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itself was turned about in the Change, and has not grown new moss yet. Your person took bearings from the side the moss was on, and for whatever reason did not recognize this is a Changecircle.” She spotted something else . . . something that was very much not good . . . and groaned. “I am so sorry,” Sherra said.
    :Why? What?:
    Sherra held up a torn bit of yellow-dyed cloth, only as long as one of her own fingers. She flicked out her forked tongue, which vibrated up and down at the very tips. “There is blood in this mud. The taste of it is faint but there. Whoever your Chosen is, they’re losing blood and I can’t sense any of the protective oils like we have. Or rather, wait—not much of it. There was some, once.” Sherra frowned and searched a little more, blinking her nictating lids against a persistent cloud of midges. “These little scraps of cloth seem to be discarded bandages.”
    There was a flattened patch of grasses, vines, and mud, and then a faint trail of broken greenery headed in what, by the mistaken bearings, would be what the Chosen thought was east. That meant the Chosen was headed back into the Mire.
    :My Chosen’s mind is feeling worry and despair, and fear. Of death. But not for herself? Himself? That way.: Vesily nodded her head twice to show Sherra the way, but Sherra already knew. The Path had changed direction, now that they’d reached that Circle, and now was a critical moment. “Vesily,” Sherra began, “We should rest here where the ground’s solid and—”
    :I know,: Vesily stated. :But I can’t. I know I should rest but I feel like I’m killing my Chosen if I wait.:
    “You could kill your Chosen and yourself if you don’t wait. There is a saying among guides and scouts—‘sometimes you must be slow to be fast.’ Being too bold means you get stuck or hurt, and spend your time extricating yourself instead of making miles.” Sherra reached up to pat Vesily’s foreleg. “You have done everything you could, and you were smart when you could have been reckless. Don’t do something stupid now.”
    :My Chosen is in there!: Vesily cried in Sherra’s mind, and the Companion stamped her hooves. :What if we rest a candlemark here and find my Chosen a candlemark too late? What about your guide-wisdom then?:
    “And what if we do not rest, rush in, and get delayed two candlemarks because we were too tired to see a mudpit? Believe me to my last breath, Spirit Horse, that is far more likely. You don’t know how lucky we’ve been this far. But I am concerned by this too. I say that we rest now, as best we can, and then we let our emotions push us when we need it the most.”
    Vesily stood, watching the middle distance, in the direction of her Chosen. She didn’t chase after her Chosen, at that moment, and Sherra took it as the victory for wisdom that it was and wasted no time getting fresh water and food. Sherra had an uneasy feeling that she hoped Vesily couldn’t pick up on—that this was no longer a guide trip and more of a salvage and rescue journey. She didn’t ration her food as if she’d need it for a return leg. Something told her she’d only restock at the Vale, this time, because she couldn’t get home. She found herself examining her weapons and triple-checking their thumb releases when she “heard” Vesily’s Mindspeech.
    :She’s insane,” the Companion said softly. :She’s—everywhere she turns is the right direction, she thinks. She crawls and then rests, wants food and cold water. But it’s so incoherent. She falls down, holds her belly, thinks of—everything. Randomly. I know her direction, Sherra, but I don’t know her. :
    Sherra tugged on Vesily’s tail. “Come here. Lie down and sleep. Look, your kind believe in destiny, yes? That spirits guide you to where you need to be? Our kind, we know these things to be true. Our spirits are agents of change long after the beings they were are dead. So lie down, here, and listen to me. Would the spirits