Since the day she'd left her clan, her nose still swollen and her body bruised, Cerrynt had had no path before her. All she had was a vague idea that a particular way might, might, lead to something. The marking of the year end could give the spirits a chance to guide her, to finding her strength and cunning, and saving her clan. But it did not. That path led her only to a village near the Isen, and people who cared not one whit for her path, only to set her on theirs. She squared her shoulders and set out to fulfill the pledge that had been pushed upon her, hoping against hope that it might become the path, turn out to be some trick of the spirits to lead her where she needed to be. Daring and eventful as her efforts to fulfill her vow had been, they had proved fruitless; all her courage had been squandered, the horse slain for a meal before she could bring it to Wulf's banner, making it impossible for her to fulfill that pledge. Yet another sign that the spirits had abandoned her, had no intent of showing her the way to fulfill her first and most important pledge, to claim the role of champion and thus save her clan. The only thing her path had led her to was someone else's war, a village that (with one notable exception) had never welcomed her, and more mockery and scorn than anyone should ever bear, even enemies. No, she thought; she would not even treat Trindân as they treated her. There was no help here, no honor, and above all, no path.
It was easy enough to reclaim those few possessions she'd left behind in Tros Hynt and slip out of the village, perhaps not unseen but unnoted, unregarded. Once again, as she left, she had no path before her. But now, that felt normal. That was her life now.
