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surround us.
    I’ve never known his real name. My sister, Tutelo, gave him a name twelve summers ago: Shago-niyoh. I so often only hear his voice seeping from the air that I generally call him “the Voice.”
    Barely audible, I breathe, “Why are you here?”
    The earthiness of wet bark suffuses the darkness. The creature takes a step closer and stops with his black cape swinging around his tall body. I gaze into the utter darkness inside his hood. He leans toward me until his face—if he had one—would be almost touching mine, and says, “ Drop all of your weapons.”
    I stiffen as though I’ve been slapped. Does he want me dead? Even if I do not plan to use them on my friends, I will surely need them later. “Why?”
    “You are no longer a warrior.”
    Stunned, I say, “That won’t matter to the Mountain People, or the—”
    “Head north into the country of the Island People. I have one task to take care of; then I’ll find you. Remember what I said.”
    “About forgiveness or the fact that I am no longer …”
    There is only cascading snow in front of me now. I blink. Look around. It takes a few moments to catch my breath. My soul must be loose. The meadow is silent. Where are my pursuers? Where is Gitchi? He’s probably bedded down in the snow, hiding, as I taught him to do when enemy warriors approach.
    I listen for any sound.
    Wet flakes quietly pat upon my cape.
    Finally, I look at the war club in my fist, heft its familiar weight. My life may well depend upon this single act. Still … I have never disobeyed Shago-niyoh before, but every instinct I have is telling me that this is suicide.
    I force my hand to lay the club down. As I do, my fingers sting. Have I been clutching it so tightly? I scan the snow again, searching for movement, ready to grab the club if necessary.
    Somewhere above me, beyond the snow, the Cloud People must be thinning, for paler gray stains the darkness. If I’m still here, in this open meadow, when my pursuers have enough light to see, I won’t have to worry about anything ever again.
    One by one, I strip my weapons belt, dropping stilettos, knives, anything else that might conceivably be considered a weapon. Each lands in the deep snow with barely a sound.
    My empty hands flex at my sides. I’ve been a warrior for twelve summers. If I am no longer a warrior, what am I? Who am I?
    I look around, trying to get my bearings. Which way is north?
    In warrior’s practice, when we are children, our parents blindfold us, lead us around in circles for half the day, and then lock us in a hole in the ground. From within the blackness, we must be able to identify the directions.
    When I’m on the war trail, it’s easy. The position of Elder Brother Sun, or the slant of sunlight, gives away the directions. Even at night, the positions of the campfires of the dead mark them. But at night in a storm? I have only my internal sense of place.
    I close my eyes and try to feel the land. What direction am I facing? The faintest breeze blows. It’s fall. Wind Mother usually comes from the west or north. The wettest snows, like this one, are born out over Skanodario Lake …
    After several moments, I turn to the right, and start walking.

Five
    W ar Chief Hiyawento’s gaze drifted over the Wolf Clan longhouse in Coldspring Village. Four hundred hands long, the house spread forty hands wide, and forty-four tall. Twenty families lived here, their personal space arranged in ten compartments on either side of the house. Longhouses were basically one gigantic room with each family’s compartment screened from its neighbor’s by a bark wall on each side, and a curtain in front that could be drawn closed. However, for warmth, the curtain was generally left open facing the fire pit. That meant that Hiyawento could see across the house to the compartment on the opposite side. They shared the fire that stood between their compartments. Pedeza and her husband lay beneath thick hides on the wide