“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.”