The night poachers snatched Asmine from the bed we shared, I had woken terrified and gone to lie with my parents. I told them I'd had a nightmare. Ma let me crawl in beside her and cuddled me back to sleep. But now as I lie in the darkness, pain pulsing in my skull, I realise I didn't dream the ominous presence surrounding our tent all those years ago. I had sensed the men who stole my four-year-old friend. The mist berries cloak minds, but once a person is close enough, faint impressions reach through the veil, vague and distorted, like rocks or bushes under a thick winter blanket.

Not so faint in the case of the bounty hunter who attacked Pa and whose rage was a blinding flash of blood and fists on my inner-eye. I've never encountered a mind like it: crystal clear when it comes, yet so well protected.

Pa! I roll onto my side coughing up the snow I've been suffocating in. Colours sparkle at the edge of my vision. It's as though I'm seven again and my glitter-eyes are back, but I can actually see the dazzle in my own irises. I grow aware of the weight of the knife handle in my hand and close my fist around it.

'Pa?'

'Mirra!' My mother's voice is a soft, startled cry. I try to tilt my head, but it sends electric light shooting through my skull. Footsteps approach. My mother collapses beside me. 'Oh Mirra, you're alive!' she sobs. The neck of her lute dangles on her hip. Bits of wood and gut strings hang from the smashed concave body.

'Where's Kel?' I croak. 'Where's Pa?'

'Gone, both gone.'

I force myself to sit up. Ma is more of a hinder than a help, picking and pulling at the fur of my parka. Blood trickles down my arm. I slide a hand down the neckline of my inner and outer parkas, beneath my cotton shirt, and press the injury. I am lucky. The arrow that hit me glided the skin's surface and the cold has constricted the bleeding. I reach for my father's presence, knowing he cannot have fallen far.

Timelessness, wildness, vastness. His mind is a harsh and beautiful winter land; it reminds me of a herd of giant deer prancing through a river, shaking themselves off on the other side, blooms of spray like diamonds raining down on Ederiss.

'Ma,' I say. She moans. 'Ma...' In the snow-reflected starlight, her hair glows pale gold as it whips out behind her. 'Pa's alive and I sense Kel. He's not far. We need to help Pa. Fetch my pack.' She raises her head. I can only make out the edges of her cheek-bones, the curve of her high forehead. She tilts a little, revealing the glassy sheen in her eyes. She nods, but it's as though she's not here, drowning in the shock. Up on her feet, she sways, searches about, returns with a heavy load.

'In the inside pocket, wrapped in skin, are the cotton pads.' I shout to be heard above the blow and howl of the wind.

'Cotton pads?' She rummages frantically. She has no idea what I'm talking about. Every year since I was twelve and old enough to hunt, Pa has left us from anywhere between ten days to two weeks. He travels to the closest boarder settlements to trade the deer skin boots and coats Ma makes, in exchange for metal pans, medicine, grain and gifts for us all. Ma doesn't care much about the rest of what he brings back, as long as she has her threads and needles for sewing, a pretty comb or a new necklace.

The seconds slip away, but I don't hurry her. She is shaken and panicked enough as it is. Finally, she waves the skin-wrapped wad in front of me.

'That's it.' I use my good arm to push to my feet, hold still for a moment, waiting for the spinning to settle. 'Follow me,' I say. We plough through snow and wind, exposed on this forlorn plateau, each step compounding the throbbing in my body. 'Don't let go of those!' I look back and notice by some miracle, she is also dragging my rucksack.

A pot, wooden spoons and a split bag of grain strew the ground. I shuffle past them, hoping she doesn't notice the blood glistening in the ruffled white terrain.

And then I reach Pa. He has fallen face-up, or rolled himself with the last of his strength. He must be breathing or I wouldn't sense his mind, but I kneel down and check his air passage anyway. Ma slumps beside me.

'My furs,' I say. She struggles with the gut string attaching the bedding to my pack. I reach over and cut the ties with my knife. 'Lift his head,' I instruct her. As she does so, I slip part of the fur roll under him. Then, with my knife, I rip through his outer parka, sheath the blade and remove my glove. 'Give me one of the pads, Ma. Be careful. Don't let any blow away.'

The skin wrap flutters in her shaky grasp. She removes a pad and pushes it into my hand. I slide my fingers beneath Pa's undershirt. Carefully, I tiptoe the pads of my fingertips up his chest to where I thought I saw the knife go in. The shirt is soaked with blood. My fingers slip across his skin in the goop. The wound is higher than I imagined, severing the shoulder joint not piercing his chest. I know when I've reached it by Pa's agonised cry. 'Hold on, Pa. Hold on.' I press the dressing against the gash. He moans. 'You're OK. I'm here. You're OK.'

'Is he OK?' Ma wails, crying again.

'He'll be OK. Get one of my undershirts, rip up two strips, long enough to tie around my arm.'

She does as I say while I concentrate on maintaining the pressure on Pa's wound. My knife-throwing arm burns. The inside of my cheek where I was hit aches. Every second Ma takes floundering to find a shirt, struggling to rip off strips, is like holding breath underwater when all your body wants to do is come up for air.

'Have you done it?'

'I'm doing it.'

'Hurry, Ma.' I can't wait any longer. And Pa's cotton pad is sopping wet. I need to put another one on. She holds out the two strands. 'Good,' I say. 'Now I need another pad for Pa. I want you to hold him where my hand is. First hold him,' I say as she waves the pad at me. 'I can't move my bad arm.' She kneels on the other side of my father, pushes her palm against the skin of his inner parka. I take the pad and slide my arm under his shirt again placing the thick cotton on top of the first. 'Now while I've got him, put a pad over my wound and tie it down with the cloth strips.'

'OK, Mirra,' she says, teeth chattering, shoulders shaking.

It hurts to have her treating my arm while I'm taking care of my father, and it's awkward as she can't see what she's doing and has to work around my clothes. It seems an age has passed when the bandage is at last in place.

Here comes the hard bit. When she realises I'm leaving her. I cross Pa's other arm over his chest and tell him to keep up the pressure. While Ma covers him with bedding furs, I struggle to knot myself a sling. Then I throw together a light bag with a fur throw, my fire plate and bow for making fire, a hatchet, my flask and my hunting bow.

'Mirra, what are you doing?' Ma asks, blinking up at me.

'Keep up the pressure on his wound. Once the bleeding stops, you'll have to build a shelter. Something low and small so the wind won't knock it down. Then you make a fire to keep Pa warm. As soon as you're sure the bleeding has stopped boil up some water, let it cool and clean the wound. Make sure you keep him warm and don't try to move him. Pa will be able to instruct you after that.'

'You're going after Kel?' Fear and shock choke her voice. 'But you're injured, Mirra. Those men were huge. They'll kill you.'

It's at moments like this, I would give anything not to have the sight. Not to see what scuds the surface of my mother's thoughts. The man who'd run after Kel knocking her down. Kel screaming and kicking and Ma doing nothing to stop him as he dragged Kel away.

Ma grew up in the wealthy town of Ebonaska. When she was eight years old and King Rex began rounding up the Uru Ana and drowning them or burning them, her family hid their heritage, began the Carucan traditions of fasting and cleansing, avoided drawing attention to themselves and carried on, as neighbours, people they'd been friends with for years, were arrested and their glitter-eyed children taken. Her parents did not fight back. I try to remember that as contempt for my mother's weakness festers inside me.

I occupy myself with gathering the scant remains of our rations. Ice crystals have dampened the chickweed leaves. I take a handful, add a few stalks of the white root plant, two fish, and wrap them in skin. My parents will keep the cereal, tubers, most of the roots, and the leftover fish, enough to stave off hunger for four days.

Once I have the bare essentials I will be travelling with, I sling the hemp bag over my neck and adjust my sling. Ma stares at me until I meet her gaze. 'You know I'll never find Kel if they get too far. When he's in the Hybourg it'll be like looking for a needle in snow.'

'I know Mirra. But how can you do anything? You can't even hunt or build a shelter with that arm. You won't be able to make fire. How will you survive?'

'You worry about Pa. Clean the wound. Keep him warm.'

She nods. In the wispy light, tears stream her cheeks.

'You have to keep it together, Ma, you hear me?'

'I'm sorry,' she says. 'I'm sorry for everything, Mirra. Just bring Kel back.' 

'I will,' I say, fighting down tears. I bend down beside her and lean over my father. Awkwardly, I kiss his cheek, careful not to press anywhere that might hurt him. Ma throws her arms around me. Then we are hugging and she is kissing my face.

'I love you, Mirra.'

'I love you, too.' I am gentle as I break the grip of her arms around my waist. She doesn't stop me as I rise. I imagine her watching my silhouette slip across these vast forgotten lands. I don't wonder what she's thinking or how she'll manage with Pa. From this moment on, everything must be about what comes next. I can't afford to look back.