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I was a friend to your family.”
    “You are here to help us?”
    “I don’t fight other men’s battles, girl. I came to warn him. I see now it was unnecessary.”
    Slowly she lowered her sword. “Why are they hunting him? He has harmed no one.”
    He shrugged. “Not for many a year, I’ll grant you that, buthe has many enemies. It is one of the drawbacks of an assassin’s life. Did he teach you to use a sword?”
    “Yes.”
    “He ought to be ashamed of himself. Swordfighting is heart and mind in perfect harmony,” he said sternly. “Did he not tell you that?”
    “Yes, he did,” she snapped.
    “Ah, but like most women you listen only when it suits you. Yes, I can see that. Well, can you cook?”
    Holding back her temper, she gave him her sweetest smile. “I can. I can also embroider, knit, sew, and what else? Ah, yes …” Her fist cracked against his chin. Standing alongside the fallen tree, he had no time to move his feet and steady himself, and a second blow sent him sprawling across the trunk to land in a mud patch on the other side. “I almost forgot,” she said. “He taught me to fight with my fists.”
    Angel pushed himself to his knees and slowly rose. “My first wife was like you,” he said, rubbing his chin. “A dreadful woman, soft as goose down on the outside, baked leather and iron inside. But I’ll say this, girl—he did a better job of teaching you to punch than he did to thrust. Can we have a truce now?”
    Miriel chuckled. “Truce,” she agreed.
    Angel rubbed his swollen jaw as he walked behind the tall mountain woman. A kick like an angry horse and a punch almost as powerful. He smiled ruefully, his eyes watching the way she moved, graceful yet economical. She fought well, he conceded, but with too much head and too little instinct. Even the punches she had thrown had been ill disguised, but Angel had allowed them to land, sensing that she had needed some outlet for her frustration at having been so easily defeated.
    A proud woman. And attractive, he decided, somewhat to his surprise. Angel had always favored big-breasted women, buxom and comfortable, warm between the sheets. Miriel was a mite thin for his taste, and her legs, though long and beautifully proportioned, were just a little too muscular. Still, as the saying went, she was a woman to walk the mountains with.
    He chuckled suddenly, and she turned. “Something is amusing you?” she asked, her expression frosty.
    “Not at all, Miriel. I was just remembering the last time I walked these mountains. You and your sister would have been around eight, maybe nine. I was thinking that life goes by with bewildering speed.”
    “I don’t remember you,” she said.
    “I looked different then. This squashed nose was aquiline, and my brows boasted hair. It was long before the mailed gloves of other fistfighters cut and slashed at the skin. My mouth, too, was fuller. And I had long red hair that hung to my shoulders.”
    She leaned in close, peering at him. “You were not called Angel then,” she announced.
    “No. I was Caridris.”
    “I remember now. You brought me a dress—a yellow dress—and a green one for Krylla. But you were …”
    “Handsome? Yes, I was. And now I am ugly.”
    “I did not mean …”
    “No matter, girl. All beauty passes. I chose a rough occupation.”
    “I don’t understand how any man would wish to pursue such a way of life. Causing pain, being hurt, risking death—and for what? So that a crowd of fat-bellied merchants can see blood flow.”
    “I used to think there was more to it,” he said softly, “but now I will not argue with you. It was brutal and barbaric, and mostly I loved it.”
    They walked on to the cabin. After he had eaten, Angel sat down by the dying fire and pulled off his boots. He glanced at the hearth. “A little early for fires, isn’t it?”
    “We had a guest, an old man,” said Miriel, seating herself opposite him. “He feels the cold.”
    “Old Ralis?” he