A low rumbling filled the shallow cave. It was Goh Gam Gar, crouched in a pool of his own blood, laughing. “I like it! This little ice rat has teeth!”

Makho pulled the crystal goad from his jerkin and pointed it toward the giant. His hand trembled, which was one of the more unexpected things Nezeru had seen in this long hour of surprises. “Open your mouth to me again, monster, and I will make you tear off your own head.”

“I can see you must be a very popular leader,” said the mortal.

“Makho,” said Saomeji. “A moment . . .”

“Do not use my name, you fool.”

“I am sorry, but I have words you must hear.” The Singer held up his hands, which were stained with blood. Even his sleeves were drenched in red almost to the elbow. “Ibi-Khai is dead.”

“What?” Makho turned from the stranger so quickly that Nezeru thought he might even have been grateful for the distraction. “Are you certain?”

Saomeji gestured to Ibi-Khai’s motionless form, which the giant had set down on the ground a short distance away. “See for yourself. His throat has been torn out by the Furi’a. He was dead before we reached this spot.”

“But how will we find our way through unknown lands?” Kemme demanded, as though angry at their dead comrade. “Only Ibi-Khai was told the way. Without another Echo to learn it from our masters, we are lost. We will never find . . .”

“Silence!” Makho had stepped back, his face rigid with fury, as well as something else Nezeru had never seen but which almost looked like fear. “Have you lost your wits, all of you? We will talk when we have decided what to do with this stranger—a stranger who very conveniently speaks our tongue.” He glared at their mortal rescuer. “What is your name and business, creature, and how do you know the words of the Hikeda’ya?”

The stranger’s long knife had disappeared again as suddenly as it had appeared; though he stared back at Makho without fear, he now showed empty hands. “My name is Jarnulf. I speak your tongue because I was raised beside the mountain, in Nakkiga-That-Was, before I became free.”

“Liar,” said Makho. “There are no free mortals in Nakkiga.”

“I am not in Nakkiga, am I? But I was freed by my master, Denabi sey-Xoka.”

Makho, Kemme, and Saomeji all stared at the stranger in surprise. Even Nezeru recognized the name.

“You lie.” Makho held one hand poised near Cold Root’s hilt. Violence filled the air like incense. “Anyone who speaks our tongue could claim to have belonged to the Weapons Master Denabi. His name is well known in all the lands of our people and any liar could learn it.”

“I did not simply belong to him,” Jarnulf said. “I was trained by the master’s own hand.” As with the long knife, the mortal’s sword seemed almost to jump into his hand. “Do you wish to test me, Hand Chieftain?” the mortal asked. “It seems a poor idea to me, since you have already lost one of your company today.”

Makho did not speak, but batted away the mortal’s blade with his bare hand and then sprang into an astonishingly swift attack, Cold Root a silvery blur. Nezeru knew that for all her own speed, if she had been the target she would already be dead, but the mortal barely moved, tilting his wrist and sword just enough to divert Makho’s lunge, pivoting easily on his heel to direct the force of the attack past him.

The hand chieftain did not let his obvious surprise at the skill of Jarnulf’s defense end his attack. For a few brief moments both blades whirled and struck, struck again, then jumped apart. Neither had drawn blood, and the mortal did not look as if he had been seriously tested. Nezeru kept her expression carefully neutral, but inside she was amazed and disturbed. Their chieftain was known as one of the best blades in all the Order of Sacrifice. She herself would never have dared to cross swords with Makho, and yet here was a mortal, a former slave if he spoke the truth, who might be his equal.

“Chieftain Makho, I beg you stop,” cried Saomeji. He stepped between the two of them, an act of bravery that impressed Nezeru almost as much as the fighting skill of the young mortal. “It is daylight now, which is the only thing that keeps the Furi’a from attacking us again. We must get farther from their nest, much farther, before the dark comes again. And we are already badly wearied.”

“Speak for yourself,” chortled the giant. “Goh Gam Gar has not had such sport since I ate one of the knights of old Asu’a during the Storm King’s fall. Let the two of them fight on!”

Makho never turned his eyes from Jarnulf. “This creature is a spy. Everything he says is impossible. Trained by Denabi himself? A mortal slave with no collar?”

“I told you. Denabi-z’hue himself took the collar from my neck.” Jarnulf looked at Makho again, then turned his gaze to the rest of the Hikeda’ya and deliberately set his blade point down against the snow, pushing it in until it stood on its own. “I will show you. You, the female—come and look.” He untied the cords at the top of his hide jacket, folded back the collar, then tilted his head forward like a victim readied for sacrifice.

Nezeru didn’t know what to do. Ibi-Khai lay dead, the rest were still listless from battle, and Makho only glared at the stranger like a wolf protecting its kill. She walked toward the stranger, waiting for her chieftain to order her to stop, but Makho said nothing.

The first surprise was that the mortal was only a little taller than she was. The second was his smell, a very strange mixture of scents she identified as typical of mortals, but strangely diminished, as well as a strong smell of pine sap. Nezeru leaned closer to examine him. A line of callused flesh ringed the base of his neck where it began to broaden into his shoulders, in exactly the place a slave-yoke would sit.

“He has a scar from the kuwa,” she reported.

“Which proves only that he was a slave once,” snapped Makho, “and perhaps still is, despite his fanciful tale of Denabi. How is it that a former slave roams free on the borders of Hikeda’ya lands?”

“Because I am Queen’s Huntsman and a slave-taker,” said Jarnulf, knotting his jacket closed again. “I capture those that try to flee the Queen’s lands. If you still doubt me, I suggest you ask my former master.”

“Denabi sey-Xoka went to wait for the Garden three circles of seasons ago,” said Makho. “But I’m sure you knew that, since it makes your story more convenient.”

A strange expression crossed the mortal’s face, one Nezeru did not entirely recognize: there was sadness in it, but something else as well. “No. I did not know that my old master had died. I have not returned to Nakkiga in many years. I do my business with the border castles.” Jarnulf’s hand rose and sketched the Hikeda’ya sign for Hopeful Return. “So the Weapons Master travels back to the Garden. May his road be straight.”

He had done it all so naturally, so much like any ordinary man of her people, that Nezeru could no longer doubt him. Even Makho had lost something of his usual certainty, but still stared at the newcomer as if he were some kind of wandering spirit or other dubious omen.

“Do you know the lands beyond our borders well, Queen’s Huntsman?” Saomeji suddenly asked.

Jarnulf almost smiled, but it was not a friendly expression. “Of course. I travel far in search of traitors and the queen’s other enemies. I know the lands beyond Nakkiga’s old walls as well as I know my own skin, my own bones.”

Saomeji turned to Makho. “Chieftain, perhaps this man does not bring us bad fortune but good. Ibi-Khai is dead. He was the only one told of our route—without him, we will not find our way to our destination. And if we turn back, it will take us at least a moon to return to Nakkiga and find another Echo.”

“You have your Songs, little sorcerer,” said Makho angrily. “All your precious secrets, your orders from your lord and master that you have not shared with me. You can lead us where we need to go.”