still they jumped and twitched, excited if no longer alarmed by the visitors. A halfling came into the yard, sturdy and scowling, carrying a pitchfork taller than his head. He stopped, feet planted solidly on the earth, looked them up and down, one and then the other. At last he jerked a nod. "I remember ye. Yellow-haired one, at least." He nodded to Anna. "Not the other. One a' your young 'uns, eh?"

Anna smiled a little. "Something like that."

They bought what Tom Whitfoot would sell, flour and oats, winter vegetables and dried apples and a wheel of hard cheese. When they had it all in a pile on the kitchen's stone floor, Anna pursed her lips and then looked up at him. He read her expression and shook his head. "I can't do any more than that. Need enough for my own family."

She nodded. "Who else might be willing?"

"Marshfield, most likely." He gestured north. "Only about a mile up the road, old oak out front."

Anna nodded. "That'll do." And then, "Can we leave this here? Pick it up on the way back?"

The farmer laughed. "Two miles be small matter in the count of your journeys. But no need to work when there is no need."

Anna actually laughed. "That's so. I'll remember that one." She glanced at Miriel, and then back at the farmer. "Suppose I can let it be this once."

The farmer grinned. "Kind of you."

His own children, small halfling boys and girls, Miriel had seen peering round-eyed around door frames and corners. One of these the farmer now gestured forward, and the little girl came hesitantly to stand beside him.

So small. And so perfect. Vague amazement then, unsure where the thought had come from; she had never been fond of young children, loud and needy, tying you to them. But this little girl—She shook herself. You are a Ranger, or will be. That is not your way.

But even as she thought it, Anna knelt, gestured, and with a wide smile the little girl came to her.

"You big." Firm, declarative, demanding explanation.

Anna nodded. "So I am."

"Why you so big?"

Anna shrugged. "My mother and father were big. Why are you so little?"

The girl frowned, glanced at her father, who was shaking with suppressed laughter, and then back to Anna. She raised her chin. "Mama and Papa are little. Well," she amended, "little to you. Big to me."

Anna nodded gravely. "That is so."

"Lily," the farmer said, still shaking with the edges of laughter, "bring food for our guests."

They ate, and then waved farewell and went up the road, past two more farms until they came to one with an oak tree in the yard. These dogs were fiercer, Anna's hand white on the hilt of her sword. Miriel frowned a little, for their barks, it seemed to her, were only in warning. But the farmer appeared and called them off, sullenly agreed to their request once Anna had shown him the coin. He said little else, only what was needed for counting and measuring, and slammed the gate behind them when they left.

Miriel started at the sound, but Anna let out a breath and seemed to relax, and glanced at Miriel with a wry grimace. "Fucking hate dogs." She turned onto the road and strode back the way they had come.

Twenty years earlier

Sometimes, they were not chased. Sometimes, if the hamlet was poor enough, they would haggle over what he sold and be grateful for it, in their sullen way. But more often the dogs were set on them, fearful folk in a dangerous land having no mind to welcome strangers. She was most often in the wagon, at least when she was small. He allowed her that mercy. But sometimes when the load was heavy he made her walk, more and more often as she grew older, and only gave her a stick for the dogs. It worked, most of the time. She was only bitten twice; the pain and fever eventually faded, leaving nothing but small white scars on her legs. But the memories did not, and so she hated dogs.

They returned to Whitfoot's farm in the dark, warmed their chilled hands and feet and faces at the fireplace in the stone-flagged kitchen, the ceiling low enough that Miriel's head nearly brushed the beams and Anna had to stoop. But it was warm and comfortable, the children noisily curious once they had overcome their fear of the strangers. Anna planted herself in a corner on a low stool, leaning back against the wall with her legs before her toward the fire. The children soon found they would not get much out of her, so they turned to Miriel. She was careful, always aware of Anna's eyes on her through half-closed lids, said nothing that would reveal more than they wished outsiders to know. But she told some of the stories her mother had told her, of wizards and talking trees and the legends of ancient Arnor. The children listened wide-eyed, and Tom and his wife Iris too, though they pretended not to, and Miriel was pleased to find so eager an audience. But after a time the little ones began yawning, and the Iris shooed them off to bed, and Tom went out to make a last check of the barns. But Iris soon returned, and sat down by the fire, knitting in her hands.

"What do ye hear from the south?"

Miriel had not expected the question, opened her mouth but did not know what to answer. But then she realized Iris was not looking at her.

"A little worse every year." Anna's voice was calm, almost resigned. "The men of Gondor are attacked and fall back, regain land only to lose it again, and the enemy grows stronger."

Iris's needles moved steadily, not a tremor in their unceasing rhythm. But there was fear in her face.

"You are safe here," said Anna quietly. "For now, at least."

"For now? I have children."

"It will be many years before danger threatens this land. If it ever does."

"Then it's not for us to worry on, eh? Leave it to those who come after?"

"I did not say that."

Iris's eyes had lowered to her needles, unpicking a missed stitch, but now she looked up at Anna. "No," she said slowly. "Ye did not."

"There may come a time," said Anna slowly, "When the greater need is elsewhere, and we must leave you. And then you must be ready."'

Miriel frowned, for this was not what she had been told about halflings. In the stories told in Elenost, they were a rather silly folk, small and small-minded, overly concerned with food and drink and the comforts of home, farmers and tradesmen who lived their lives with little concern for what went on beyond their borders. But this small woman, sitting on her small stool by her small fire, spoke to Anna, if not as an equal, then at least with the respect of one who truly knows what the other has done.

When the halfling woman had at last put away her knitting, bade them good night and left them alone by the fire, Miriel turned to Anna with a frown.

"Why did you talk to her like that?"

"Like what?"

"Telling her things. About us, about Gondor. Mahar said we were not to talk to them, if it could be helped."

A short, dry laugh. "The captain and I differ on that. He is Dunadan through and through, proud and justly so. But pride can be a blindness. And not all folk who are not you are helpless."

She had never heard Anna speak like this, put so much distance between herself and her adopted people. But then, a strange thought: She has seen things Mahar has not. And so perhaps she sees through different eyes than his.

Halfling beds were too small for them, but they slept comfortably enough on blankets by the hearth, and filled themselves in the morning with eggs and bacon and apple pie before shouldering their laden packs and setting off south down the road.

The journey back took a full two days, their burdened steps slower, and Miriel's feet and knees were aching by the time they drew near the ford. It had rained while they slept at Whitfoot's farm, and the water in the ford was higher than it had been. They took off boots and rolled up trousers and managed to make it across without getting wet, though the stones were painful on her bare feet and her toes ached with cold by the time she climbed up the far bank. But they were greeted with joyful relief, and though she missed the fresh eggs and the stone-walled warmth of the farmhouse, there was in their lonely camp the deeper warmth of maethanar.

Mahar kept them busy when they were not on guard, arms work and wrestling, running and lifting. Winter was always a time to train, that she had seen in the village, a time to build strength and sharpen skills perhaps grown rusty under summer's demand of constant movement. There was nothing else to do here, and so they worked more than the Rangers did who spent the winter in Elenost. But there was little complaint. At first she wondered at it. But she soon realized as they spoke, and as they were without speaking, that these were men who welcomed the work, and the solitude, men who did not want to be in the village all winter. Each had his own reasons, some they would talk about and some they would not. But these were men, she realized, for whom the Wild was home.

And she learned from them. They did not talk much; were they men who enjoyed talking, they would not be here. But they showed her, and she watched, tried to follow and failed, and they showed her again, and she tried again, perhaps failed again but a little less, and tried again and again. And there came a day at last when she threw a knife into a target five times in a row, another day when she nearly pinned Dirlas with a move Mahar had taught her, another when she ran with Mahar and Faron to the South Road. It was fifty miles, more or less, to the ancient meeting of ways, and they left in the dark long before winter dawn. They jogged all day and into the night, slept a bare few hours in a damp hollow near the crossroads, and returned to Sarn Ford the next day. Miriel's collarbone and shoulder were rubbed raw by the sword-harness, and she could hardly feel her legs when at last they stumbled back into camp, long after the last light had faded from the gray sky.

"Didn't lose her, eh?" said Dalbarin, grinning, coming out from the warmth of the hut.

Mahar grunted. "Not hardly." And then, "Remember when I went with you and Sirhael?"

Dalbarin laughed. "Thought my feet were going to fall off." And then, to Miriel, "I barely made it. He was fine."

Mahar nodded, glanced at her, smiled thinly. "Rest yourself. We go again day after tomorrow."

She groaned. She couldn't help it, and Dalbarin laughed, clapped her on the shoulder. "Better you than me."

Her stomach sank as she thought of the hard, stony road, and disappointed hopes of rest. But as Anna bound a cloth around her shoulder by the fire that night, she said quietly, "I told Mahar what you did on the Downs. Now he'll see for himself." And the pride in her voice brought a flush to Miriel's cheeks and pushed the pain from her mind.

She began also to learn how to fight in pairs. This she had not done before, for it was more complicated—and more dangerous—than fighting alone. But the way of learning was the same: standard forms first, with Anna by her side, accustoming themselves to moving together, and then the same sequence but offset, one starting a movement before the other. And then at last, when Mahar judged them ready, he set himself before them. He looked at Miriel. "I will go sometimes for you and sometimes for her. You must be able to tell which is yours, and which is hers."

The blades were heavily padded, but still her arms jarred when she reached to meet a blow that seemed to be aimed for her but was not, and met Anna's blade reaching for it as well. It knocked her off balance, not the impact she had prepared for, and Anna's breath hissed through her teeth. Mahar's lips tightened, but he said only, when she had recovered her feet, "Again."

They did it again, and again and again, until she could go for a sequence of twenty strokes without mistaking a blow meant for Anna for one that was meant for her.

At last, as the days began perceptibly to lengthen, and the first hints of mildness crept into the air at noon, Mahar called Faron to join them, and they fought two on two. This was far more difficult, and Miriel ended up with bruises from sword and ground both. And more painful to her heart and her pride, if not to her body, were Anna's bruises from the blows Miriel let slip through.

She froze the first time it happened, the first time a sword she should have blocked landed hard on Anna's thigh. Anna gasped, and staggered. But immediately after, growling through gritted teeth, "Don't stop. They're yours now."

Miriel dragged her eyes away and forced herself back into motion, fought Mahar and Faron both for several more strokes until at last the captain called a halt.

Anna rounded on her at once, glaring. "You keep fighting. No matter what, you keep fighting. I'll take care of myself. Or not. But you keep fighting." Miriel nodded, found her hands were shaking, and she said nothing for fear her voice would crack.

"It is the hardest thing," said Mahar at last, quietly. "But you must be ready for it." Silence of memory, broken only by heavy breathing. And then, "That's enough for today. You all right, Anna?"

"Will be."

"I didn't pull the blow," his voice regretful now. "Sorry."

"Don't be. I should have caught it."

He shook his head. "Couldn't have. Not unless you had a knife, and you'd be lucky even then."

"And when luck runs out, you take what comes."

Mahar met her eyes, nodded, and Miriel knew suddenly that she was thinking of Silevren.

Anna was limping the next day, and did not fight, and Miriel partnered with Dalbarin. It felt strange, as if a part of herself was gone, or was no longer entirely her own, and it made her clumsy and tentative. But by the end of the day it was better, mind and body more accustomed to his movements, and when Anna returned to her side the next day, the sense of rightness, of wholeness, of a thing missing slotted back into place brought a broad smile unthinking to her lips. Confidence surged through her; she felt new and sharp. And that was the first day they won.

It was a near thing. Faron landed a touch on her, but not enough to take her out of the fight, and with the momentary distraction, Anna slipped through Mahar's guard. He grunted and stepped back, and then with two on one, they made short work of Faron. Anna turned to her at once, gasping, still favoring her bruised leg.

"That is how it's done, girl." She did not smile. But she did not need to.