The camp of the Purple Feather tribe was a small affair, full of old men, old women, young women, and children. The men were hard to pick out in the crowds, and all of them went bare-chested and trousered. The place smelled of meat, tannings, and horses, but over all that, there was a definite scent of coyotes and other marauding beasts.

Janice was grateful to Kendra who, though she had hung back towards Feivel, was a constant essence in her brain. Kendra had stopped her from drowning so completely for those ten minutes while the coyote-hooded defenders dragged her left and right. She'd achieved just enough disconnection through her bondmate that she could dismiss the horrors she'd seen out of hand.

Or else she'd be weeping uncontrollably.

They rode to the middle of the camp, and the leader, her captor, barked and growled a series of words that, with the physical barrier that Kendra was trying to establish between Janice and the defender, it was impossible for her to understand.

But the other defenders understood just fine.

One by one, with surprising gentleness, the girls and women were lifted from their horses, and a series of small children had run off into the fields, and were slowly returning with a strong young man wearing no less than nineteen different shades of feathers in his hair, all dyed in the fashion of the tribes. Janice guessed he must be the chief, and the defenders pulled her from the horse and shoved her into the crowd, the earth swallowing her up as she walked barefoot across it, and she fell to her knees, sobbing before it swallowed her completely.

"I have never in my life seen so many clothes," Faline remarked.

"A lady must look her best. Besides, Camphor said I must bring all of it."

"I don't see any armoires in here," she snarled.

"Don't be silly, darling," Velma purred. "They're built into the walls of the mansion."

*Can I light her on fire?* Quetz asked, watching their hostess as she laced up her heavy boots and shrugged on her fur-lined violet robe and tucked the hood up over her head.

"Can I?" Faline muttered, pulling her own, far less fashionable coat on and shoving her hands deep in the pockets.

Camphor alone showed no sign of caring whether he was cold or not. Even Quetz was exuding far more heat than usual to compensate for the chill in the air. Faline tucked her hair down around her ears and Velma stared brightly into the sky.

"Storm's coming," she sighed cheerfully.

"Storms're always coming, aren't they?"

"Well, certainly. But this one's going to be a nasty one. Haven't seen clouds like that in a long time."

Faline rolled her eyes. "I'm sure it will," she muttered and followed the other two at a distance, letting Velma exhaust her conversation on Camphor, who was paying absolutely no mind at all today. Meanwhile, she and Quetz for once indulged in thinking of horrible, painful things to do to her. First cliff they passed, Faline was going to wish that woman lost her footing and spilled over the edge, fortunately gone forever.

Unfortunately, no matter how hard she might wish, she wouldn't be the one to push her, nor let Quetz, and Velma didn't fall.

But at least Faline felt a little better for indulging in the bitterness.

Tem and Gleb had tired of the game. Gershwin was no longer answering them, and between the two of them, there was no way of telling when their anticipated party would arrive.

Gleb had watched Gershwin for nearly the entire day. He hadn't answered any comments that any of them had shot his way, and he had spent most of the day gathering rope and fiddling with his whistle, staring now and again across the plains, now and again up the mountain.

Gleb watched him carefully, uncertain how to handle this suddenly distant, avoidant personality the tribesman had evolved. Tem also wasn't too certain what to do about this. It was obvious by how the blind man stayed aloof of the general area, sitting and regaling the runners with stories from his homeland of death, duty, and betrayal.

Meanwhile, Gleb couldn't shake this feeling of thunder building and building and pushing its holding points, waiting to break.