Memories flood my mind, and tears blur my vision. I stood like this so many times, resting from the climb up the steep path, often leading Rol with a deer or boar from the day's hunt slung over his saddle. I look down the trail into the village, almost expecting to see my foster mother, Grenna, hurrying out to greet me. But of course she died three years ago. My old friend Fiona has seen me. Her voice floats up to me as she hurries along the path. “Ilena! Is it you?” “Fiona!” I wave to her and start down the slope. My homeplace is high on the hillside to the left, closer to the pass than the rest of the village, but a large outcrop of rock hides it from my view. Jon, Fiona's brother, is probably busy in the paddock, opening the gate to the night pen or leading Legg, Moren's horse, into his stall in the barn. When I left last fall, I asked Jon to move in and care for the livestock and the fields until I returned—if I returned. I urge Rol forward, eager to see Jon, but bracing myself for the possibility of finding a woman there also.
