Two shapes moved together in the darkness, rustling the brush in a ditch along the side of a skinny, scraggly cart-track. At a dip in the road, a pair of wolves emerged into the moonlight. They stopped, scenting the air. One of them—the male—turned his head back inquiringly at his female companion, who bared her teeth in a stubborn unspoken complaint. The male whined, and then turned to head down the deeply rutted dirt road.

The female tossed her head to the side in a very un-lupine display of self satisfaction. In doing so, her narrow-set eyes fell on the form of another wolf, one both larger and less substantial than either of the two. Her body was blackness, glittering with stars and limned with silvery moonlight. The star-wolf cuffed the child of flesh and blood on the end of her snout. Her paw had no purchase on the material world… it was merely a gesture of reproach.

It had its desired effect, though. The young she-wolf hung her head low and followed after her brother, along the path she’d goaded him down.

The meeting house stood at the top of an immense and gently sloping hill. It had been there forever, or at least for more than three generations… long enough that among the folk who populated the countryside there was no one left alive who could remember when it hadn’t been there.

Learned folk said that it had once been a hillfort, of the sort that had been common in an age when strong rulers were able to keep full garrisons of soldiers to protect even the outlying provinces of their realms. Rumors were that it had been used as a temple, though to what manner of god might have been called on within it depended on the telling. Twice in living memory it had been operated as a tavern and inn.

Most of the time it stood empty, a shelter for travelers.

Whether it had ever been dedicated to her or not, the symbol of She Who Wanders had been carved over the door, and it was respected. Bandits took shelter within the house from time to time, but they did not waylay travelers they met there. Bandits are often more pious than one would expect, and when they are not, they are superstitious instead. The mark of She Who Wanders, earnestly made and earnestly meant, is nearly always respected by bandits.

Two figures climbed the hill towards the meeting house. The first of them could easily have been a bandit, had she been either pious or superstitious. She wore her brown hair just long enough for it to be tangled where it showed beneath her leather cap. Her gear was dark. There was no cover to be found on the long approach to the meeting house, and every move of her muscles signaled that she knew this and resented it. Her fingers, wrapped in supple gloves, twitched at her sides. A dagger seemed to appear and disappear in her hand.

Of the cloaked figure who followed behind her, less could be said. She seemed almost as furtive as her companion, but it was not a practiced furtiveness. She was not a natural slinker or lurker.

They reached the top of the hill. The dark-clad one halted, throwing up a hand to stop the other. The meeting house loomed large before them, a thick-timbered lodge with a covered porch.

“It’s meant to be safe, Waeren,” the cloaked figure said.

“Shh,” Waeren replied.

She stood staring into the darkness under the porch as seconds passed, then as abruptly as she’d stopped, she set forth again.

The cloaked woman was eager to reach the shelter, but Waeren held her back when they reached the top of the stairs. She gestured off to the side of the wide doorway, hung with a thick blanket-like curtain, then approached it alone.

She crept up to the doorway slowly, then swept through the curtain all at once, daggers in her hands. The front room of the meeting house was cold and dark and silent… and occupied. Wooden chair legs scraped against the floor. Waeren’s arm moved on reflex, and a knife went spinning through the darkness to thunk into a wall.

There was a soft chuckle, and then with the striking of flint a candle sparked into life, revealing a woman hunched over a table, short, straight black hair framing an impish face. She wore a short fur cape over a shirt of steel chain. Some of the links were black, forming a pattern in the shape of a raven’s head over her heart.

“Mornin’,” she said, her accent rolling the r and lifting the vowels.

“No it isn’t,” Waeren said automatically.

“Evenin’, then.”

“It’s hours past midnight.”

“Mornin’ it is, then,” the raven-haired woman said. “But a cold and dark one, at that. There are blankets in the back. If you’re planning on keeping your friend out on the porch all night long, you might want to take her one.”

“What were you doing, sitting here in the dark?” Waeren asked.

“Sleeping.”

“You sleep sitting in a chair?”

“I’d sleep standing up, but then the daggers would hit me,” the woman said. “To be honest, there’s a store of candles, but I don’t feel right using them up without anyone more interesting than myself to look at. Are you going to ask your friend in?”

“She’s not for you to look at,” Waeren said. “I wasn’t expecting the house to be occupied.”

“That explains the bursting in with blades drawn,” the woman said. “I know I always do that when I walk into an empty room… or I would, if I had any blades.”

“You don’t carry a weapon?” Waeren asked.

“Would hardly be fair if I did. Are you going to let your friend in, or is she meant to sleep out there with the wolves all night?”

“Don’t be so dramatic.”

“Who’s being dramatic? A pair of wolves crept under the porch about two hours before you got here. I haven’t heard them creep out.”

“I thought wolves hunted at night,” Waeren said.

“And yet you’re strangely sanguine about their presence, in close proximity to your friend who I’ve yet to meet,” the woman said. “I should tell you, I don’t appreciate being introduced to leftovers. I have my pride.”

Waeren’s companion giggled and came into the lodge.

“I like her,” she said, her hood falling back as it got caught up in the curtain to reveal honey-colored hair, tan skin, and pale blue eyes. “She’s funny.”

“I told you to wait,” Waeren said. “We don’t know who’s in here.”

“Pallas, they call me,” the woman at the table said. “Pallas Snowblade.”

“You said you don’t have any blade,” Waeren said.

“Swish it around a bit,” Pallas said. “I’m sure it’ll come to you, in the fullness of time.”

“Is anyone else here?” Waeren asked.

“Apart from the wolves? One other,” Pallas said. “Nun of some sort, I think. Probably a mendicant. She’s either mute, or she’s taken vows. Possibly both. You want to talk about playing to your strengths, there’s what you call a natural vocation…”

“I like her already,” Waeren said.

“Since we’re all getting to know each other…” Pallas said.

“Cassela,” the cloaked woman said. “Cass. And this is Waeren, my… she looks after me.”

“I’ll bet she does,” Pallas said. “Lady, I would follow you anywhere for the chance to look after you.”

“Enough of that,” Waeren said. “You said the nun’s in the back. Are there separate rooms?”

“Cells, more like,” Pallas said. “I expect she’s used to that. At least, I haven’t heard a complaint from her.” She gestured at the doorway at the back of the room. “There’s a bit of a common room off the hall to the right. It has high windows near the roof so you get a bit of light and air in the morning. I’d recommend it to the other rooms, which are part of the older construction.”

“These rooms have doors?”

“They do,” Pallas said. She gave a low whistle. “So, it’s like that, then?”

“It isn’t any of your business what it’s like,” Waeren said. She grabbed Cassela by the arm and pulled her towards the doorway.

“Goodnight, Pallas!” Cassela called. “I mean, good morning!”

“Mornin’,” Pallas said.

Pallas bedded down alone in the drafty common room, piling woolen blankets beneath her bedroll and then pulling more on top of her. She expected to be woken up by the rays of the sun slanting through the window within a few hours.

As it happened, she awoke sooner than that. Cassela was either a very noise lover or Waeren was a very good one.

“So, it’s like that, then,” Pallas said into her blankets, with a grin. Cassela’s cries grew steadily louder… and then suddenly much louder, accompanied by a crash out in the narrow hallway.

“Not rightly sure what that’s like,” Pallas said, and she rolled over and pulled the blankets over her head, though she never quite got back to sleep.