Red berries on a dark limb.

The Huntress paused, the bear shifting beneath her.

Rowan.

She had never realized how many rowan trees grew in the mountains, or how bright the berries gleamed against the snow. They pricked the eyes like blood.

Fresh tracks beside the tree.

Deer. She could smell them, a faint musk that spoke of hunger and chewed bark. She moistened her lips, tasting the air.

Not far.

The branches of the rowan tree tangled in her hair as the bear lumbered forward. She tugged, and a few berries spilled into her lap.

They had served rowanberry jam with game. The sauce was bittersweet, a sharp tang against the honeyed roasts. Old laughter rang in her ears, and the remembered stench of sweating, breathing, feasting men and women overpowered the smell of deer.

She had sat with her Hounds at the high table. Masha— quick-tempered, first to throw words or knives. Neve— first to the ale, last to bed. Brendan— big-fisted, big-hearted, favorite among puppies and children. Lyon— faster on foot than a horse, but slow to laugh. And Quince. Small, sharp Quince, her shadow, her right hand, the last of her Hounds to fall to the witch’s spell. Which of them had the hunters taken? Which of her kin had they cut down, with their crude crossbows and steel traps?

She threw the berries from her. They scattered on the snow like drops of blood.

The deer were upwind.

She slid off the back of the bear and hefted her spear. Without the bear’s height, the berries faded from sight, and with them, the memories.

Snow, ice, thorn.

Within the briars, the Hounds lived on.

The witch smiled in the Huntress’s memory. She broke into a run, her long stride swallowing the drifts, until the smell of the deer drove away all else.