Galan woke to the smell of woodsmoke and tea brewing. Sore and stiff, he disentangled himself from his cloak, which had gotten twisted and wound around him as he slept, and climbed to his feet. Nora was already awake. It was the fourth morning since their midnight flight from Ambermill, and the day ahead would be their third full day in the saddle. He thought his saddle sores might have saddle sores. The ranger woke them before the first light could even be seen in the eastern sky and had them in the saddle when it was barely light enough to see, and kept them at a brutal pace until well after dark. They had no fire at night, and only had one in the morning to heat water for tea. Amon built each fire in a hole dug in the ground, and kept it burning only long enough to bring the water in his tin kettle to a boil. He took pains to ensure they left no trace of their camp, erasing any sign of fire or sleep before they set off each morning.

  Galan stumbled over to the fire and eased himself down beside Nora. He accepted a tin cup of hot nettle and wintermint tea, a piece of flatbread and a chunk of hard cheese from Amon without a word. That one wasn't much for conversation, they had quickly learned. Dour, quiet and gruff, he had spoken little since that first night, and usually then only to chide them for something or other. He had never once put back his hood or let them see his face.

  Sitting across the fire, Galan tried to puzzle out the face under that cowl, without being too obvious that was what he was doing. He could have sworn the ranger's eyes were as yellow as his wolf's. The beast lounged lazily under a nearby chokecherry bush. Its name was Ferron, an old elvish word meaning iron.

  “We'll make Silverbrook today,” Amon told them. “If it looks safe, we might stay at the inn, as long as you two can keep your heads down.”

  “Silverbrook!” Nora said excitedly. Galan shared her feeling. A town, and an inn. It would be sweet to sleep in a real bed, rather than the cold, hard, wet ground, and an inn would have a kitchen, and they would have hot, fresh-cooked meals. For three days, it had been cold flatbread, hard cheese, and dried meat three times a day, the midday meal eaten in the saddle as they rode, and only a cup of hot tea in the morning before they rode. The rest of the day they drank cold water from skins filled at the creeks they had crossed.

  “Only if it's safe,” Amon said. “If it looks like the Seekers have been there, or there's too many prying eyes, we'll move on.”

  Nora looked crestfallen. Galan was disappointed as well. He was sure the ranger would take one look at the town and turn them the other way, finding something wrong to keep them away.

  “When we reach the town, I'll go down alone and see if it's safe for you,” the ranger said. If he took note of the sullen looks on their faces, he gave no sign.

  They were in their saddles, the fire doused and buried, as the eastern sky began to lighten. The ranger led them along a tortured, twisted goat track. Galan thought they were heading north, and the ranger said as much when he asked, though Galan couldn't see how he could tell.

  The canopy closed in overhead like a ceiling, shutting out the sun and stars alike. The forest was old, the trees as wide around as a wagon wheel at their smallest, and five times that at their largest. The black pines and silver firs and oaks had seen neither forester's axe nor wildfire in hundreds of years. Everywhere the trees fought one another for space, pine and fir and spruce competing for height, while the oaks and alder and willow sent out gnarled branches like grasping arms. Branches tugged at sleeve and cloak, though the ranger seemed to pass between the narrowest gaps without so much as rustling a leaf.

  Every so often, Amon would set them on a path and ride back along their trail. He would return, often by a different route, in a few moments or an hour or more, and lead them on again. They paused only long enough to water the horses and refill their waterskins at a swift, icy cold creek, and ate their miserable midday meal in the saddle yet again.

  As yet, there had been no sign of their pursuers, though the ranger insisted the Seekers were hot on their trail. That was when he spoke at all. The day before, he had said all of four words to them. He seemed well-armed to deal with whatever adversaries there might be, though. He wore a sword at each hip, a dagger, a hunting knife, and carried an ash recurved bow and quiver of black-fletched arrows.

  It must have been midafternoon, Galan figured, sometime after they had eaten but still too bright for evening, when the ranger called an unexpected halt. Silverbrook, Galan hoped, but when he slid stiffly from his saddle and ventured over to where the ranger knelt examining something on the ground that he realized the reason for the halt.

  The creature that lay on the ground had once been a silvertailed fox, but the little thing had been torn to pieces. The head was severed from the body, the eyes missing, its heart in its jaws. Its legs were severed as well, arrayed in a rough wheel around the head, the intestines laid out in a circle around the whole thing.

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  Galan thought he would be sick. Beside him, Nora looked green. The ranger inspected the scene, but he did not touch the fox. His wolf stalked closer, but the ranger sent him away with a sharp word.

  “What did this?” Nora asked at last.

  Amon glanced back at her briefly. “Get back,” he said to them both. He turned back to look at the fox. “This is a message.”

  “But why?” Galan asked. “Who would do something like this?”

  “It may be that something other than redcloaks are on our trail,” the ranger said at last. “I think I know what it may be, yet I cannot be sure. Get back in the saddle, we have to be away from this place. And don't touch that thing.”

  Amon rose quickly and went to his horse. He led them off through the woods, away from the mutilated fox. Galan hurried to Flax and swung into the saddle. He didn't know what could make the ranger nervous, and he didn't want to find out.

  Evening was falling as they emerged from the deep forest. Galan smelled the marsh long before they reached it. Before them, the land fell away and the trees opened up, revealing a boggy marsh that stretched as far as Galan could see. A crooked, crumbling causeway forded out like a spear into the murky water, barely wide enough for a wagon. All around, pale marble columns and shattered walls rose like the bones of some great creature.

  “What is this place?” Nora asked.

  The ranger scanned the marsh. “These were the Water Gardens once. Six hundred years ago, this was an Istarion summer palace. Now it's a ruin.”

  Nora reached over and put her hand on Galan's arm. She could feel it too, then. There was a pervading sense of wrongness here, as though the swamp were home to some great monster that loved them not.

  The ranger glanced back at them. “I had not thought to bring you this way, but what may be waiting on the road to Silverbrook is far worse than what lives in these ruins.”

  “What does live here?” Galan heard himself ask.

  “Demons and worse than demons. Stick close and stay quiet. If we are careful, we may pass unnoticed. Keep the horses well in hand, and don't touch the water.” With that, he moved his black horse out onto the causeway. The wolf padded close to his side.

  Galan glanced at Nora. “What could be worse than demons?” he asked quietly. Nora shook her head.

  “You go first,” she said.

  Clutching Flax's reins, Galan followed the ranger out onto the causeway. Twisted, pale trees, bare of leaf, clawed at the sky all around, draped in silvery moss. The mare balked, as uneasy as he was. He had to kick her to get her moving.

  Nora was having more trouble with Flint. The horse rolled his eyes and whickered, backing away as though he meant to rear. The ranger started to turn back, but Flint suddenly quieted and started out onto the causeway.

  “Keep that horse quiet,” the ranger said.

  Galan tried to ignore the twisted, tortured shapes of the trees and the moss-covered faces of the marble statuary that peered out here and there. He was fourteen, far too old to believe in spooks and shades and ghosts, yet the shapes and shadows that pressed in on either side brought all the old hearth stories back to the forefront of his mind. There were demons in this place, the ranger said. Demons drank blood from cups made from the skulls of their enemies and ate the flesh of children, raided villages to steal women and girls and did horrible things to them. Or so the stories said.

  They were halfway across when Flint reared. Nora clung to the saddle as well as any colt breaker Galan had ever seen, until the dark bay slipped a back foot off the crumbling edge of the causeway. Horse and rider tumbled backward into the murky water in a tremendous splash. Galan caught a glimpse of Flint thrashing in the water before Flax bolted beneath him. She crashed headlong into the ranger's horse, and both animals went down screaming.

  Flax lurched to her feet in an instant and set off at a headlong gallop. Galan clung desperately to the saddle. How he had stayed aboard, he did not know, but now there was no controlling the mare. He could only hope she kept her feet on the rocky, uneven road.

  She was galloping heedless, her flaxen mane whipping into Galan's face. He twined his hands into her mane and tried to lean forward over her neck, to find some semblance of a secure seat, but it was all he could do to hold on. He couldn’t have said how long the mare ran. Trees whipped by, the shadows beneath their boughs seeming to move and shift, but that had to be illusion. Shadows didn't move.

  Flax stumbled. Galan pitched headlong over her head. He managed to roll when he hit the ground, but he was only dimly aware of the clatter of Flax's hooves striking the ground, inches from his head, as she galloped past.

  For some time, Galan lay on his back, trying to breathe. The impact of hitting the ground had driven the breath out of him. As his breath came back, he tried to see if he was still in one piece. Nothing was broken, and he was so dazed that he scarcely felt the bruises where he had hit the ground. Slowly, he drew himself first into a sitting position, then to his feet. He shook the dust and gravel from his cloak and looked about.

  The twisted pale trees pressed close on all sides. He looked up and down the causeway, but there was no sign of Nora or the ranger. Nor could he tell which way was which. He had gotten turned around and his head still swam, so he had no way of knowing the direction from which he and Flax had come, the direction where he might find Nora and the ranger. Rubbing his temples in a vain effort to clear his head, Galan started off in a random direction. He would either find his companions, or they would find him.

  It was growing dark. That surprised Galan. When had it gotten so late? He stumbled along, only paying enough attention to keep his feet out of the water. The shadows grew darker and seemed to grow, reaching out to him like grasping arms. The shadows pressed close, following.

  A shadow rose up from beneath a twisted elm. Galan screamed.