A pair of dark wings sails over them, to be lost in the trees. A moment later, another bird sweeps past, its cry low and harsh. Ravens, a mated pair, returning for the night to their roost and their young.

From somewhere to their right comes an answering call, and Koda pauses, staring into the shadows beneath the trees. Breeding ravens are territorial, pairs spaced out over wide distances to maintain hunting and scavenging grounds.

“Something wrong?” Kirsten looks back over her shoulder, her hand dropping to the pistol at her belt.

Koda shrugs. “Another raven, that’s all. Their ranges aren’t usually so close together at this season.”

“Passerby?”

“Probably.”

Just one bird skimming the edges of another’s territory, taking a shortcut home. That’s all. Maybe even, if it’s young and reckless, poaching a bit on a scrap of carrion or a pocket mouse. Dakota glances up, searching the patches of deepening sky for Wiyo, finding only wisps of cloud and a sweep of redwings making for one of the small lakes that dot the corner where Nevada angles into California. The absence is reassuring. Not even a red-tail will unnecessarily confront a raven pair on their territory, still less draw the attention of a feathered mob. Nesting ravens will attack owls and eagles without a second thought, and though Wiyo is a female, and large of her kind, she is no larger than Kagi Tanka. Koda says, “Start watching for a place to camp. Sun’ll be down in an hour.”

Kirsten nods and sets off again, Dakota following. Dark will find them halfway down the slope; by mid-day tomorrow they should be on open ground again, crossing the basin of Lake Winnemucca. At this time of year it should be dry, the snow-melt gone, the autumn rains yet to come. Still, it should be less formidable than the alkali flats they crossed a week ago, or the edges of the desert between Salt Lake and the eastern Nevada border. After the endless miles where it seemed they sweated themselves drier than the sand itself, it is good to be in the mountains again. Here the sharp pine scent rides the breeze and small springs break from the living rock feed lakes and rivers on the plain below. Cool days fade to chill nights populated with raccoon and lynx, otter and bear, while the smaller life of the understory that persists stubbornly against the pressure of larger creatures with larger teeth. Geographically, at least, matters can only get better from this point on.

Everything else, of course, can get worse. Much worse.

A raven calls again, a low, rolling prrro-o-o-ok. This time the sound comes from somewhere ahead of them, off the flight path of the first pair. Cold ghosts down Koda’s spine, and she shrugs her rifle off her shoulder.

No law says ravens have to fly in a straight line. Still, she feels better with the gun in her hands. Kirsten glances back at her, her eyes widening when she sees the gun. Wordlessly, she draws her own weapon, reaching for Asi’s collar to pull him back to heel beside her. The big dog’s ears prick, his tail coming up to jut stiffly out from his spine. Something is in the wood with them. These mountains are bear country, with straggling populations of wolverines and the occasional wolf pack. Bear she can deal with, wolf she can talk to. Wolverine—involuntarily, her trigger finger twitches. She will be happy if she never sees another wolverine in her life, even if she lives to a hundred and fifty. More likely their company is a smaller predator, bobcat or coyote, even a badger. Later, over supper, they can laugh at their excess caution. They have come too far, though, to take unnecessary risks. It is not that more depends on them now than when they left Ellsworth. It just seems like more, the burden heavier and heavier as they come closer to their goal.

Another raven calls, this one to their left. Around them, other birds have gone silent, with none of the twittering fuss of settling in for the night. “All right,” Koda says softly, ‘that’s just one too damned many.” She slides her finger into the guard, to lie lightly against the trigger.

“Don’t ravens hunt with wolves, sometimes?” Kirsten whispers? “Lead them to prey?”

“Yeah. But we haven’t seen any sign of wolves all day, and we haven’t seen any other top predators, either. Nothing to sound an alarm about.”

“We don’t count, huh?”

“Not to the birds.”

Asi comes to a sudden halt, growling. His lips peel back, showing his canines, and his tail comes up to full staff, its plume quivering with the rumble that rolls through his chest and belly. Kirsten’s hand shifts on his collar, her knuckles white. ‘Easy. Easy. What is it, boy?”

“Company,” Koda says grimly. “Hold onto him.”

The raven cry sounds again from a hundred yards down the trail. Another answers from behind them, a third and fourth from either side, yet another from above them, close. Following the sound with her eyes, Koda can just make out a darker shadow against the high trunk of a pine, some thirty or forty feet up, almost directly overhead. Just beneath the tree stands a stake topped by a deer’s antlers, clusters of black feathers hung from its tines by sinew strips. A flat stone at its base holds a spray of dried sage bound with sweetgrass and lupine, the shed skin of an indigo snake and a hollow pebble, its inner surface paved with clear crystals. It sits within the horns of a crescent, drawn around the forward edge of the stone in deep crimson. Deer’s blood, perhaps. Or perhaps not. Koda remembers enough of her anthropology to recognize the symbols, older than Babylon, older than Delphi, older even than Crete.

Carefully she moves her finger away from the trigger of her gun, then bends to lay it on the ground. She rises slowly, open hands at her sides. Kirsten glances at her sharply, then, still holding to Asi’s collar, follows suit. “Who are they?” she asks, her voice scarcely audible.

“Women,” Koda answers softly. “Goddess worshippers.”

“Keep your hands visible!” The voice comes from high in the tree. “State your names and business.”

“Dakota and Annie Rivers,” Kirsten answers, squinting upward toward the sound. “And we don’t have any business here. We’re just passing through.”

“Open your collars. Let us see your necks.”

Moving slowly, Koda and Kirsten obey, turning so that the still invisible watchers can see clearly that they bear no circlet of metal.

“Good. Now, you, the tall one. Take off your clothes.”

“What?” Kirsten stares up into the branches. “What the hell—?”

Koda, though, sits down on a rock by the stream to pull off her boots. “It’s okay, cante sukye. They just want to make sure I’m really a woman.” She drops her pack beside her, then her shirt, finally stepping out of her jeans and rising to stand in the open. Loosened, her hair spills down her back. She turns slowly, her hands at her sides.

For a long moment, the glade is silent. Then, low-pitched and long, a wolf whistle comes from behind them. “Oh, yeah, now. Ain’t she a woman!”

Kirsten whirls to face the speaker, still invisible. Her face flushed crimson, she snaps, “Back off, bitch!”

A whoop of laughter answers her, a contralto rich with the dark earth of Mississippi. “Get you dander down, Shorty. I’m just admirin’.”

Suppressing a grin, Koda lays her hand on Kirsten’s arm. “I’m ‘Shorty’s’ woman, sister. Anybody wants to argue with that, deals with me.” Asi gives a high, challenging yelp, and Koda adds, “Yeah, and his human, too.”

“How say you, sisters?” The voice from the tree again. “Shall they pass?”

Four answer her, more or less in unison. “They shall pass, and welcome.” It has the feel of ritual, and Koda wonders again just how the crimson stain came to be on the stone. A rustling of pine boughs draws her attention back to the tree above her, and a back-lit shape plunges down the length of the trunk, rappelling off it with the aid of a rope. The woman lands with a thump on the carpet of fallen needles, one ankle turning slightly, as though she has not yet entirely got the hang of the maneuver. She has no trouble putting her weight on it, though, and she steps firmly enough out into the light. “Hi,” she says, extending her hand to Kirsten, who takes it almost reluctantly, then to Dakota. “I’m Morgan.” Her clasp is firm, her palm callused with work and, evidently, the handling of weapons. An AK slants across her back, and a Bowie knife hangs from her belt, both worn with use. “Hey. Annie? You want to put your clothes back on?” She turns back to Kirsten. “We have a permanent camp a few miles on. You’re welcome there.”

From beneath lowered eyelids, Koda watches irritation and bemusement flicker across Kirsten’s face. She turns away to pull on her clothes, letting her hair fall forward to hide a smile. Okay, Ms. President, here’s a chance for some diplomacy.

Kirsten says softly, pointing, “I’m Annie. She’s Dakota. He’s Asimov. Who are you, besides Morgan?”

Koda turns just as her head clears her shirt collar. Kirsten stands straight as a birch tree, her face expressionless. Ms. President, indeed. Morgan’s grey eyes flicker over her, assessing, and she says easily, “I’m Morgan fia d’Loria, and I’m chosen Riga of the Amazai.”

A small shock runs through Koda. For an instant, a fraction of a second, the vision of the Cretan coast flashes before her again, a blonde swimmer in the surf. But she keeps her voice even. “Amazai? Moon women?”

Morgan glances sharply at her. “You’re a linguist?”

“My first wife was. I had to learn a bit to talk to her while we were in school.”

“Mmm. Greek’s not just ‘a bit.’”

Koda shrugs, tucking her shirt into the waistband of her jeans. “For a while we spoke a dialect unknown outside our dorm room. Some French, some Spanish, some Lakota, a few words of Sanskrit. It took a year or two to sort out. You?”