All along the White Road, folk were building and repairing the fallen watchtowers. She had been at this work for five days now. It gave her something to do as she adjusted to her new life.

She passed an older man who was returning with an empty sling. He acknowledged her without quite looking her in the eye. Like all of those who had walked in the shadows, he was eager to move on, to stay away from her.

They feared her, because she had worn the feathered cloak. They feared standing close beside her, because she had won the enmity of the blood knives.

There came another thin, old man down the path toward her, and she brightened, seeing him and the pair of young mask warriors who walked a few steps behind him.

“Here you are,” said Eldest Uncle as he turned and fell in beside her, matching her pace. He carried nothing except a skin bloated with liquid.

She greeted the young ones with a nod, and they fell back to let their elders speak privately.

“That’s a new mantle,” she observed.

“A fine gift from my daughter, so I am meant to understand.” He folded back the corners of his hip-length mantle so she could admire the short kirtle tied around his hips.

“New cloth, and new sandals, as well.”

“I am well taken care of,” he said with a chuckle. “It’s like feeding a dog so it doesn’t bark untimely.”

She laughed. The baby stirred, and she halted to let him lift the infant out of the sling and fix it to his own scrawny hip. The baby was awake, eager to look at faces and trees, although the wasteland to the north was too jumbled a sight to interest her infant gaze.

They set out again, settling into a swinging pace.

After a time, she said, “You have news.”

“So I do.”

They walked a while, passing another two returning with empty slings, who greeted Eldest Uncle with open smiles and Secha with guarded ones.

“They fear me,” she said.

“It was the custom in the days before that she who challenged for the feathered cloak, and lost, gave herself as an offering to the gods.”

“What of she who was challenged, and lost?”

He shrugged. “Challenges were rare. Usually a vote was called only when the Feather Cloak passed into death and a new one must be chosen. Then a pair of candidates would be picked by the warriors and the blood knives, and set before the baskets. Even so, the outcome was usually determined in advance.”

She snorted. “Then little has changed.”

“You did not fight hard enough, Secha,” chided Eldest Uncle. “Where is that look you used as a child when my daughter bullied the other children? You were younger than her, but wiser in your mind!”

“I am not the right leader, Uncle. Not for this day. Not for this war. It is better that I stepped aside in favor of others.”