I ease my achin shoulder. Only now do I feel it. That cart wheel at the bridge slammed into me hard. I’ll have a bruise an then some to show fer it.

DeMalo’s rattled me to the marrow. His last words grip my head like a vice. I ain’t with child, I sure as hell ain’t. Oh, help. First that nightmare at the bridge, then him trackin me, huntin me down with them unearthly hounds. Can he really mean what he says?

The blood moon. The first full moon after the harvest moon. Think now, think. Last night, as we ran through the woods. The moon was on the wax. A quarter moon. That means … when? Seven nights from now? Seven. Generous, he said. That ain’t nuthin. He could be lyin. Bluffin. No. We’re in the endgame, he said. New rules.

If you keep on, more people will die. Maybe people you care about.

I lost so many that I care about already. An we ain’t no further ahead. Seven days. We’ll never defeat him. We’ll hafta run.

I’ll have you hunted down and killed. Wherever you run to.

He will too. An I’m instantly hot with shame I’d ever think of runnin. Like I’m some common, everyday coward. That jest proves how he gits to me. We’re all set on this fight. But Emmi. I need Emmi away from danger. I should of done it long ago. I’ll send her to Auriel Tai. Back to the Snake River camp. She’ll be safe there. If we was to die, she’d have Auriel to raise her to a woman. Lugh can take her there. No, he’d never leave me an he won’t have a star reader raise Em. Tommo, then. He can go with her.

So. Stand an fight. An win. But we ain’t gonna win by blowin bridges.

If you hit me again, I’ll hit you back tenfold.

There must be another way.

A cautious quork comes from the tree above me. Nero sidles out from wherever he’s bin hidin all this time. This is the crow who’s fought wolfdogs with beak an claw. Who’ll rush to defend me from all dangers. Unless, of course, that danger’s called DeMalo.

Fat lotta good you are, I tell him. Thanks fer nuthin. You led him straight here.

He drops onto my lap then climbs my front to nibble on my ear. He always does that when he feels guilty. The thing is, he likes DeMalo an he knows he shouldn’t. He’d of gone fer the dogs in my defence, no problem. But he’d never harm DeMalo an the dogs was with him, so he must of got confused.

Whose side are you on? I says. I hug him close an stroke his breast feathers. They’re growin back good. Where DeMalo’s hawk wounded him, where DeMalo stitched him—a month ago now—it’s healed well. Who am I to talk? I says. Whose side am I on? I had him an I couldn’t kill him. I couldn’t. What the hell’s wrong with me? I kiss Nero’s head. We cain’t tell nobody about this, you hear?

He chitters agreement. Nero. Th’only livin creature I can speak to freely these days. I gotta guard myself close with everybody else. A leader tells her people as little as possible, only what they need to know. That’s somethin I learned from Slim.

More people will die. People you care about. Your sister. Your brother.

Lugh, I says. Ohmigawd, Lugh, of course. C’mon, we gotta git to the rendezvous. Make sure they all made it okay. I jump to my feet. Nero spills to the ground with a squawk of protest. As I gather my gear, I says, They’ll be wonderin where we are. Emmi’ll be inside out with worry. Nero, we gotta go. C’mon.

He plays deaf. Beak deep in his birdy armpit, mutterin somethin about a mite. He’ll catch me up later. When it suits him.

I shoulder my barksack an bow. As I pass, I wrench my arrow from the tree.

It’s the first time in my life I ever shot to miss.

I’m cautious as I leave the pool. I set a course due north fer the rendezvous point at Painted Rock. I keep my eyes sharp, my ears keen, my bolt shooter ready in my hand. All clear. Nuthin untoward. No sound in the woods but the sounds of a wood. The bubble chat of warblers. The sigh of the wind. The creak of trees as they ease their bones.

After a couple hunnerd foot, I start to relax. Then. Behind me. A shift in the air. Not a sound, but somebody’s there. As I start to move, a gun shoves me in the neck. Hard to the base of my skull. I stop dead. I know the feel of that snubby nose. A shortbolt shooter. A fast blast. A messy end.

The voice comes from close behind me. I’ll be takin your weapons an pack. An it’s all the same to me if I have to kill you for ’em. You’re gonna drop your gun first, then your bow. One at a time, nice an easy.

It’s a woman. She’s steady-handed with the shortbolt. I can tell by the angle she’s taller’n me. A whisker below six foot.

I let my shooter fall to the ground. She smells of earth an sweat. She sounds of hard years an hard choices. Somethin starts to jig at the edge of my mind. I hesitate a moment.

I said, the bow! She presses the shortbolt fiercer, deeper into the tender spot between my spine an skull. I slide it offa my shoulder. My rare whiteoak bow, the gift of a shaman. I toss it carefully to one side. My quiver follows. I don’t think she’s clocked my knife yet. It’s tucked away in my boot sheath.

She snatches it. Quick as a rattler, she moves. The knife’s gone an the gun didn’t budge. She’s good. Must have long arms.

Let’s have your pack, she says.

I drop that too.

Hands up, she says. On your head.

I do it.

Now, she says. On the ground. Kneel.

The red hot flashes an I’m back at Pine Top Hill. With Emmi, prisoner of Vicar Pinch. The rest of us beat by him an his Tonton. Outfoxed. Outnumbered. I knelt at his feet an begged fer their lives.

I don’t kneel fer nobody, I says.

She grabs my collar. Kicks me. Back of my legs. I’m down. On my knees. Gun hard to my skull.

Didn’t your pa ever teach you manners? she says.

Them words. The very same. An I’m thinkin, me an Emmi in a sweetgrass valley. A cabin by a stream, bowls of stew an tough kindness. No. No. It cain’t be her.

Nero drops from the sky. He’s a screamin fury. Full attack, with beak, wings an claws. He slashes, beats an screeches. The woman staggers back an I’m free. I scramble around. Jump to my feet. An it is, it’s her. It’s Mercy. Ma’s friend Mercy. We thought she was dead. What’s she doin here?

She’s on the ground, scrabblin to git away from Nero. Arms huggin her head, pertectin herself. Her hair’s bin shaved to snow-white stubble. Around her neck there’s a iron collar. A slave collar.

Nero’s at her. In a flurry of feathers. I can see he’s drawn blood. He means to do worse. Nero, no! I yell. Stop! Go on! I shoo him away an he takes to a tree to glare at me an grumble. Mercy’s lyin on her side, folded in on herself. I crouch at her side.

Mercy, I says. It’s okay, Mercy. It’s me. It’s Saba. Allis’s girl. Willem an Allis. I touch her hand. Lightly. Jest barely. In case she’s a shade, a shadow. But she’s warm. She’s real.

We came to you at Crosscreek, I says. Half a year back an more now. Me an Emmi, remember? When Pa got killed. When the Tonton took Lugh. I found him, Mercy. I got him back.

Slowly, slowly, her arms come down.

Here, I says. Look! I pull the heartstone from my pocket.

She stares. Dazed. Disbelievin. Ma gave the heartstone to her, long years back. Well before I was born. Then Mercy gave it to me. From friend to friend, from friend to daughter.

Saba, she says. Can it really be you? I help her to sit. She stares at me. She lays a work-rough hand on my face. It ain’t possible, she says.