It's not a question, and she doesn't have it within her to demur. Not now. Instead, she nods.

"It will come true." Again, the tone of complete, unalterable certainty.

Lifting Kirsten's hand, Koda places a kiss in the palm, then holds it over her own heart. "It will come true," she states again, her belief bedrock.

"I hope so," Kirsten whispers. "More than anything in the world."

* * *

Hours later, with the last of the plans set into motion, Dakota and Kirsten return to the house for a brief period of privacy, each knowing that such a chance will not come again for a very long, strenuous time.

"I saw Manny earlier," Kirsten says, looking up from her laptop where binary code continues to march futilely across the screen. "He’s not a happy camper."

Koda lifts the kettle from the stove with both hands and pauses on her way to the bathroom. "I ran into him, too, when I made a last check on the patients in the clinic. He was walking around in the middle of his own personal cloud, but he didn’t say what was bothering him."

"I know Maggie isn’t letting him lead the chopper squadron tomorrow. He’s been a glorified baby sitter for the last several weeks; that’s got to smart." From the bathroom, Kirsten hears the water splash into the tub. They may die tomorrow, maybe tonight. But, by all the gods past and present, they are going to have a hot bath first. "How’s it going?" she asks as Koda returns to fill the pot and set it on the stove where two others are just beginning to steam.

"Almost there. I found a last bit of bath salts in the back of the cabinet. Want to go for it?"

"Oooo, decadence. Need help?"

"Nah, I got it." Koda lifts another pot from the stove and disappears again.

The figures march across the screen in ranks, and it seems to Kirsten that they possess the same sort of mindless, mechanical determination that has been programmed into the droid soldiers. Theirs not to reason why, theirs but to do and die . . .. The odd bit of poetry, relic of some long-ago literature class, floats up from her memory. And how, she asks herself wryly, is that so different from us? If we fail here, we all die, sooner or later. Some later, but just as surely. And then what?

Her vision, or her imagination, had seemed to promise that she and Koda would survive. So had Tega.

But she knows enough, by now, to know that prophecy is conditional, not what will be but what can be. It is up to her, to Dakota, to Maggie and Tacoma and Andrews and Jackson and Manny and all the rest, to carry that future and ultimately to bring it forth into the world. And there is a battle between that conception and that birth, and in that battle is death.

She lowers the top of her computer, pushing it away from her, and with it the thought. They are as ready as they can be: ditches dug, derelict cars and trucks rammed into barricades, troop placements and strategies mapped out. Even from the distance of the officers’ quarters, Kirsten can hear the steady roar of engines as their transports pull into formation on the flight line, the higher pitched whine of tanks and their two self-propelled howitzers as they take up their positions. Their rumble vibrates through the floorboards under her feet.

We’re going to make it. We have to. Failure is impossible.

In two hours, she and Koda will take their places in that line, move up the road to block the droids’ advance. The enemy has the numbers, but, given the rigidity of their programmed logic, the Ellsworth force has the tactics and the flexibility to exploit even a minuscule advantage to the fullest. And, despite the air raid siren, the droid army is dirt-bound. At need, Maggie will put the Tomcats into the air and bomb them to flinders. Which is, it occurs to Kirsten, probably why Manny is being held back.

The last pot comes on the boil, and Kirsten carries it into the bath. The steaming water smells sharply of lavender and something sweeter and more subtle, running under the astringent scent of the bath salts. Koda kneels by the tub, stirring a thin stream of cooler water from the faucet into the mix. Curling vermilion petals skim the swirls, here and there the bell of an entire flower, its anthers leaving a trail of gold in the water. Koda glances up, one hand still in the water. "Try the temperature. See if it’s right."

Kirsten’s eyes sting suddenly, a prickling that has nothing to do with the eyestrain of the past hours. "It’s right," she says around the catch in her throat. "It’s the best bath I’ve ever seen." Then, more steadily, "Where’d you find the tiger lilies?"

"In the garden of one of the vacant houses. They’re panther lilies, actually, wild flowers. Someone must have brought them here from California."

Bending to add her own pan of hot water, Kirsten looks more closely. She brushes a silken bloom with one finger as it floats by. "You’re right. They grow all over in the woods; I used to see them when my dad took us camping."

Koda reaches up to capture her free hand, turns the palm up and kisses it. Her eyes, when she raises her head, are the deep blue of gentians, trouble in their depths. She says softly, "You’re trembling."

Wrapping her fingers about her lover’s longer ones, Kirsten closes her own eyes. "I’m scared, Koda. I don’t know—" With an effort, she steadies her voice. "It bothers me when I don’t know what outcome to expect. It’s the scientist thing."

"You have seen beyond tomorrow. Wika Tegalega has given you a prophecy."

"Do you believe that? That we are going to make a whole new kind of world? Truly?"

"I do." Something else stirs in Koda’s eyes, a question Kirsten cannot quite read. "When I scouted the battlefield with Maggie, I spoke with—I spoke with one of the Four-Footed people, Igmu Tanka. She said she wait for our return."

"Igmu Tanka? Igmu is ‘cat’—a mountain lion?"

Koda nods. "We will survive, cante mitawa. Not just us, but our people—all our peoples. If we use all our weapons, all our knowledge. It is promised." Her expression changes, a smile breaking over her face. "Now get into the tub with me, or the water will be cold."

Kirsten rises, turning away and slowly drawing her shirt over her head. Behind her, she can hear Koda’s breath catch, and wonder washes through her that she has such power to move her lover. But she says, laughing, "I know how we can warm it up again."

"You’re incorrigible," Koda answers, a hint of laughter in her own voice. Kirsten hears the quiet murmur of cloth on cloth as Dakota’s jeans and shirt drop to the floor, the soft splash as she steps into the tub and settles into the water. "Oh gods," she breathes, "this is heaven. I could die happy right now."

Kirsten turns to face her, taking in the long, copper legs that stretch all the way to the front of the tub, the angular shoulders contrasting with the upper curve of Koda’s breasts. The blue eyes are closed in sheer, abandoned ecstasy, incredible long lashes fanned out on her cheeks. A more inviting prospect would be hard to imagine. But, "How are we going to do this? That’s not exactly designed for a hot tub."

"True." Koda sits up straight, drawing her knees up almost under her chin. "Come on in. No, not that way," she says as Kirsten steps in, facing her. "Turn your back. That’s it."

As she moves to comply, Koda’s legs part to let her sit between, and Koda’s arms come around her, holding her gently. "This is better, no?"

"Much better," she breathes as she feels a kiss, soft as the spring breeze, ruffle her hair. Her own hands on Koda’s she leans back against her, feeling the embrace tighten. The warmth of the water, the silkiness of her lover’s skin, the rich scent of the lilies combine in something close to sensory overload. For a long moment, they remain motionless. Then Kirsten sighs, letting go Koda’s hand and reaching for the puff of pleated tulle that hangs from the hot water tap. "Time to scrub."

"Let me."

There is not room to turn around, but, Kirsten hands the sponge and the bottle of soap backward, laughing. "Who’d have thought the woman waving an M-16 in my face would turn out to be such a hedonist? Just goes to show first impressions aren’t all they’re racked up to be."

Koda chuckles, deep in her throat. "Who’d have thought the cute little android taking a leak in the snow would be such a sucker for it?" Kirsten opens her mouth to protest, but closes it abruptly. Koda’s hands, slick with the soap, pass over her shoulders in long, slow, circles, slip down her spine and up her flanks, the pattern repeating again and again. Through the film on her skin, she can feel Koda’s nipples harden as they brush against her back. Koda’s hands continue to spiral across her shoulders, down her flanks, sweeping across her thighs, circling her belly. They rise to cup her breasts, thumbs lightly brushing her own nipples, the touch and the cool air tightening the flesh around them. Koda’s mouth moves along the back of her neck, nibbling at her ear. Kirsten presses herself back against the strong body behind her, her own hands gliding over the long legs that arch beside her. "Nun lila hopa," Koda whispers. "Cante mitawa."

"Cante mitawa," Kirsten echoes, her breath catching as Koda’s hand slips between her legs, then, fingers parting the labia to find the nub of her clitoris. Fire catches under her touch, strikes along the nerves of Kirsten’s legs, flares to life up the column of her spine. "Cante mitawa," she says again, while she can say anything at all, and her head falls back as release takes her and she feels her pulse hammer against Koda’s hand that still cups her sex, shuddering through her again and again.

When she can move, she turns to kneel between Koda’s thighs. Dakota’s eyes, wide and unfocused with desire, draw her down and down, until it seems that she glides slowly through dark water, while shapes move along the verge of the pool above her, slim-legged and swift, slow and lumbering, moving on four legs or two or none. Around her she hears the darting passage of bright fish, the roll and tumble of otters. Then they are gone and she is back in the world she knows, her lips seeking Koda’s in a long, lingering kiss as her knee presses against her lover’s center and Koda comes, the blood pounding in her throat under Kirsten’s mouth, beating frantically, then slowing as the after-languor takes them both. For a long moment they remain still, holding each other. Then Kirsten says huskily, "You remember that ring I saw in my vision?"

"Mmm," Koda answers, her head still against Kirsten’s shoulder.

"Well, then, are you gonna marry me?"

"Are you proposing?"

"I am." Kirsten smiles against the dark hair that coils over her own shoulder and Koda’s. "One of us had better."

"Since you put it that way—" Koda raises her face to Kirsten’s, claiming her mouth in a kiss that takes Kirsten’s breath. Then, "Since you put it that way—yes."

"How—that is, I don’t know what the Lakota custom is? How do we do it?"

A glint of mischief comes into Koda’s eyes. "Well, first, you take Wanblee Wapka a string of ponies. Say about a dozen, you being President and all. Then you get a courting blanket and come calling. Then--"

"Then we elope," Kirsten says succinctly. ‘When does the Judge get back?" A shadow crosses Koda’s face, and a stab of regret goes through Kirsten. "I’m sorry, love. I’m worried, too."

"I know," Koda answers. "But we’ll make our own rules. It’s a new world. We’re something new. We just need to get through this fight. Then we can plan."

"I’ll hold you to that." Kirsten leans forward into a kiss. "Hold you now and forever."

CHAPTER FORTY SIX

KIRSTEN SITS CROSS-LEGGED on the springy, cool grass beneath the heavy boughs of fragrant trees that dot the residential area of the base. At her back, the waters of the stream chuckle merrily as if listening to a joke only they can hear.

The scent of the rendered fat in the bowls before her doesn’t exactly rival perfume, and she resists the urge to sneeze just to get the smell out of her sinuses. She settles for what she hopes is innocuous mouth-breathing instead, flushing slightly at the look she receives from Tacoma. A touch to her knee draws her attention back to Dakota, who is sitting with a bowl of yellow paint cradled in her lap, and a small twig laden with the same held up, elegant eyebrow raised slightly, questioning.

Kirsten nods, almost shyly, and, smiling, Koda brings the loaded twig to her lover’s cheek, painting a design with sure, deft strokes. After several moments, she pulls the brush away and tilts Kirsten’s chin, eyes raking over the design she’s just created. A quick touchup, and she nods, satisfied with her work.

"Iktomi zizi."

The words bring smiles to the faces of Manny and Tacoma, and a frown of puzzlement to Kirsten’s. "Excuse me?"

Reaching up, Dakota gently touches Kirsten’s face, then lays two fingers on her partner’s chest, right above her heart. "Iktomi zizi." With her free hand, Koda lifts a bowl of clear water and hands it to Kirsten, gesturing for her to look into it.

The surface of the water ripples, and Kirsten watches her reflection waver in it, squinting as the image slowly comes into focus.

An intricate web design covers most of her left cheek. A similar one, though smaller, dots her right. She raises her head slowly, looking up at Dakota, wide-eyed. "A spider? You’re calling me a spider?"

"Iktomi zizi. Yellow spider."

Kirsten’s face wrinkles. "I don’t think I--."

"Hey!" Manny interrupts, chuckling, "I think it’s perfect. Spiders might be small, but some of them can bring down a man, or even a full grown horse with just one bite."

"Yeah, but they’re--."

"Crafty and intelligent," Tacoma intones. "Creators of incredibly complex designs, and absolutely fearless." He grins. "The name fits you perfectly."

Kirsten eyes the three steadily. "Yeah, well just remember something else about us spiders."

"Yeah?" Manny asks. "What’s that?"

"We eat our mates."

There is a moment of absolute silence as her words are absorbed. Then Tacoma and Manny both blush, their copper skin tinting toward tomato red as they break into laughter and smack Dakota on the shoulder with good-natured teasing.

Kirsten looks on, a bit confused with the reaction she’s receiving. It is only when she spies Dakota’s rakish, eyebrow waggling grin that the subtext of her words blooms fully in her mind, and the blush that crawls up from her shoulders is so deep and dark that her pale eyebrows stand out in vivid relief against its heat. "Oh my god," she moans, dropping her face into her hands. "I cannot believe I just said that!!"

Chuckling, Koda rubs her back. "Just relax, love. We know what you meant." After a moment, she eases Kirsten’s hands away from her face and checks to make sure the designs aren’t smudged. "One last thing. Close your eyes."

Said eyes narrow. "Why."

"Relax and just close your eyes. Trust me."

Sighing, Kirsten lets her lids slide closed over her eyes. "I’d better not regret this."

"Just keep ‘em closed." Taking another bowl, this filled with thick black paste, she dips three fingers in, coating them liberally. Lifting her fingers, she tilts Kirsten’s face toward her, then draws them across her lover’s eyes, from temple to temple, creating a crude, but effective black mask. "Ok, you can open your eyes now."

Dakota grins as vivid green eyes open, their color all the more striking when set against the black paint surrounding them, like emeralds in a black-velvet jeweler’s box. "For Wika Tegalega. Look."

Kirsten glances down into the still water, then back up at her lover. "I look like the Hamburgler."

A moment of silence, and then the group roars in laughter. Kirsten merely rolls her eyes. "Can we get on with this, please?"

The others eventually sober, and Dakota takes back the water bowl with a grin that is slightly abashed. Her face has already been painted with the symbols of Crazy Horse, and the backs of both hands bear stylized wolf prints done in black and red.

A piercing cry spears the silence, and the four of them look up to see Wiyo circling down toward them. With a great beating of wings, she lands upon Koda’s outstretched forearm. A leather pouch dangles from one of her legs, and Kirsten eyes it curiously. "What…?"

"A note," Dakota intuits, using her free hand to untie the simple slipknot. She hands the pouch to Kirsten. "Get it out of there for me, willya?"

The bag’s laces are tight and slippery, but Kirsten finally manages to fumble them open. Upending the small pouch, she shakes out a tiny, tightly rolled slip of paper, which she proceeds to unroll. Without her glasses on, the tiny writing is just one big blur, so she hands the scrap off to Dakota, who peers down at the message while Wiyo looks on, placidly. "It’s from Fenton. He found Toller."

"Oh yeah?" Tacoma asks. "Where?"

"Just outside of Grand Rapids." Dakota raises her eyes from the note. "Dead."

"No shit!" This from Manny, who looks on, wide-eyed. "How?"

"Single gunshot wound to the back of the head."

"Sounds like an execution," Kirsten murmurs. "Did the judge say who he thought did it?"

"He’s guessing androids. There was talk in town about a small group of them in that area over the last week or so."

"Any sign of Hart?"

"None."

"Bet the metalheads took him," Manny observes, raking a hand through his hair. "He’s the fucking commander of the base they’re about to attack. Jesus Christ."

Kirsten rubs at the back of her neck. "Well, he’s been kept pretty well isolated from our plans for awhile now, so while it’s not the best news in the world, I’m not sure it’s the worst, either."

"Yeah, but," Manny argues, getting up to pace, "he knows the base layout like the back of his hand, he knows our numbers, our weapons, our strengths, our weak spots, and, worst of all, he knows you’re here. That sound like pretty damn bad news to me."

"Manny. Sit."

The young pilot looks over at his cousin, sighs, and sits.

"Alright," Dakota continues, "we’re not even positive that the androids have him, but if they do, it’s a bit late to worry about it now. They’re at our gates, and with or without Hart’s information, they’re gonna be damned tough to fend off. So…we stick to the plan, and see what develops, alright?"

"We should probably let Maggie know," Kirsten replies softly.

"Sounds good." Koda eyes her brother and cousin. "Anything else?"

Both shake their heads in the negative.

"Good." Shifting her gaze, she looks into the golden eyes of her feathered companion. "Thank you, my friend."

Ruffling her wings, Wiyo closes her lethal talons around Koda’s forearm until the needle-sharp points break the skin. Three fat beads of blood well up. Cocking her head, she lets go a loud, almost triumphant cry, then launches herself into the air, wings flapping strongly, elegantly. With a feeling of almost stunned disbelief, Koda looks down in her lap, where two perfect feathers now rest. As she watches, the blood from her arm drips down onto the feathers, anointing them.

"You have been blessed, Tshunka Wakan Winan," Tacoma says, his eyes sparkling reverently, joyfully. "By Ina Maka herself. Surely we are meant to win this fight."

Still staring down at the feathers in her lap, Dakota finds that she can say nothing at all.

* * *

Kirsten sits on Maggie’s cot, the blanket tucked drumhead-tight around the narrow mattress, systematically shoving rounds into the spare magazines of her .45. One, already filled, lies beside the weapon on top of her pack. She is halfway through the second, her face frozen in concentration as she thumbs bullet after bullet into their flat carriers. Koda watches her from the desk, where she is marking their force’s final battle positions on a topo map of the ground where they plan to meet the android army. Tacoma has another copy, as does Maggie. Like them, she has no illusion that these are anything but a diagram of their opening gambit; if she had learned nothing else from the battle of the Cheyenne, from her fight with the Minot war leader, she would have learned that battle is unpredictable.

She has also learned that men and women will follow her, and that still frightens her. It frightens her all the more when one of those women is Kirsten. Perhaps she should feel easier knowing that her lover will be at the command center, guarded by Manny and Andrews and Maggie herself. A part of her mind remains convinced that Kirsten is safest at Dakota’s own side, with love as well as friendship and duty between her and harm.

But that is an illusion, and she knows it. There is no safety anywhere. Not on the battlefield, not off it. They must break the enemy here, and they must break him now. There will be no second chance. I will be here when you return, Puma had said. But prophecy is contingent. None knows that better than Koda.

We could still lose. We could lose it all.

Finished with the map, Koda folds it and slips it into her field pack. "About ready?"

Kirsten shoves the last round home, slipping the full magazines into loops in her belt. She looks up, smiling briefly. "I’m ready." Then, the smile fading, "I’ll be glad when this is over."

"Me, too," Koda says quietly. She rises and shoulders her own pack. One way or another, the world will be a different place in twenty-four hours.

Kirsten follows suit, snapping down the holster on her Colt and lifting her kit by its straps. Her helmet dangles from it by the chinstrap. Her battle dress, like Koda’s own, bears no insignia. No need to advertise their identity to the enemy. Forward parties have already caught and killed half a dozen human spies; it would take only one to recognize her and carry word of Kirsten’s presence to the enemy. They have no way of knowing how many they have missed, any one of whom could betray their strategy to the enemy.

Go to Plan B . . ..

Unfortunately, there is no Plan B. They have not the resources.

A shadow passes across the window, dark in the light of the low sun. Knuckles rap lightly on the jamb, and Maggie pushes open the door. Like Dakota and Kirsten, she wears combat fatigues, the bulk of her Kevlar vest showing clearly beneath her tunic, an M-16 slung over her shoulder. A wry smile quirks her mouth upward. "Madam President. Would you like to inspect the troops?"

"No," Kirsten says succinctly. The tension in her voice runs along Koda’s nerves. "Let’s just go."

Maggie’s mouth tightens, her eyes narrowing. "Let’s try that again. Madam President, would you like to inspect the troops?"

Kirsten glances up at the taller woman, her own face set. "I said—"

"Kirsten," Koda says softly. "You are their Commander in Chief."

Koda notes the rise and fall of Kirsten’s shoulders underneath her jacket, hears the breath as it leaves her. "All right. Nothing formal."

Maggie nods. "Nothing formal. They need to see you, though. They need to know you see them."

It is something Koda has learned over the last months, slowly and with reluctance. A commander is as much symbol as leader, as much a fighting band’s faith as its head. The troops who had followed her across the bridge at the Cheyenne had not done it for freedom or democracy or the idea of a state. They had done it for her. Kirsten’s face loses its stubbornness as the realization comes to her as well. "All right," she says again and steps through the door Maggie holds for her.

Over her head, Maggie’s eyes meet Koda’s. "You’ll do," she says, and Koda is not sure whether she means Kirsten or herself. "You’ll do just fine."

Outside, the low sun lays long shadows on the tarmac, fantastic angular shapes that barely suggest the APC’s and Humvees and Bradleys that cast them. The vehicles themselves form a convoy strung out half the length of the runway, most single file. Lead and rear contingents are both armor, tanks and their two mobile howitzers. Personnel carriers cluster in the middle. All along the line, the troops stand at attention, men and women drawn from every branch of service, the reserves, the civilian population. All are well armed, most are, more or less, in uniform. There is no shortage of equipment, only of soldiers to use it.

Parked just outside the office, the Jeep that had once been General Hart’s stands waiting. Its door bears his three stars, or once did. Now all that remains of them is a single star and two splotches of fresh paint. From the front fenders fly miniature flags: the Stars and Stripes from one, the blue Air Force banner from the other. Andrews sits at the wheel. Maggie slips into the front seat beside him, Koda and Kirsten into the back. Just as Kirsten turns to arrange her gear, Koda says, "Stand, cante skuye. Let them see you."

For a moment it seems that Kirsten will demur. But she faces front, one hand on the rollbar, as the Jeep begins to roll. A ripple precedes them up the line, hands raised to salute. Koda watches as Kirsten smiles and acknowledges the gesture, her own back straight as a young birch tree, all traces of anger and tension gone from her face. It comes to Koda that Kirsten has a true gift for leadership, one very different from her own. Her lover’s wildness is all for her, nothing that near-strangers or even friends will ever see. To them she is a still point of order in chaos; a fragment rationality in a spinning vortex of dementia. She is the center that will hold against the circling dark.

The Jeep comes to the end of the line, the rear brought up by one of the howitzers. Then it swings back to take its place in the middle of the column, and the line of vehicles shudders into motion.

"Here we go," Kirsten says, taking her seat. In her eyes, apprehension shadows her pride in the moment, and Koda knows what she fears.

"Here we are," she answers, taking her hand. "Always."

* * *

"It’s a good thing they already know we’re coming," Kirsten shouts into Koda’s ear, "because this is sure as hell no sneak attack."

Koda grins and nods, not even attempting speech. Before and behind them, the Bradleys and howitzers, the mortars and the other tracked vehicles crunch along the asphalt. The tanks’ characteristic shrill whine carries on the evening air like the howl of lost souls, punctuated only by the whup-whup of a pair of low-flying Apache choppers scouting the margins of the road. The air chills as they pass, blue with dusk, shadows fading into the oncoming night. Stars hang low on the eastern horizon before them; behind them the scudding clouds flame gold and crimson as the sun slips below the edge of the world. To either side of the road, barriers of derelict cars and trucks loom high, broken shapes out of nightmare bulldozed into place to funnel the enemy advance between Tacoma’s forces and Maggie’s. Also along their flanks, invisible now under brush and rubble, ten-foot wide trenches run from the pavement into the trees that line the road. If the enemy follows the battle plan hammered out by the Ellsworth officers—if the enemy can be forced to follow it--the ditches will trap and incapacitate the droids’ armor. At intervals, two-and-three man teams peel off the line of march to take stations, in the woods or behind rocks, where they can lob armor-piercing missiles into the mired tanks from shoulder launchers.

Koda fastens the chin strap of her helmet, pulling it tight and checking the adjustment of the night sight. She does not lower it yet; there is little to see now save the bulk of the APC lumbering along ahead of their Jeep, the heaps of wrecked metal looming on either side at irregular intervals. Beside her, Kirsten does likewise, her lover’s smaller hand seeking hers again. They will separate soon, Koda to lead her detachment into its position on the south flank, hidden from the road, Kirsten to remain with Maggie among at the command post personnel as communications chief. It is not a position of safety; Maggie will have charge of the center, where the enemy attack will fall hardest. In the dark, in her own mind, she tries to find reassurance in Kirsten’s vision, in Puma’s promise that she would be here, on this ground, at Koda’s return.

But this is a return, now, and Puma is a warrior spirit. It is battle that waits. There is no guarantee of ever coming here again.

Neither is there any guarantee of leaving.

As they pass the ten-mile mark out of Ellsworth, the pace of the column picks up, the whine of the tanks suddenly diminishing. Kirsten’s fingers tighten around her own; Tacoma has left the interstate with the armor squadron, gone to take up position in the thickening dark to the north of the road, where they will both protect the flank of the main force and, with luck, draw the enemy tanks and Bradleys into a death trap.

The moon is up, just off the full. A stiff wind blows from the south, and clouds scud across its face, narrow ribbons of black and silver. Suddenly Kirsten turns, her profile rimlit in the pale light, her pointing finger tracking something moving along the treeline. As Koda’s gaze follows, she can make out a white shape beyond the reach of the branches, propelled by slow, deep wingbeats. Owl. The moonlight strikes silver from its feathers, ripples over the fan of its pinions where they spread out like fingers at the ends of its wings. Though it does not call, a shiver passes through her, chill along her skin. There will be death tomorrow; she needs no omen to tell her that.

With the armor gone, the convoy picks up speed. The barricades grow fewer as they approach the place where they will deploy in preparation to meet the enemy, and the last mile or so of road lies open and unobstructed to give their own forces room to fall back. Kirsten no longer needs to shout to be heard. "We’re almost there."

Koda turns to face her. The moon is higher now, and the fear in Kirsten’s eyes shows plain. She does not fear for herself; no woman who could be intimidated by a mere army could have made her way across a continent alone, could not have gone cold-bloodedly, twice, into the heart of the enemy stronghold. The fear is for the world they will leave behind them if they fail. It is also, she knows, for her, Dakota.

There are no words to answer it. Her own fears have burned themselves clean: for Kirsten, for Tacoma, for the men and women whose lives are in her hand.

She touches a finger to one of the hailstones painted on her face. Hoka hey, Tshunka Witco. It is a good day to die.