Brother Horse spread five fingers in the wind. “ 'Thus the tree grows,' ” he quoted,” 'and each new branch, as a new tree. Nothing is unchanging, least of all the ways of people.' ” He frowned a bit sternly. “But you have to be there, to have hope of accomplishing anything.”

Perkar set his mouth. “I will be there,” he promised. ”According to your nephew, Yuu'han, my trip will only delay me for a few days.”

Hezhi turned on him, eyes suddenly wide and angry. She seemed to fight down a sharp remark—so sharp that, by her face, it must have cut her throat to swallow.

“You still plan to go?”

“I must, Hezhi,” Perkar explained. “If I am to set matters right, there are many things I must do, and this is one. Two days' ride north of here, no more; I must go.”

“Then I should go with you,” she snapped, all her earlier happiness and enthusiasm evaporated. “Unless you still don't trust me.”

“I trust you,” Perkar insisted. “I told you that. I hold no animosity toward you.”

“So you say,” Hezhi whispered, her voice carrying an odd mixture of anger and… something else. “But I see you looking at me sometimes. I see that look. And when you talk of ‘setting things right,’ I know—“ She broke off angrily, seemed unsure whether to glare or look hurt. She was, he reminded himself, only thirteen.

Perkar puffed an exasperated breath, white steam in the frigid air. “Maybe. A little. But I know you did nothing purposely—not like I did.”

“I thought you could—” she began, but again didn't finish. Her face clamped down in a determined frown, and she kneed her horse, laying the reins so that he turned.

“Go then,” she said. “You owe nothing to me.”

“Hezhi …” Perkar started, but found himself staring at her back. A moment ago they seemed friends, watching the wild cattle hand in hand. He wondered what it was about him that always led him to do the wrong things, say the wrong things.

“What was all that about?” the old man grunted.

Perkar cocked his head in puzzlement, then realized that his conversation with Hezhi had been in Nholish. He started to translate, but a second thought struck him; Brother Horse knew Nholish. When the Mang had spirited Hezhi and him out of Nhol, it had been Brother Horse who first comforted the girl. He was pretending—in typical Mang fashion—not to understand the argument out of politeness.

“Nothing,” Perkar said. “She just doesn't want me to go.”

“Well, it isn't wise,” Brother Horse said.

“Ngangata will be with me.”

“Yes, well, even he may not be able to keep you out of trouble. Nagemaa, the Horse Mother, gave birth to the Mang. She watches us, teaches us out here on the plain. Did you know that six races of Human Beings died out here in the Mang country before we came along? Among them were the Alwat.”

“He saw the lion when you did not,” Perkar reminded him.

“So he did. As a hunter and tracker, few can match him, I will grant that. But without the blood of horses in his veins, with no kin among the hooved gods, he must rely only on himself. That is a dangerous position to be in.”

“He can rely on me, as I rely on him.”

“Two blind men do not make a sighted one, my friend,” the old man answered.

HEZHI tried to keep her face low, to hide it from the Mang women. If they saw her face, they would read the anger on it as easily as she might read a book. She didn't want anyone trying to guess what she was angry about, especially since her own ire puzzled and confused her—vexing her even further. Not for the first time, she wished she were back in the palace in Nhol, tucked away in some secret place, alone with her thoughts. Instead, she was surrounded by strangers, people watching her face, noting and questioning each quirk and quiver of her lip. People who wanted to know what she was thinking and were good at figuring it out. These Mang were too concerned about each other, she reflected. It was everybody's business how everybody else felt. Not because they were kindhearted, either; Duk had explained that. It was just that when you lived with the same few people most of your life, you had to know how they were feeling; there were stories of people going berserk or becoming cannibals because they hadn't been watched carefully enough, hadn't been caught before they lost their minds. All of the women told their children such stories—taught them a certain suspicion of everyone, even close relatives.

Well, she could understand knowing only a few people. Everyone here seemed to think that because she was from Nhol, the great city, she must have known thousands of people. But she had really known only a handful, a tiny few, and all of the others had just been shadows cast by the palace, less substantial than the ghosts that wandered its halls. Here, with the Mang, she had to deal on a daily basis with easily three times as many people as she ever had before—people who watched her.

It was wearing thin, and she wanted to go with Perkar and Ngangata. They were only two, and not as nosy.

Why wouldn't he take her? Did he think she didn't know where he was going—that she cared? She knew he was going to see the goddess he was in love with; she had heard Yuu'han tell him that her stream was only a short ride north. Did he think that she would be jealous, that she loved him in some silly, romantic way? If so, then he remained a stupid barbarian and had learned nothing of her since they met. She didn't care about the goddess; she just didn't want to be left alone with the Mang and their eyes. She didn't want Perkar to go off and be eaten by some snow-colored carnivore. Mostly, she wanted him to stop blaming her.

Or maybe he didn't really blame her for the twists his life had taken. Maybe she was just blaming herself. Maybe every time he made it clear how guilty he felt about everything, it only reminded her that it had been her silly, childish wish at the fountain that had brought him down the River to be her “savior” in the first place—that all of the horrible things that tasked him so were really her fault.

It had taken an instant of weakness at the fountain, that was all—one single moment in her life when she had thought it might be nice to have someone other than herself to trust and count on. Wasn't she even allowed that? She guessed not, not when the Blood Royal in her veins could make such wishes come true.

Maybe she was just mad at him because there was no one else suitable to be mad at. Not Tsem, faithful Tsem, waiting back at the Mang village recovering from near-fatal wounds he received saving her. But it was someone's fault that she was in the wilderness, with only the single book her old teacher Ghan had managed to send her; she had read it twice now. And it was surely someone's fault that she was doing boring things like scraping hides while Perkar and his friend Ngangata went hunting beasts and roaming across the plains like wild brothers.

Still fuming when they made camp, she rebuffed Perkar's single attempt to make amends, and, not knowing what else to do, took out some of her precious paper, her pen and ink, and began writing a letter to Ghan, the librarian.

She began:

Dear Ghan,

I think that I will never be Mang. I know this is a peculiar way to begin a letter, but I have never written a letter before, and the best thing I can think of is what I am thinking. I shall never be Mang, though I thought for a time I might. I have learned to cook and tan hides, to praise the men when they return from the hunt, to watch children when the married women—many my own age—are busy. None of these things are difficult or bad, once one learns to do them; it is just that they are not interesting. The Mang seem to lack curiosity, for the most part, seem to believe they understand the world as much as it can be understood. In this, they are no different from most people I knew in the palace. WezKfor instance, my onetime paramour—how angry you were with me for humoring him, and for good reason—what does he care for knowledge? I think that people everywhere must generally be content without knowing very much.