“Mina? Luisa?” She ran for the den, skidding on the uneven ice—caught herself on the corner post as she came inside, unprepared for the darkness that rushed at her—<nighthorse,> was all she knew.

It flared past like a black rage and she pasted herself to the wall, blind and deaf to everything but <kill> and <bite> and <shoot > as it passed—

<Rider,> she realized then, and <Mina,> and she heard <white-white-white, > so intense and so close a sending that she couldn’t see where she was.

Gunfire, then. In the village, outside, she wasn’t sure. Shots were going off, echoing off the walls.

<“Luisa!”> she yelled, trying to get through the ambient, but <white-white-white> came down like blizzard. She wasn’t sure of Luisa’s whereabouts. She wasn’t sure of Green’s. She only knew Flicker’s, and she didn’t want to lead Flicker to disaster.

<Flicker standing still! > she sent and felt rather than saw her way—as if the whole world had gone to snow.

She reached the open air and the blast of the wind, she wanted <Mina,> and she went the way she’d sensed Mina go.

But she heard someone screaming then, into an ambient gone red and black amid the white, a voice beyond the village wall, a voice near the village gate.

<“That’s my daughter! ”> it cried—and she saw <Brionne standing outside the village gate, Brionne afraid, Brionne, Brionne, Brionne— wanting mama—>

An image of <gate opening> as <desire> and <killing anger> and <hunger> came flying together in the air, assembled itself in a rush that reached the heart, the mind, the gut, one creature, one self, one mind—anything else was <Enemy> and Tara was <Enemy.>

She thought she saw—sight came fleetingly through the <white>—the outer gate of the rider camp standing wide against the dark.

She thought she saw snow whirling about her—white, thick snowfall, and wind so loud she couldn’t hear the screaming or the howling it made. It just was, and the snow was, and the cold was.

<White> came up beside her, it brushed against her, it called to her, and her hands knew its shape, found its mane to clench onto, and her body knew where, as she launched herself, she would find <horse > and <strength > and <warmth.>

Then—then she was <astride> and <with> and, blind and deaf as she was, she became the whiteout, she became the blizzard— blind and deaf and <killing cold… >

Nothing could touch her. If she’d had another purpose she’d lost it. If she’d had another destination she didn’t know.

She was in the woods again, sweeping through the trees, <white > and nothing more.

Harper hadn’t moved. Quig had come back with another load of firewood and dumped it.

But suddenly something was wrong—Danny felt it, just as the firewood struck the ground and scattered, like something witnessed at that half-aware substitute for sleep, a thing of strange importance and insignificant aspect. He felt a jolt, just the faint brush of something like horses, running horses—and acute fear—like Shamesey streets, when the horses imaged together—

The horses were in it—they snorted and milled about. But that wasn’t the only source. It was coming from somewhere completely opposite. It was huge, and full of anger, and it had a thousand feet. It moved—

<Cloud!> Danny sent. <Quiet water. Quiet.> “What in hell is it?” Quig asked the air in general. “Could be a cat,” Harper said.

“Cat, hell!” Quig reached for Danny’s arm. Danny hadn’t expected it, and scrambled backward from Quig’s hand, hit on his rump as Quig scrambled after him—and he scrambled away, scrambled up, turned and ran.

A weight hit from his back—he fell, skidded on the snow with that weight on his back trying to pin his arms. He spat snow from his mouth, dug with his knees, to get to <Cloud. Getting to Cloud—>

“Back that horse off!” Harper yelled from somewhere, and he panicked, wanted <Cloud running!> wanted <Cloud gone! Guns!>

He felt the jolt of nighthorse feet on the ground, sharp pivot, and <Cloud running, breaking branches, gun firing—>

But none fired, or he’d gone deaf. He was still spitting snow when whoever had fallen on him hauled him up by the scruff and shook him, and somebody else grabbed his arm and cuffed him on the ear.

He could see Harper then. He knew where he was, in camp with the Hallanslakers, in the dark, in front of Harper, and Cloud was <in the woods, in the dark, running and running—>

Cloud had left him. He didn’t know what could make Cloud leave him—Cloud never had, never would, but he felt something so scary, so dark, so threatening in the ambient—

Then he felt as if the mountain were flying apart, as if the ground were dropping out from under all of them, as if the trees were about to fall on them.

“It’s the damn kid!” somebody yelled.

<Quiet water,> somebody was sending. He thought it was the man who was holding him, but he didn’t feel calm—he felt as if he were drowning in ice water, sinking and sinking in it, the whole world gone from flying apart to folding in on him, pieces coming together, heavier and heavier, the red-haired rider, and Stuart—

“Kid!” Someone cuffed him hard, across the face, and in that moment’s shock he tasted blood.

Blood was part of the ambient.

Blood was the smell, was the wind, was the air, was the taste on the tongue—blood was the anger and the envy and the hate and people were shooting—

“Get that horse back,” Harper said to him, holding his face in a hurtful grip. “You hear me, kid. Get that horse back!”

He tried. <Wanting Cloud safe. Wanting Cloud quiet, not fighting. Quiet water. Guns.>

“It’s his horse,” Watt said out of the dark behind him, and Harper hissed:

“It’s the rogue, fool. That’s what it is—watch the dark! Watch the dark, dammit, and hold on to the horses! Keep them here!”

But more real than Harper’s voice came something moving and dark—an ambient full of screams, cold of snow under Danny’s hands—he tasted blood and sprang up and ran, with <Cloud running, Cloud safe. White, and snow, and blood. People. People running in the streets, buildings, people screaming—>

“That’s Tarmin,” Quig said. “That’s Tarmin gates, damn, that’s Tarmin, do you see it? They’re shooting each other!”

“You got to catch him, you got to, you fool! Stop him! He’s doing it!”

<—fire blazing up, firelight on snow. Gunshots. People yelling—people falling under him—>

He couldn’t hear. Somebody hit him across the face. His head snapped back and then he was in the woods again. His right ankle had folded, but the hands that held his arms had held him up, dizzied as he was, and cut the blood off from his lower arms.

He felt the entire side of his face hot and numb, and he was <darkness in the streets,> he was <going apart,> he was <killing the voices, killing the staring eyes, killing the silence—>

He wanted his family. His. Now. And they were <going apart, flying into the winds—mama—papa! Papa!>

A second time a blow landed across his face. Second time someone shook him.

“God, shut him up!” someone yelled, and he saw <horses spooking, running through the trees, branches coming at faces, branches breaking—> “He’s spooked the horses, shit! Stop!”

<Riders wanting them, light blazing and fire breaking out and gunfire echoing all around,> but he was <lying on the ground, head exploding, watching the legs of men running past him—>

He had no other chance. He got his knee under him, he lurched to his feet, branches breaking—immediately recoiled from a sheer drop, and ran along the edge. <Wanting Cloud, now, quick, Cloud coming back through trees !>