“Gaashuzho, ” she answered. “I will be.”

He nodded, but his face registered the strangeness of her accent. He cast his eyes down for a moment, as if considering how to say what he wanted to say.

“You are not Mang,” he settled upon at last.

“No,” she answered. “No, I am not. But I am in the care of the South People.” Brother Horse had told her to explain that to any strangers she met.

“It is she” the second rider hissed, but the first held up his hand to silence him.

“My cousins call me Moss, for my eyes,” he explained. “My war name is Strums the Bow. You may call me Moss, if you please. My cousin's name is Chuuzek.”

“Hey!” Chuuzek grumbled, and Hezhi wondered if he was upset because his name had been given to a stranger or if it was because the name Moss gave meant “He-Continually-Goes-About-Belching.”

“My name is Hezhi,” she replied, knowing it was polite to give a name when one was offered. “Have you come here for the Ben'cheen?”

“Partly,” Moss told her. “We are of the Four Spruces People.” He said that as if it should be significant, and Hezhi was sure that it probably was, to other Mang. It meant nothing to her, but she nodded as if it did. Moss regarded her impassively, then cleared his throat. “Well,” he said. “I would like to offer you a ride back to the village. It is a long walk from here.”

“No, thank you,” Hezhi replied. “I have a companion I shall rejoin shortly.”

“Ah,” Moss replied. Chuuzek looked around the canyon at that, expressing either disbelief or wariness. He grunted something under his breath.

Something isn't right, Hezhi realized. These two were acting oddly, even by Mang standards. It could be because she was not Mang, but there was Chuuzek's blurted “It is she.” That worried her immensely, and she wished now that they would go away. Moss seemed pleasant enough, concerned even, but then so had Yen, and he had been prepared to kill her.

“I think,” Moss said apologetically, “that I should insist. It is not meet that we leave you here, wandering about in the cliffs. Your companion is Mang?”

“He is.”

“Then he will find his way home easily enough.”

“He will wonder what became of me.”

Chuuzek snorted. “If he is Mang, he will read the signs well enough.”

Hezhi frowned up at them. She could see the hilts of their swords clearly, protruding from sheaths laced to their saddles. Chuuzek had his hand upon his, but Moss' were folded loosely, casually, at the base of his horse's neck.

“You wear war tassels,” she said. “I can't know what your intentions are.”

“It is true,” Moss said. “We are at war. Not with you. But I might take you captive, if that is the only way you will allow me to return you to the village.”

“I still prefer to decline.”

Chuuzek snarled; Hezhi could see that he was genuinely angry. Moss merely looked uncomfortable.

“I would rather have your permission,” he began, but at that moment he was interrupted by the sound of another horse approaching.

Hezhi looked beyond them to the new arrival, saw that it was Brother Horse, mounted, Heen trotting a hundred paces or so behind. For just a moment it all seemed far too much. The stranger she knew or the stranger she did not know?

Surrounded by monsters.

She would watch them. She would pretend that she did not care what happened to her. That was simple enough.

“Well, hello,” Brother Horse bellowed as he drew nearer. “How are my nephews from the Four Spruces Clan?”

Moss turned in his saddle and then dismounted, a sign of great respect. Chuuzek dismounted, also, with some hesitation, muttering under his breath.

“We are well enough, Grandfather,” Moss replied. “Only trying to convince this little thrush that the snow and open sky are no place for her with sundown approaching.”

Brother Horse smiled broadly. “My little niece is a hard-headed thrush,” he explained, his eyes focused on Hezhi rather than on the two warriors. “I appreciate the concern, however.”

Hezhi shivered. Brother Horse seemed so normal. Suddenly she doubted what she had seen; perhaps the monsters within him were merely some illusion created by the Fire Goddess, by the unevenness of her own vision. Once again, she did not know enough. But if, inside, Brother Horse was really a demon, what hope did she have?

Her only hope lay with herself. Not with Perkar, not with Tsem, not with the River. She did not need a butcher or a giant. She strained, for the first time trying to will the godsight to happen, to force a vision of the old man.

His form did not waver; he remained as he seemed.

Brother Horse leaned in his saddle and the leather creaked loudly within the red walls of stone around them. “Hezhi,” he said. “Will you return with us now? It's too cold for an old man to be out searching for his niece.”

“Leave her to us, then,” Chuuzek grumbled, but he kept his eyes firmly on the ground, not willing to challenge the old man directly.

“No,” Brother Horse said. “My niece is shy around strangers. She is not very trusting.”

Was there more than common emphasis on the last word? Was he accusing her?

But why should she trust him?

“I am cold,” she said rather shortly. ”I would like to get back to Tsem now.”

“Climb up behind me, then.” Brother Horse grunted.

“She may share my horse,” Moss offered. “I would consider it an honor.”

Of course you would, Hezhi fumed. What do you want of me? To kill me, as Yen did? My skin, to hang in your yekt? Or merely sex, like Werft? She was unable to avert her eyes quickly enough to avoid shooting him a poisonous glance; she saw the venom mirror against his eyes, saw what appeared to be dismay.

Be hurt, Hezhi retorted in her mind. But you want something. You may be smart enough to hide it, but your cousin is not

“No, best she ride with me,” Brother Horse said good-naturedly. But there was a certainty in the way he said it, a gentle termination of the debate.

“Very well,” Moss replied, his voice betraying no ill feelings. “I only offered.”

“And I only refused you,” Hezhi replied, using the polite “you” to soften her words. To imply that at another time, under other circumstances, she might not refuse. Though she would, of course.

Climbing up behind Brother Horse, she felt more comfortable almost instantly. Safe from whatever unknown threat the young warriors represented. The feeling was so much against her will—she wanted to stay wary, alert, and angry—that she wondered if it might not be some form of enchantment. Brother Horse was, after all, a gaan, and she knew nothing of the powers he might wield. Still, nothing seemed amiss or odd about the old man. To the contrary, he was just as he had always been.

THEY rode back to the Ben'cheen all in a clump. The sun was westering, but not, as Moss had implied, particularly near setting. Hezhi kept her head pressed against Brother Horse's coat, thinking that perhaps she would hear a growl or some other strange sound from within his body. She did not, and so instead she focused on the conversation, idly noting the slight differences in their speech.

“Is it odd that you go about with your helmets so?” Brother Horse asked after a moment.

“It would be odd if we were not at war,” Moss replied softly, after a considered pause. “As things stand, it is not odd at all.”

“I see. And who are my western relatives at war with?”

“The Mang' Moss corrected, “are at war with the Cattle People.”

Hezhi felt the muscles of Brother Horse's back tighten.

“War? Not just raiding?” His voice sounded casual, but the tension Hezhi sensed remained. “Why have I not heard of this?”

“News travels slowly on the plains in winter. That is why Chuuzek and I have come; we bring the news that our people will not be at the Ben'cheen this year.”