Those who traveled with us were all known to Keir, and trusted. They supported us in our efforts, and welcomed my new knowledge.

Wild Winds had asked to winter with us. His position had not changed, but he indicated that he would welcome the chance to talk. I’d welcomed the opportunity.

Keir had rejected it completely, and no argument would sway him.

The drumbeat drew me back, and I minded my steps. We all melted into the pattern, holding hands and chanting, pacing out our sorrows in the snow. When we were done, when the rituals were complete, we’d return to the warm tents and lit braziers and Marcus would serve us warm kavage and the bitter gurt that I now craved. In the morning, we’d break camp, and ride south to winter in the milder lands.

But first food, and warmth, and my Keir in my arms.

Those of the Plains present a newborn babe to the elements, and listen for the sound of the child’s name. But as I’d told Reness, I’d repeated to Keir in no uncertain terms that this babe would stay in my arms and be named and raised in my tradition, and he’d agreed.

I rather liked “Xykeirson.” Keirson of the Tribe of Xy.

I could hardly wait to see Anna’s reaction when my child was born and stained with the tribal tattoos.

The dance continued, our steps slow and even. Joden’s voice rose in the night, singing of forgiveness, for the dead, and for us.

I looked over and squeezed Keir’s hand. He returned the look, his blue eyes sparkling with pride, love, and hope. And a promise for this night.

For the future.

Forever.