“Well, I was nay more than an Indian scout when I met Rachel,” Ian said, watching Henry’s misty breath flow back over the horse’s neck as they rode. “And a man of blood, forbye. I did own some land, though,” he added fairly.
“And thee had a family,” she said softly. “My parents both died within the year—smallpox—and there was no one left but me; I had no brothers or sisters. Gabriel had broken with his people when he became a Friend—he wasn’t born to it, as I was.”
“So ye only had each other, then.”
“We did,” she said, and fell silent for a bit.
“And then we had the girls,” she said, so softly that he barely heard her. “And we were happy.”
THE SNOW HAD stopped by the time they reached the inn, though everything in sight was lightly frosted, shining gold where lamplight fell through windows, silver in the fitful streaks of moonlight breaking through the clouds. Silvia let him lift her down from the horse, but when he made to come in with her, she put a hand on his chest to stop him.
“I thank thee, Ian,” she said quietly. “I need to talk with my daughters alone. Thee should go back to Rachel and thy son.”
He could see her thin, worn face in the changing light, one moment smoothed with shadow, the next strained with anxiety.
“I’ll wait,” he said firmly.
She laughed, to his surprise. It was a small and weary laugh, but a real one.
“I promise I shall not seize the girls and ride off into a blizzard alone,” she said. “I had peace to think while we rode, and to pray—and I thank thee for that, too. But it became clear to me that I must let Patience and Prudence see their father. I need to talk with them first, though, and explain what has happened to him.” Her voice wavered a little on “happened,” and she cleared her throat with a little hem.
“I’ll stay in the taproom, then.”
“No,” she said, just as firmly as he had. “I can smell the landlady’s supper cooking; the girls and I will eat together and talk and sleep—and in the morning, I will comb their hair and dress them in clean clothes and ask the innkeeper to arrange for us to be taken back in a wagon. Thee need not worry for me, Ian,” she added gently. “I shall not be alone.”
He studied her for a moment, but she meant it. He sighed and dug out his purse.
“Ye’ll need money for the wagon.”
86
Unwelcome Prophecy
IT WAS COLD, BUT the air of dawn was clear as broken glass and just as sharp in the lungs. Ian was hunting with Thayendanegea this morning, and they were following a glutton. Following, not hunting. Fresh snow had fallen in the night—was still falling, though lightly for the moment—and the animal was visible, a tiny black blot on gray snow at this distance, but moving in the stolid, rolling fashion that spoke of long patience, rather than the graceful diving lope of pursuit. The glutton, too, was following something.
“Ska’niònhsa,” Thayendanegea said, nodding at a patch of muddied snow, in which the curve of a hoofprint showed.
“Wounded, then,” Ian replied, nodding in agreement. A glutton wouldn’t take on a healthy moose—few things would—but it would follow a wounded one for days, patiently waiting for weakness to bring the ska’niònhsa to its knees. “He’d best hope the wolves don’t find it first.”
“Everything is chance,” Thayendanegea said philosophically, and brought his rifle down from its sling. The rifle notwithstanding, Ian thought the remark was not entirely philosophical. Ian tilted his head to and fro in equivocation.
“My uncle is a gambler,” he said, though the Mohawk word he used didn’t carry quite the same meaning as the English one. It meant something more like “one who seizes boldly” or “one who is careless with his life,” depending on the context. “He says one must take risks, but only a fool takes risks without knowing what they are.”
Thayendanegea glanced at him, slightly amused. And that wee bit wary, too, Ian thought.
“And how is one to know, then?”
“One asks and one listens.”
“And have you come to listen to me?”
“I came to see Wakyo’teyehsnonhsa,” Ian said courteously, “but it would be wasteful indeed to leave again without listening to a man of your experience and wisdom, since you are good enough to talk with me.”
The chuckle that came in response to that was Joseph Brant, not Thayendanegea, and so was the knowing look that came with it.
“And your uncle, of course, might be interested in what I have to say?”
“Maybe,” said Ian, equably. He was carrying his old musket; good enough for anything they were likely to find. They were passing through a growth of enormous spruce, and the snow was sparse beneath the prickly branches, the thick layer of needles slippery underfoot. “He told me to judge whether I should say to you what he knows.”
“I suppose you’ve decided to do so, then,” Brant said, the look of amusement deepening. “What he knows? He said this? Not what he thinks?”
Ian shrugged, eyes on the distant glutton.
“He knows.” He and Uncle Jamie had discussed it, and Uncle Jamie had finally left it up to him to decide how to tell it. Whether to pass it off as knowledge gained from Jamie’s time as an Indian agent and his connections with both the British government and the Continental army—or tell the truth. Brant was the only military commander to whom this particular truth could be told—but that didn’t mean he’d believe it. He was still a Mohawk, though, half-Irish wife and college education notwithstanding.
“My uncle’s wife,” Ian said, watching the words leave him in small puffs of white mist. “She is an arennowa’nen, but she is more. She has walked with a ghost of the Kahnyen’kehaka, and she has walked through time.”
Thayendanegea turned his head sharply as a hunting owl. Ian had nothing to hide and was unmoved. After a moment, Thayendanegea nodded, though the muscles of his shoulders did not relax.
“The war,” Ian said bluntly. “You have so far cast your lot with the British, and for good reason. But we tell you now that the Americans will prevail. You will, of course, decide what is best for your people in light of that knowledge.”
The dark eyes blinked, and a cynical smile touched the corner of his mouth. Ian didn’t press things, but walked on tranquilly. The snow squeaked beneath their boots; it was getting colder.
Ian lifted this head to sniff the air; despite the clearness of the air, he felt a sense of further snow, the faint vibration of a distant storm. But what he caught on the breeze was the scent of blood.
“There!” he said under his breath, gripping Thayendanegea’s sleeve.
The glutton had momentarily disappeared, but as they watched, they saw it leap from rock to rock, like water flowing uphill, and come to rest on a high point, from which it looked down, intent.
The men said nothing but broke into a swift jog, their breath streaming white.
The moose had fallen to its knees in the shelter of a cluster of dark pines; the strong scent of its blood mingled with the trees’ turpentine, eddying around them. The wolves would be here soon.