It was near dawn when Maihu woke. She was lashed to the side of a sled, spread-eagled; the returning feeling did not spread to her hands or feet, and she knew they were frozen.
Shkai'ra stood before her, silent, her eyes gray and hooded. The first rays of the sun rose over the tree-tops, a stray beam turning her hair to molten copper. It was minutes before she spoke, softly enough so that the warriors circled at a respectful distance could not hear.
"Most of the slaves escaped in the confusion. Your people hit us hard while we were disordered, and we couldn't pursue. Taimi went with them."
Maihu slumped. It was something, she thought dully. Beyond the ring of Kommanza the head of the Snowbrother looked down blindly from a lance, high enough to be in full light while they waited in darkness below.
"You fought us well, Maihu," continued Shkai'ra gravely. "You made us think you weak and cowardly, then your plan nearly destroyed us. It'll be long years before we ride a raid as lightly as we did this one. A killer like you deserves to live again as a Kommanza; when you go before the gods, tell them I sent you with honor."
"I move with the Circle, into the Harmony," Maihu said with quiet dignity. She turned her eyes to the rising light in the east, ignoring the knife in the other's hand.
The Kommanza leaned closer. "I never really knew you at all, did I?" she murmured.
Maihu met her eyes. "Do any of us?" she said. "Make an end, Shkai'ra." It was the first time she had said the other's name.
"As you will," Shkai'ra said. There was a moment's coldness, then nothing.
Shkai'ra withdrew the knife from between the Minztan's ribs. The warband cheered wildly as she turned. Witchkiller, they would call her: Demonslayer. The shaman told her that there was a fate in this, or the hand of a god; that she would return here one day, and do greater deeds. He had seemed only half himself, though. Whatever the truth of that, this fight would keep her Name alive; the songs would be sung for centuries. If the slaves were mostly gone, there was still more than what her kinmother had sent her to reave, and knowledge that was more precious still.
I have glory, and my Name, she thought with bewilderment. Why do I feel no joy? She reached out and brushed fingers on the cold cheek.
"Eh'rik," she called. "Bring a torch. We're going to burn this. Scatter the ashes among the trees."
He gazed at her with shock: cremation was the warrior's rite. "What will I tell—" he began.
Her palm chopped down. "That I will it," she answered, flatly.
He bowed salute. "The Chiefkin wishes," he murmured. She stood immobile, waiting, staring into the west.
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