If the dirty looks the folken gave Hunter and his animal retinue were any indication, Fawkes had the right idea skipping town. He could see it everywhere as he crossed the village center on his way to the medicine woman’s tent; change and unrest were in the air. Suspicion. Dissension. If he meant to bring back unity to the Hawk Nation, Yuma’s work was certainly cut out for him. Not that Hunter had any intention of sticking around to watch him try.

  Outside the medicine woman’s tent stood guard a vaguely familiar-looking brave about his own age, one of Yuma’s friends. Hunter greeted him with a nod.

  “I’m here to see Elder Besk.”

  The brave leered at him and at Fyodor, then readjusted his grip on the spear he’d been leaning on.

  “What is your business with her, Transient?”

  Hunter started to reply, some sharp remark already on his tongue, but Hallara beat him to it.

  “Let him in. He’s expected.”

  The guard stepped aside, but not before giving Hunter a long, hard stare.

  “Let me offer you a few friendly words of wisdom,” he spat in a low voice as Hunter passed. “Tread lightly, s’krit.”

  Hunter smiled and clapped him on the shoulder, the warmth not reaching his eyes.

  “Let me offer a few back: don’t start shit you can’t finish, yeah?”

  The inside of the tent was as Hunter remembered it; dim but warm, the air rich with the scent of herbs and medicine. The wise woman, diminutive and clad in white as always, was sitting on a pile of quilts, weaving dried weeds into something that looked suspiciously like the spirit charms he crafted himself.

  “Hile, Elder Besk,” he called. Fyodor walked in just behind him, ravens perched on his back.

  Hallara didn’t seem to mind their presence.

  “Come, come,” she said, not taking her eyes from her handiwork. “Hunter. Take a seat.”

  Hunter sat cross-legged on the floor, and the direwolf made himself comfortable beside him, sniffing the air with idle curiosity.

  “You asked for me?”

  “I did,” the old woman said. “First and foremost, I wanted to thank you. Tayen told me everything. You really rose to the occasion, back in that Blood Grove.”

  Tayen had almost been overpowered and injured by one of the Bramble Blights. That was when things had taken a turn for the worse.

  “How is she?” Hunter asked.

  “Rattled,” the medicine woman replied. “In more ways than one. Do not worry about her, though. She will be fine. She extends her thanks for your assistance.”

  For some reason, that rubbed him the wrong way.

  “She could always do so in person,” he said, voice tinged with a hint of bitterness. “Or is she not allowed to speak with the Transient at all?”

  That finally made Hallara look up, and one look was enough to cut his griping short before it even properly began.

  “Do not be unkind, sai,” she said, her wizened eyes locked onto his. “It does not befit you.”

  For lack of a better answer, Hunter harrumphed and looked away, idly running his fingers through Fyodor’s thick fur.

  “In any case, I don’t plan on sticking around here any longer than I absolutely have to.”

  “That’s probably for the best,” she agreed. “It pains me to admit it, but you’ve drawn the short end of the folken’s hospitality—you, as well as Fawkes of the Lodge. These have been difficult times for the Brennai.”

  “It is what it is,” Hunter shrugged. Nothing about all this was personal, and he knew it. “I wish you all the best of luck, I do. You’ll need it.”

  That drew a sigh from the old woman.

  “I’m afraid you’re right, Ancestors help us. But we’ll make do. What about you? Where will you be headed next?”

  Hunter frowned and gave it some thought.

  “Well, Aspirant or not, I’m not giving up on ascending to the Iron Rung, that much I can tell you.”

  “Neither should you,” the wise woman agreed.

  “In that case,” he went on, “all I need is for you to point me toward this White Cloud Sage of yours.”

  Hallara pursed her lips and studied Hunter’s face for a moment, the fine lines on her face deepening as her expression clouded with unease.

  “That, I’m afraid, I cannot do, sai. But if it’s any consolation, you were never truly meant to set eyes on the spires of the White Cloud Steeple to begin with.”

  Hunter stiffened.

  “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, the bitter edge slowly finding its way back into in his voice.

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  “Let me explain,” the medicine woman said, lifting her hands in a pacifying gesture, palms open. “Has anyone explained to you what a Witness is?”

  Witness. He’d heard the term before.

  “The simplest way to ascend a Rung is to prove yourself before a Witness,” he said. “Or so Fawkes told me.”

  Hallara nodded.

  “Correct.”

  “But Witnesses are rare,” Hunter went on, “and most won’t even spare a moment for Aspirants they have no connection to, or no reason to see.”

  “Also correct.”

  “…and that’s why Fawkes agreed to help train the Hawk Nation’s Aspirants in the first place,” he concluded. “So that I would get the chance to prove myself before the White Cloud Sage. And now you’re telling me you never intended to make good on that promise in the first place? What am I missing here?”

  The medicine woman let out a sigh and rubbed her eyes.

  “The surrogate mother of this world, our slumbering Goddess, is caught deep in her Blessed Sleep. Or, as some call it, the Reverie. Until the day comes that she awakens once again, her Witnesses act as her eyes and ears in the waking world. To be witnessed worthy by one of them is tantamount to being deemed worthy by her.”

  Hunter listened closely, trying to understand. His grasp of this world’s theology and religions was foggy at best. He knew that the Brennai followed some form of ancestor worship, and Fawkes had mentioned a Goddess and a handful of saints in passing. Beyond that, he was flying blind.

  “Powerful as they may be, however,” the wise woman went on, “their ability to act as Witnesses has limits; strict ones, at that. To put it plainly, in this case, one Witness can only help so many Aspirants ascend.”

  “And you wouldn’t want your White Cloud Sage to witness me,” Hunter interjected. His patience for dancing around difficult subjects had been drained almost to the last drop these past few days. “Not if it means one less Brennai Aspirant gets their turn down the line.”

  Hallara gave him a small, weary smile. Not unkind, but heavy with age and decades’ worth of troubles and compromises.

  “Try to understand us, sai,” she said. “The folken do not get many chances. Every blessing, every opportunity to stand before her, it means the world to us.”

  More trickery, then, Hunter thought, anger and disappointment slowly welling up in him like bile. More deceit. More—

  “Besides,” the wise woman went on, placing a long, arthritic finger on the back of his right hand. The invisible seal etched under his skin came alive under her touch. “Another has already claimed you as part of their Wyrd.” She paused for a breath, as if looking for the right word. “Their destiny, if you prefer—or, in this case, their domain. Translating the old words is sometimes difficult.”

  Herne.

  “The spirit of the Hunt…?” he half-asked, half stated. “He’s a Witness too?”

  The medicine woman gave him a cryptic shrug.

  “I couldn’t say, sai. I’m just an old woman.” Her eyes, though, sparkled with mischief, telling a different story entirely. “All I can tell you is that no, unfortunately, I cannot point you toward the White Cloud Sage. I’m afraid my hands are bound. You’re free to continue pursuing Ascension, of course, if you’re so inclined. Just not with her assistance.”

  A complication, then. Or perhaps a blessing in disguise. Herne was more or less a known quantity; Hunter knew where to find him and how to reach him, and he was already planning to revisit his standing stone anyway. Plus, if what the medicine woman had just told him about Witnesses was true, getting Herne to witness his ascent to the Iron Rung might actually prove easier. The great spirit already had a vested interest of sorts in him.

  On the other hand, Hunter didn’t like the idea of putting all his eggs in one basket, especially not when that basket had already tricked and brutally murdered him once. Did Hallara know about this? Would she nudge her grandniece to Lormenheere as briskly as she did him, if the roles were reversed? Hunter doubted it, and he was tempted to tell her as much.

  Instead, he opted to just thank her and be on his way. No point in taking his frustration out on one of the few Brennai who didn’t turn their nose up at him.

  “Thank you for your guidance anyway, Elder. Give Tayen my best wishes for a swift recovery. Despite the circumstances, it’s been a pleasure knowing both her and you.”

  As he turned to rise and leave, Hallara put a twing-thin hand on his arm to stop him.

  “Stay awhile yet, sai. You and Fawkes of the Lodge all but saved my grandniece in her time of need. It is only customary to thank you with three gifts. It is what the Ancestors will.”

  Hunter raised an eyebrow, but remained seated. The medicine woman reached into a small wicker chest by her side and pulled out what looked like a glossy leather jerkin, painted so deep a shade of green it was nearly black.

  “My first gift to you is one of protection,” she said, laying it out before him. “May it keep you safe from claw, horn, arrow, and blade.”

  “Thankee, Elder,” Hunter said with a solemn nod, adopting the folken’s vernacular. “Your gift honors me greatly.”

  “My second gift to you is one of growth,” Hallara continued, placing what looked like a sealed ceramic jar beside the jerkin. “This is Spiritwalker Brew. Imbibing it is an important step in an Aspirant’s ascent, though I would advise you to wait until you are well on your way to reaching the Rung of Copper.”

  The Copper Rung was the second one, right after Iron. Hunter doubted he’d manage to reach it in the brief time he had left on Aernor, but he accepted the gift with respect all the same.

  “Finally,” Hallara said as she removed some kind of pendant from around her neck, “my third and last gift to you is one of vision.” She placed it gently atop the jerkin—an ivory carving of an owl, its tiny eyes glinting with inlaid shards of jade. A simple leather cord was threaded through it, worh with age. “May it help you glimpse the world of spirits with greater clarity.”

  Hunter accepted the gift with another solemn nod and carefully tucked all three items into his backpack. He’d take a closer look at them later, along with the gift Fawkes had handed him before she left. He still hadn’t opened it, and it was starting to weigh heavy on his mind. She’d told him to wait until she was gone, and he had, though not for lack of curiosity. Truth was, he still hadn’t worked through his feelings about their parting; he’d been feeling far too raw, too blue, to face whatever lay inside.

  “Go now, sai,” Hallara said. “Wherever your path may take you, it is time you walk it. It is as you said; despite the circumstances, it has been a pleasure knowing you. Go with the Ancestors’ blessings.”

  “Thankee, Elder,” Hunter said as he climbed to his feet. Fyodor stood up too, ready to follow him outside. “In this world and in my own, I shall remember your wisdom.”

  Back out in the open, the skies were roiling with dark clouds, blotting the morning sun. The seasons were changing; a storm was brewing.

  The brave guarding the tent had left his post, Hunter noticed as he walked away. Good riddance. If he’d been eavesdropping—and Hunter would bet he had—he was probably already off to report what he’d heard. Not that it mattered; Hunter didn’t plan to stick around for more than a few days anyway.

  He was halfway across the village and on his way back to Onatah’s tent, meaning to check whether she needed help with anything, when he felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. His Danger-Sense was tingling.

  As if on cue, the guard from outside the Hallara’s tent lunged at him from behind a tanning rack, spearhead aimed at his chest. Two more popped up, moving to flank him.

  “Stand down, Transient!” the first guard barked. “Surrender your weapons, by order of the alderman!”

  And as Hunter was still trying to grasp what the hell was happening, a fourth figure stepped into view—glaive in hand, eyes hard as flint.

  Yuma.

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