Three gulps later, the old woman withdrew the bowl and retired silently to the fire. Setting the vessel down, she padded off into another darkened area of the longhouse, her footsteps making no sound on the hard-packed earthen floor.

With the taste of the tea lingering spikily at the back of his throat, Hawkwood pushed the blankets and furs aside and swung his feet to the ground. He was relieved to discover that the earth did not rise up to meet him, though it did tilt slightly. Encouraged, he stood up. Only then did the world start to spin. He sat down quickly and waited, eyes closed once more, for the motion to stop.

He had no sense of time, so it could have been either seconds or several minutes later when he sensed that someone else had arrived and was watching over him. Presumably the old woman, discovering that one of her patients was awake, had gone to report the fact.

“Mat-huwa, skennenko:wa ken?”

He knew then that it wasn’t a dream.

Shadows, cast by the firelight, played across the cloaked warrior’s face, accentuating the patrician features and the deeper lines that had been added since Hawkwood had last gazed upon it. The dark eyes, however, were as keen as he remembered.

“You look well, rake’niha,” Hawkwood said, his throat constricting. “The years have been kind.” He rose to his feet. This time, the world stayed where it was.

“Your words flatter me, Mat-huwa,” Tewanias said as he clasped Hawkwood’s hands in his own. “But my heart is glad to see you.”

There was more grey in the hair than Hawkwood remembered, but as they embraced he detected a firmness in the Mohawk chief’s frame that would have been envied by men half his age. Remarkable for someone who’d survived more than sixty winters.

They separated in silence, but did not release their hold, each gripping each other’s forearms as if reluctant to break the spell. Before either of them could speak, a second cloaked figure appeared at Tewanias’s right shoulder: the warrior whose timely intervention had saved Hawkwood and Lawrence’s scalps.

“Cageaga,” Hawkwood said.

The tall warrior gazed back at him, his face angled laconically. “So, you do remember.”

Without warning, and before Hawkwood could react, the Mohawk tapped a finger against the side of Hawkwood’s head. Pain flared momentarily.

“It’s good to know you still have the skull of an elk, little brother. I am also pleased to see that you have not forgotten everything you were taught.”

He presumed Cageaga was referring to his throwing skills. Back-handed compliments had always been the taciturn warrior’s preferred form of encouragement.

“I had a very good teacher,” Hawkwood said.