Amazed questions rise in me. How? When? Did he love her? Did she keep on lovin him, even though she couldn’t have him? He was so crazy about Ma, it must of hurt her to see them together. An yet, she was Ma’s true friend. She birthed me an Lugh. She kept Emmi alive.

I don’t git the chance to ask. She’s read my face. Realized her slip. Slammed the door on her secret. Her face is a careful blank as she goes over to the pony. I think I’ll call him Tam, she says. She climbs aboard without my help. How much further? she says.

I squint at the sky. We should be there by middle day, I says.

As I set a fast pace an Mercy follows behind on the pony, I ponder. On the dark seam that runs through my life. From before I was born to this moment an beyond. Chance. Fate. Destiny.

That I should meet with Mercy agin. At this time, in this place. It’s fer some reason I’ve yet to know. But time will tell. These days, if somethin seems like chance, my muzzle lifts to the wind an my ears prick.

Oft-times I hear Pa. His voice still echoes in my head, in my blood. Our lives was fixed in the stars the moment the world began. You cain’t change what’s written. Fate. That’s what he believed. So I did too. Till I started to think fer myself. Pa’s very last words to me was a warnin from the stars. Maybe the only truth they ever gave him.

They’re gonna need you, Saba. Lugh an Emmi. An there’ll be others too. Many others. Don’t give in to fear. Be strong, an never give up. No matter what happens.

Them words, his last words, they’ve kept me goin time after time. Given me strength when I was weak. How strange that Mercy should love my father. Her, rooted in the wisdom of the earth. Pa, who looked in vain to the stars fer answers.

I wonder what Mercy would make of Auriel. How they’d git on if they was ever to meet. I’d sure like to talk with them both together.

Auriel. Auriel Tai. The star reader girl with the wolfdog eyes. Grandaughter of a warrior shaman. Namid the Star Dancer, maker of my whiteoak bow. Auriel’s rare. She’s the real thing, not like Pa was. She walks the thin place between the earth an the stars. The place of dreams an light an spirit. What she knows an how she knows it cain’t easily be explained.

If it warn’t fer her, I wouldn’t still be in this life. I was nearly lost to the madness of grief, seein the dead day an night, when Tracker led me to her at the Snake River. Auriel helped me, she healed me, she spurred me on. She gave me hope an purpose. Fer the first time, she made sense of everythin I’d bin through. She was the first one to say the word to me. Destiny.

There are some people, Saba—not many—who have within them the power to change things. Through their actions, they turn the tide of human affairs.

To turn the tide aginst DeMalo is my destiny. That’s what she said. She said all of my roads lead to him. An she’s bin proved right over an over.

Turn the tide. I thought I knew how to do that. That the way ahead looked clear. Hit him hard where it hurts. Hit him often. Weaken his grip. But after today—I need to think agin. If only Auriel was here. She wouldn’t even hafta think what I oughta be doin. She’d know becuz she’d read it in the stars.

Well she ain’t here. I need Jack. Right away. But I gotta hold myself in patience till tonight. When I meet him at the Irontree. Together we’ll figger out what to do.

He jest cain’t know. About DeMalo. The blood moon. The endgame.

Painted Rock rises high among the trees. It ain’t one rock but three of ’em, crowded close together. Great old buffaloes of sandstone, their backs hunched aginst the sky. In the middle day brightness their worn flanks blaze pink an gold. All is silent. Nero swoops ahead to herald our comin. The rush of his wings flicks the hush.

Mercy sniffs the air. There’s a hint of cooked meat, rich an deep. Somethin sure smells good, she says.

That means Molly ain’t cookin, I says. Lucky us. It’s the devil’s work when Molly’s at the cookpot.

I cup my hands to my mouth an give our daylight signal. The three-cheep call of a pinewax. I wait a count of two, then I call once more. There’s a cheep in reply from the top of the rock. A small figger appears.

There’s Emmi, I says.

Light glints offa the glass of her looker as she trains it our way. I raise a hand. So does Mercy. A shriek of excitement cracks the silence. Then she disappears.

She’s seen you, I says. Better brace yerself.

Camp’s in the middle of the great rocks. We ride through a wide gap between two of ’em into a big circle space, open to the sky. This is one of the old places. A site of long memory an much use. The ground’s bin worn smooth by many feet. Many hands down the ages have scarred the rock walls. Words an pictures scratched into the stone. By dreamers, idlers, artists an fools.

The Cosmic’s parked up. Slim’s medicine cart, the Cosmic Compendalorium. Fourth of its Ilk, says Slim. Whatever the hell that means. Painted bright yellow, with suns an moons an stars all over, stuffed to the gunnels with potions an cures. The horses bunch together, jostlin noses over heaps of dry grass. There’s Molly’s Prue, a placid mule called Bean, Slim’s carthorse, my own Hermes, eight beasts in all.

Every head turns as we come through the gap. Horses an people alike. Slim’s at the cookfire, ladlin stew into Ash’s tin. Molly’s sat on a rock, eatin. Nero’s already on the mooch, hoppin around her, beggin fer a share. But no Lugh. No Creed. No Tommo. My gut tightens.

Where are they? I says to Ash.

No sign of ’em yet, she says. When you blew the whistle, I jest legged it. What happened? I heard the blast go off. Loads of smoke. Damn, I wish I’d seen that.

We got chased, I says. They should of bin here by now.

You only jest got here yerself, says Slim. What was the Tonton doin there? I thought yer contact swore they didn’t patrol that far out.

It warn’t no patrol, I says. They was headed fer the Raze. Resettlement. A work party. It all went to hell, I—gawdamnmit, what’s keepin ’em? Not even one back yet.

Simmer down, he says. They probly jest had to take a roundabout route. We’ll debrief once everybody’s back an settled in. Here, where’s yer manners, you savage?

He makes a waddly beeline fer Mercy. We’re used to Slim’s quirks, but to her he must look a odd fish—jobble-bellied in a patchwork frock the size of a tent, grubby eyepatch askew, muttonchops an hair in a mad dandelion frizz. A mangy old rabbit’s foot dangles from a chain on his belt. Young folk today, they got no couth, he says. Wouldn’t know polite if it walked up an slapped their face. We’ll jest hafta make our own innerductions an shame on them. Doctor Salmo Slim, TPS. That’s Travellatin Physician an Surgeon. Inchantee, ma’am.

I’m Mercy, she says.

She was with the work party, I says. Managed to free herself in the confusion. An, as chance would have it, she’s a friend of the family. That there’s Ash. An that’s Molly.

Mercy’s drawn an exhausted but she manages a smile. Glad to know yuz, she says.

Me an Slim help her down from the pony. Mercy’s a healer, I tell him.

A fellow perfessional, eh? In that case, I am double-delighted to make yer acquaintanceship, Miz Mercy. As he bows, all gallant, over her hand, they take each other’s measure with keen eyes. I’ll have a gander at that ankle if you like, he says.