They turned toward the center of the village, where the night was split open by a great fire, and a singing such as Elizabeth had never heard.

"Stay close," Robbie said softly.

She nodded. The rush of her blood made her fingers jerk and tingle, the knot in her belly pulling tighter with every pulse and echo of the drums. Close against her thigh, the red dog's trembling was like her own, rumbling up from the marrow, as if every bone had been hollowed out and filled with glassy shards of panic and agitation. He's here, he's here, he's here. Almost, almost she could hear the voices singing what rang so persistently in her head: Nathaniel is here; Nathaniel is alive.

There was sudden silence when they walked into the open area where the fire burned. Hands stilled on drums, and the dust settled slowly around the dancers' feet. Elizabeth blinked hard as her eyes adjusted to it: the great leaping light that cast everyday browns and tans into a spectrum of golds, set off here and there with a splash of crimson or green. Around them perhaps two hundred pairs of dark eyes, waiting. Only the fire spoke now, with a crackle and low roar.

A single figure came forward. He was wrapped in a blanket, and wore an elaborate headdress on his shaved scalp.

"The sachem," Robbie said quietly to Elizabeth. "Stone—Splitter, by name."

Of all the men, the sachem was the only one to wear a headdress which included the antlers of a deer. But even to Elizabeth it was clear that his authority did not come from his ornaments or by virtue of his age—there were older men—but from a singular intensity that brought him everyone's attention. Now he was looking at Otter with obvious pleasure and satisfaction.

"We welcome our brother Tawine, who has been long absent from our fire, and we welcome our friend Yotsitsyonta, who finally honors us with his company after so many years." He spoke Kahnyen’keháka, but in a slow, measured way that Elizabeth could follow, for the most part. The sachem paused, and Elizabeth felt his gaze on her, quizzical but reserved.

"You are the wife of Nathaniel, whom we call Okwaho—rowakeka?"

"Yes," Elizabeth said, and then more loudly: "Hen'en."

"He is a good man, and our brother," said the sachem, and there was murmuring around the fire. "He has told us to expect you."

Elizabeth's throat closed tight with this, the certain knowledge that he was alive. She nodded.

Stone—Splitter said, "Tell us why you ran away and left your husband to die alone in the Endless Mountains."

Elizabeth looked to Otter, unsure if she had understood correctly. She saw by his face that she had.

"I did not leave my husband to die," she said, finding a voice that was stronger and louder than she expected. "I went only to fetch RobbieYotsi'tsyonta." She repeated his name in Kahnyen’keháka. "I left to get help, so that Nathaniel would not die."

An old woman came forward, her tangled mass of bone, bead, and shell necklaces and ornaments rattling with each step. In spite of the great age which drained her face of flesh, she had eyes as bright and cutting as chips of obsidian against sand. She came close enough for Elizabeth to catch the smell of her, the sharp tang of sweat and dried herbs and tallow, bear grease and buckskin. And she saw distrust in her narrowed eyes, and dislike. Why this should be, Elizabeth did not know, but she drew in a breath to steady herself.

The old woman was examining Elizabeth's face openly.

"You have been beaten," she said. "Did you shoot a husband who raised a hand to you when you were disobedient, and then run, leaving him to the hungry ghosts who walk the forest?"

"No!" Elizabeth felt Otter stirring beside her, and she turned to him. "I cannot say this in Kahnyen’keháka," she whispered. "Please translate for me. Tell them that Nathaniel never raised a hand to me in anger, and I did not run from him. I could not manage on my own," she finished, cursing the way her voice trembled. "Tell them, please."

Her mind moved with preternatural slowness, one thought repeating itself again and again: that unless she answered these people to their satisfaction, Nathaniel would stay hidden from her. To admit she had shot him, even in error, was a chance she could not take. While Otter translated, she watched the faces around her, searching the crowd once again for a familiar or friendly face, and found none.

"Irtakohsaks tells us a different story," said the sachem.

Irtakohsaks. Cat—Eater. Elizabeth started at this name. She had completely forgotten about Richard, and what he might say and do to gain his own ends. Beside her, Otter had come to life; she could feel him crackling with energy.

When she met his eye, she saw how angry he was. "Ask them if my husband holds me responsible for his wounds."

Otter did this, but before he had finished the old woman's voice rose shrilly.

The sachem held up a hand to delay her. "He does not," he answered, looking at Elizabeth rather than Otter. "It is Irtakohsaks who spoke to us of this."

Otter's indignation burst out of him.

"Irtakohsaks speaks lies," he said. "Irtakohsaks was once a child of this fire, but he turned his back on the Kahnyen’keháka long ago. He led the o seronni soldiers to us and they murdered us in our beds. He bound Sky—Wound—Round like an animal and forced him to march. Would you take his word above the word of Wolf—Running—Fast, our brother, who accuses this woman of nothing? Irtakohsaks does not know this woman. He is not worthy to take this woman's name in his mouth."