Those in the back of the crowd craned their necks to get a glimpse of her. These were all folk who had returned from the shadows. They stood differently, wore their hair differently, tilted their chins differently, and they hadn’t the stick-thin wiriness common to those who had survived exile, who had never ever in their lives gotten enough to eat except now in the days of the return when the exiles wallowed in the riches that those returned from the shadows called dearth.

“We’ll stop here for the night,” she said, suddenly wanting to talk to the ones gathered here, who stared at her but kept silent for fear of their voices polluting her.

The blood knives began to protest that they were less than a third of a day’s journey from the city on the lake, enough to make it by nightfall, but already the men who carried her heeded her command and bore her up to the residence while householders scattered to make room. The chief of the town was a man and a woman. Despite both being of middle years, they were newly married to judge by the blackened remains of wedding torches stuck in the ground on either side of the residence gateway.

They welcomed her easily, and with an efficient manner born of practice. A mat was brought and placed on the chief’s seat. Here she settled, relieved to be out of the sway and lurch of the litter. The blood knives swarmed, always wanting to control her least action, but White Feather swept them out ruthlessly so that Feather Cloak could nurse the babies.

After this, the chief brought sharp beer and sweet cactus fruit, gruel, toasted grubs, and fowl dressed in wild herbs and sweetened with sap. She still could not get used to the sight of so much food. Yet when at last she addressed the chief to thank them for the food, they apologized for the impoverished feast, which they said was nothing compared to what was due to her eminence.

“Let me speak to your council to hear how life goes for you here,” she said.

The council was called hastily, elders, folk who had distinguished themselves, someone to represent each clan.

“We have no Rabbit Clan in our town,” said the chief. “Nor Lizard Clan.”

The blood knives stirred. “None out of the Rabbit Clan survived in exile,” they said. “No one kept their House, as is proper.”

Folk whispered, looking frightened. It was a dangerous thing to let the world slip out of balance.

“But there were so many before,” said the lady chief. “We were the few, who walked out into the barbarian lands. Those who remained behind to tend to the land were multitudes. Yet now we are the many, and you, those who came out of exile, are the few.”

White Feather seemed about to speak angry words, so Feather Cloak raised a hand, and all fell silent.

“The tale of our time in exile has already been told.” She looked directly at the blood knives. “Has an almanac yet been painted to record the tale of our struggle?”