“Lies,” Tluman said peaceably. “You are too wise to squander your strength telling such lies.”

“Old Keeshan was a fool to let you marry into his tribe. And where is his niece now that you gallop the hills with your catamite?”

“She tends my fire, one of the few things she does well.” Tluman’s dark eyes rolled up, as if reminiscing. “She is fat, thick-ankled and bucktoothed, but will do for a broodmare. It is no concern of yours.”

Syman trembled with disgust. “My people will never fight for your twisted purpose. You have no concern for us, or the Truce we have shed so much blood to win. You wish conquest! And revenge! And the bodies of more children to vent your sickness upon—” Whatever frenzied strength had sustained Syman seemed to drain out of him all in a rush, and he sagged into the arms of Gretcha and Rollif.

Tluman stepped toward the fallen chieftain.

Karls snarled and leapt between them, lowering his spearpoint. “Back—”

Tluman reached cross-belly to touch his sword hilt.

Karls, disdaining all decorum or pretense of politeness, angled his weapon so that the point lined directly with Tluman’s throat.

“Child, do not oppose me,” Tluman warned. “1 am sorry that there are no men here.” He sheathed his sword. “I had heard that the Windrunners were great warriors! In two moons comes the Rite of Spring. Then my challenge will take flesh. Then, after I have slain your chief”—he made that short, ugly bark of laughter again—“or your chief’s nephews, I will find out if any of you have the stomach for good honest bloodletting.” He pulled at Carraign’s arm. “Come!”

He turned and stalked out, Carraign following, his bearskins swirling in the campfire light as he passed back through the gate.

The gate swung shut behind him.

Gretcha helped Syman to the stone seat at the head of the council table. He sat hunched over, staring into the fire. She wrapped furs tightly around his shoulders. The flames danced hungrily before him, but still he shook with chills. “My life seeps from my body,” he whispered. The eternal winds quieted as if struggling to hear his words.

“Uncle!” Karls leapt to his feet, lithe body twisting like a living flame. In Karls’s skillful footwork Ar’tor heard the sound of the pipes, the cry of a soaring hawk, the rush bubbling of ice-slushed streams. He writhed, and mimed rapid spearthrusts. “I will go, and 1 will climb the sacred rock, and bring you the berries which cluster there! I will brave all of the knives of the Steelteeth to bring you the sacred medicine. You will heal, and grow strong. You will fight again, Uncle, and gut this Flatlander lover of boyflesh!” Syman nodded his approval of this ritual challenge, the ceremonial promise. “And if the Winter sees fit to take me before your return?” Syman’s red-rimmed eyes were closed, his lips darkly crusted with blood. He rocked back and forth, trying to edge closer to the fire. Rollif held him back, kept him from charring his own flesh in a fruitless attempt to warm his worm-ridden bones.

“Then I myself will fight the Flatlander, and I will feed his liver to the wolves!” Karls whooped and twisted into the air, and the men and women of the Windrunners stamped their feet in appreciation.

Syman nodded his head. “And you, little one?”

Ar’tor wanted to shrink away. Suddenly every eye was upon him, and he knew what they expected him to say. I will bring the'hide of a deadly snake, or / will spy out the land of the enemy, or some other moderately dangerous and bold action. And then they would applaud politely. Syman would die, nothing could prevent that. And if Ar’tor completed his quest and Karls did not, then Ar’tor would be the Hollow’s champion. The Flatlander would kill him, and lead the Windrunners down to their fate on the plains. He gulped, and spoke in a rush, before he had time to call the words back.

“I will bring the skin of Old Cat.”

Only hushed silence greeted him as the people of the Hollow absorbed his words. For a moment he believed them himself. Saw himself stalking the wise and ancient enemy of the Windrunners, of cornering it in a ravine. Piercing its heart with a mighty cast of his spear. Freeing its feline spirit to walk the mountains, telling all of the mighty warrior who slew it.

Then he heard the laughter. Karls was first, and then some of the others, and spears dashed against the ground in appreciation of his bravado.

“Tell us,” Karls said when he managed to catch his breath, “tell us, Mouse—what will you really do to win the leadership of the Windrunners?”

Ar’tor withered, then looked across the firelight, and his eyes met Eloi’s. Her tongue flickered out and moistened her lips. Her eyes grew huge as she absorbed what he had said. The sheer braggadocio had, for a moment, swept her up as it had him, and her heart reached to him. She might be the betrothed of his brother, but for that instant she was his.

Ar’tor straightened up and glared at them defiantly. “I have told you.” The golden moment faded, and he knew his words to be a hollow lie, knew that they knew. Be that as it might, with Eloi’s eyes upon him he could not back down.

“Hold,” Syman wheezed painfully. “Do not laugh. Every boy becomes a man when he is ready, not when others mark him so.” Syman stretched his hand up to the body. “Take my hand, nephew.”

Ar’tor did.

There was still strength in Syman’s grip, but what Ar’tor felt most strongly, what he would always remember feeling, was heat, as if the essence of his uncle’s strength poured out of him like wine from an uncorked keg. Uncle seemed to be shriveling, draining, even as Ar’tor watched. “I see things in you,” Syman said. “I see things that others may not. There is in you the essence of a warrior. A great warrior, if only you will let it free. Do you truly have this thing in your heart?”

“Yes,” Ar’tor lied, and shame filled him for the cowardice.

Syman smiled through what must have been horrendous pain. “Then go forth, and prove yourself. Bring back the skin of the hellcat who has clipped our herd these many years. Today, 1 deem you a man, and not a boy. 1, Syman Windrunner, declare it so!”

The voices around the fire echoed the sentiments respectfully. “This day a man. This day a man.”

Karls slammed his spear against the ground, chanting with them. And across the fire, Eloi, too, stomped her feet. And Randii, and all of the others.

Never had Ar’tor felt such burning, all-consuming shame.

The morning sun hung low on the horizon, seemingly reluctant to rise farther and warm the air. Ar’tor was wrapped warm in shirt and buckskin cloak and leather boots. A waterskin hung on his back. His belt was laden with knife sheath and four pouches containing his pipe, flint, steel, dried goat meat, and other necessities. Ar’tor was ready to leave. Karls stood next to him, outfitted in the same manner for his own trek.

The gate closed behind him.

Karls searched Ar’tor’s face. There were so many things to say, and Karls could find no proper words. To speak his true concern would discount Syman’s proclamation. To speak now would be to admit what everyone already knew: that Ar’tor’s words were a lie, a sham. Instead, he laid his hand on his brother’s shoulder and said, “Good luck to you.”

“And good hunting to you, Karls,” Ar’tor said quietly. Without another word, Karls turned and set off by the western trail toward the border of the Steelteeth.

Ar’tor traveled east until out of sight of the village, then circled around and doubled back west, following his brother, staying far enough back to elude detection.

His brother was the one to win, there was no question about that. His brother would kill the terrible Tluman, and when he did, there would be no room for two chiefs. Ar’tor could be Bard, as he had always dreamed. To sit at his brother’s side, teaching the children and spinning his stories.