Dawn washes the village in blue light. The lodges are silent, peaceful.
I make my way between them, heading for the horse paddocks as I have every morning for the past week. Used to dread these early risings.
But Lea was right: trust is the difference. Weeks ago riding was awkward for me, and horses were intimidating; it feels natural now. My muscles have healed; they no longer cry out when I ride, and it feels like Beast gives me the speed and strength I was always meant to have. On his back is now the one place I feel in control.
This morning I'm desperate for that feeling.
Days have passed with my dreams remaining the same: me burying Matisa in the soil. I told her I'd be patient, but I'm not like her in that regard. Matisa acts of her own accord but thinks it through first. I often find myself thinking on what I've done after the fact; patience isn't something I know too well.
There's been no word from the scouts about the Dominion, but surely their soldiers will arrive soon. And the thought of this valley at war is like a cold hand gripping my throat.
Mayhap that creeping fear explains last night's dream. It was an old one, one I dreamt many times on our journey to this valley. I'm on the Watch flats, my hands covered in soil. Matisa stands before me: herself and not. Glistening bones on one side of her face melt seamless-like into the other half, which is whole and beautiful. Her clothes on the skeletal half hang loose—her hand of jumbled bones that holds the plant is crushing it into dust. She holds out her fleshy palm, the one with the soil.
But last night, for the first time in this dream, she spoke new words.
You must go back, she said, and she blew the dirt into my eyes.
I press on toward the paddocks, uncomfortable questions crowding into my mind. Is my dream telling me to return to my settlement, where it's safe? Is it telling me to return to wihkwetinaw for Kane? Or am I so fearful now, so doubtful of my purpose here in Matisa's village, that I just wish it were?
Lea's not at the paddocks, so I take Beast out alone to the river, lifting my face to the breeze and trying to clear my mind.
As I get onto the training flats, I see a group of warriors near the lake. Lea, watching from a distance, waves me over. I urge Beast into a jog.
"What's going on?" I ask as we pull up beside her.
"Huritt is leading them in a training game."
There are a number of targets placed throughout the field. The warriors are lined up one after the other, carrying weapons: bow and arrows, guns, slings.
They're in their war leathers: gleaming breastplates that cover their chests and backs and the very top of their arms, and leather wrist guards that extend the length of their forearms and end in lashings that cover the palm but leave the fingers free for fitting arrows and handling reins. Some of the warriors, women and men alike, have parts of their hair shaved, and some have cut the front short and stiffened it straight up with grease. Must be for battle, like the markings they've drawn, and sometimes cut and dyed, on their skin. I can see the black and red swirls and lines from here—snaking around their upper arms and up their necks as they rock back and forth or shake out their limbs in anticipation of the challenge.
"You're not taking part?" I ask.
"My group went yesterday."
I search the crowd and see that Tom's among them.
His hair is glaring near white among a sea of dark, and he looks real handsome in the war leathers. He has his two guns: a long bolt-action he took off a man who'd succumbed to the Bleed—found when he was tracking us—and a short pearl-handled one he took off our captor, Julian, when he shot him and rescued us. It bears initials on the handle—JL—but Tom scratched a line through those initials like he was erasing the memory of the man.
I stare at him, pride welling up inside. Before this summer, could never have imagined him taking a map from Henderson—the mapmaker who found our settlement after the Thaw—and coming out after us on his own.
Looking on him now, I can't imagine him not doing it.
A few warriors are outfitted like Tom, but most have chosen bow and arrow or knives. Matisa's people have stockpiled some weapons through trading with other First People in the east: guns that repeat their fire, hand-held explosives, launchers for poison gas. Despite the damage these weapons can do, osanaskisiwak are still partial to the quieter methods of attack that prove the warrior's skill.
I notice Eisu watching on the far side of the field. Scouts have different exercises and challenges than the warriors; he's here to watch Tom.
"What is the goal?" I ask Lea.
"They are meant to hit a variety of targets while they run through the course," Lea tells me. "Huritt watches to see which of them hit the most targets. Hitting the target while standing still does not count."
"Why?"
"Because the Dominion have weapons that can kill more than one man at once. Better to spread out and not be fixed targets."
"But why on foot?" I ask. "Won't they be riding?"
"Battle is not always fought on an open plain, like this. We are skilled at moving through forests, but horses cannot always negotiate them safely. It is a good idea to have warriors able to go quietly on foot with good aim."
She points to the first line. "They will go one at a time, moving sideways so they can practice never getting into one another's line of fire."
I watch as Huritt calls to the warriors. He raises his right arm and drops it, and the first warrior, a girl with half her scalp shaved, carrying a bow, darts forward to begin the course. Tom catches my eye and grins.
The girl moves with lightning speed, hitting her first mark, grabbing another arrow from her quiver and hitting the dead center of a barrel at least fifty strides away. She continues sideways, ducking, popping back up, and hitting a wooden circle that swings in the breeze between two posts. Huritt throws a disc into the air for her third target, and as the girl runs, she lets loose an arrow that nicks the side of it.
The next warrior sprints into the course—he's carrying a Westie. His shot nails the first target close to dead center, but he misses the next, the swinging target. He doesn't slow after his mistake, though, just continues, shooting as he moves. The boy after him is near as skilled as the girl with the bow, although for two of the targets he stops to get his bearings.
"Those will not count," Lea remarks to me.
And now it's Tom's turn.
He's a mite slower than the rest, and my heart skips when I realize this, but his first shot is dead on. After nailing the first target, he ducks down and pops up to hit the second and then does a spectacular dive roll into the third mark, rising up on his heels to hit the disc out of the sky. He spins and pulls the short gun from his holster, hitting the fourth and fifth targets in succession as he runs the length of the course. Slower but surer.
Lea and I look at each other.
"Huritt will be pleased," she says.
At the far end of the course, those who have finished are catching their breath and watching the rest who have yet to have their turn.
One by one, the warriors are waved through. I watch as they dart through the course, running and leaping and firing at the same time. My heart races as I watch them.
When they're finished, Huritt approaches and speaks to them in words that Tom must understand little of. Huritt waves his hands, giving them leave to return to their individual training exercises. He stops a few of the warriors, the biggest of them included, to talk to them, and Tom is left alone as the group breaks up.
I see Eisu approach Tom, his face aglow. He touches him on the arm and gestures back at the course. It's a familiar gesture but speaks of something more. A couple of the warriors look at them and then at one another.
I stiffen, waiting for some kind of backlash, until I remember that's not the way of Matisa's people. The fact of two men together isn't a joke; it's the fact of knowing someone has feelings for someone else
As he passes by, the biggest of the group claps Tom on the back.
Tom ducks his head, pleased. He turns and smiles at me.
And my heart near swells to breaking.
Lea touches my arm. "I'm needed at the weaponry," she says.
I nod. "I'm going to take Beast out."
Tom and Eisu head back into the village together. I urge Beast forward, steering him around the remnants of the training exercise. Once we're past and well onto the flats, I push him into a run.
My pulse races as he stretches into a full gallop. I lower my head and watch the ground rush past beneath us, trying to lose myself in the thunder of his hooves, wishing the sensation could hammer out the loneliness in my chest.
As we reach the shore, Beast slows to a walk. It is a rare, calm day. The lake of my dreams lies peaceful.
I drop a hand to fiddle with the tail of my ceinture fléchée. Today's the first day I've worn it since we arrived, since I traded in the clothes from Genya's village for the ones Matisa gave me. Suppose I viewed the sash as a reminder of a life I'd left far behind, but there used to be a time I wouldn't dress without it. I remember Tom's ma weaving his pa a new one in the common room, the candlelight casting shadows on her serious face.
I feel a pang at the memory and frown. Surely I can't be pining for a place I was so desperate to leave. I remind myself how caged I'd felt inside those walls. How little we knew about the world outside. How much of our own histories we'd forgotten. I run a hand down Beast's neck—Matisa tells me horses do not succumb to the Bleed. So what happened to our beasts of burden, all those years ago? The true stories have been lost to myth, to fear.
And all at once I understand Matisa's desire to restore the truth of her people's history. Knowing where you've come from helps you understand where you are, helps you decide where you're going.
A shadow draws my eyes to the ground at Beast's rump. It's following us, slinking along. I turn my head. Hunger pads after us, her tongue lolling. She gazes up like she's reprimanding me.
"Sorry," I say, pulling Beast up short. "Didn't think to invite you."
Her ears perk up at my voice. She ventures close.
How can one small act of kindness have turned her into such a loyal friend? Doesn't make sense. I take the reins in two hands.
Hunger waits to see which direction we'll set off.
I urge Beast forward, and as Hunger's shadow stretches out long before ours, I realize, mayhap it wasn't me who was offering the kindness.
I drift about the paddock, brushing Beast and giving him bits of grass I pluck from the ground beyond his reach.
You must go back.
Matisa's words from my dream return and, with them, the questions. Back where? And why? I stroke Beast's neck, my brow knitted with worry.
"Em!" Matisa's voice breaks into my thoughts. She's beckoning from across the paddock. "I've been looking for you everywhere!" Her cheeks are flushed. "The third group of scouts is back. You have to come see."
"What—" But she is gone.
I race to the gate. She is already far ahead of me, headed off through the village. I secure the latch and limp after her, through the winding rows of houses, past the healers' lodge and toward the warriors' quarter. The third group went out only last week. If they're back already, the news must be urgent. But can it be good?
I labor to catch her, but she's moving too fast.
Outside the training paddocks, half the village is gathering. A hum of voices fills the air. There's a crowd around half a dozen horses—the scouts' horses, no doubt—and the scouts have dismounted. I see Isi's head and Matisa's moshum—her grandfather—and Tom.
Matisa pushes through the crowd, and I follow, stumbling over someone's foot and muttering an apology.
We get to the last row of people, and Matisa stops so abrupt I near run into her. She looks over her shoulder at me, a mischievous smile on her face.
I frown in confusion.
She steps aside and drops an arm back to usher me through, giving me full view of the horses and scouts.
A young man is standing with his back to me, short dark hair, rough clothes. But the way he stands …
He turns.
And I take two stumbling steps forward and throw myself into Kane's arms.
