Nita Qwan knew the legends of his own people. “My people—in Ifriquy’a—say that the black seas were parted and our people were led across the dry sea bed to our new home.”

Ta-se-ho nodded. “Too short to make a good story. But a good idea for a story.” He busied himself inhaling smoke.

“The earliest legends of the Sossag people are about the Odine. The Goddess Tar brought us here to defeat them. And we did. We destroyed them all—every tentacle and every worm.” He nodded. “The north is studded with their monuments and their tunnels.” He leaned back and exhaled smoke. “This is the tallest. The old women say that there is a city under our feet. Many who seek wisdom come here for the dreams of the old ones.” He nodded. “I did.”

“What did you dream about?” Nita Qwan asked.

The old man smoked quietly. “Awful things,” he said eventually. “Nothing from which to take a name, or follow a path.” He shrugged, and lay down. “But most of the Wild fears these places. Only men are too stupid, or too ill-attuned to stay near them. So perhaps the Odine are not dead, but merely sleep.” He grinned.

Nita Qwan took a deep breath. “You are mocking me,” he said.

Ta-se-ho shrugged. “Everything in this world is terror,” the old man said. “If you care to see it that way. We should have died on the ice. We’re not dead. Let that victory steady you. You worry too much.”

“We should have died,” Nita Qwan agreed. “What saved us?”

The old man tamped his pipe, and his eyes glittered across the fire. “Gas-a-ho, first and most. Even when he had his shoulders ripped open, he was casting. He brought the wind and took away the fog.”

Nita Qwan had guessed as much.

“And sheer luck. Or the will of the spirits, if you believe in such things.” The old man took a deep drag on his pipe.

“Do you believe in such things?” Nita Qwan asked.

“I think we shape our own luck,” the old man said. “With work. And practice. And care. A chance for life to a trained man is just another death to an untrained man—yes? Good shooting today.”

Nita Qwan all but blushed. The old man never praised.

“You could have died. Jumping for the spear—the salmon’s leap.” The words spilled out of Nita Qwan. “It was magnificent!”

The old man allowed a slow smile to cross his face. “It was stupid,” he said. “I should have died.” He laughed. “But instead, I flew like a bird!” His high-pitched laugh went out into the night. “I nearly shit myself when my feet left the ground.”

“Why’d you do it?” Nita Qwan asked.