Attaroa studied the tall, muscular, handsome man standing in front of her, wrapped in the hides he had torn from his cage. She noticed that his blond beard was a shade darker than his hair and that his eyes, an unbelievably vivid shade of blue, were compelling. She felt strongly attracted to him, but the very strength of her response dredged up painful memories long suppressed and provoked a powerful but strangely twisted reaction. She would not allow herself to be attracted to any man, because to have feelings for one might give him control over her – and never again would she allow anyone, particularly a man, to have control over her.

She had taken his parka and left him standing in the cold for the same reason she had withheld food and water. Deprivation made men easier to control. While they still had the strength to resist, it was necessary to keep them tied. But the Zelandonii man, wrapped in those hides he was not supposed to have, showed no fear, she thought. Look at him standing there, so sure of himself.

He was so defiant and cocky, he had even dared to criticize her in front of everyone, including the men in the Holding. He did not cringe, or plead, or hurry to please her as they did. But she vowed that he would before she was through with him. She was determined to bring him down. She would show them all how to handle a man like that, and then… he would die.

But before I break him, she said to herself, I will play with him for a while. Besides, he's a strong man, and he'll be hard to control if he decides to resist. He's suspicious now, so I need to make him lower his guard. He needs to be weakened. S'Armuna will know of something. Attaroa beckoned to the shaman and spoke to her privately. Then she looked at the man and smiled, but the smile held such malice that it sent a chill up his spine.

Jondalar not only threatened her leadership, he threatened the fragile world that her sick mind had led her to create. He even threatened her tenuous hold on reality, which had recently been stretched very thin.

"Come with me," S'Armuna said when she left Attaroa.

"Where are we going?" Jondalar asked, as he stepped in beside her. Two women with spears followed behind.

"Attaroa wants me to treat your wound."

She led Jondalar to a dwelling on the far edge of the settlement, similar to the big earthlodge that Attaroa had been seated near, but smaller and more dome-shaped. A low, narrow entrance led through a short passageway to another low opening. Jondalar had to bend over and walk bent-kneed for a few paces, then step down three stairs. No one, except a child, could enter her dwelling easily, but once inside, the man was able to stand to his full height with room to spare. The two women who had followed stayed outside.

After his eyes adjusted to the dim interior, he noticed a bed platform against the far wall. It was covered with a white fur of some kind… the rare and unusual white animals were held sacred among his people and, he had discovered in his travels, by many others as well. Dried herbs hung from roof supports and racks, and many of the baskets and bowls on shelves along the walls probably contained more. Any mamut or zelandoni could have moved in and been completely at home, except for one thing. Among most people, the hearth or dwelling place of the One Who Served the Mother was a ceremonial area, or adjacent to one, and the larger space was also where visitors stayed. But this was not a spacious and inviting area for activities and visitors. It had a closed and secretive feeling. Jondalar felt sure that S'Armuna lived alone and that other people seldom entered her domain.

He watched her stir up the fire, add dried dung and a few sticks of wood, and pour water into a blackened, pouchlike container, formerly the stomach of an animal, attached to a frame of bone. From a basket on one of her shelves, she added a small handful of some dried material, and when the water began to soak through the container, she moved it directly over the flames. As long as there was liquid in it, even if it was boiling, the pouch could not catch fire.

Though Jondalar did not know what it was, the odor that rose from the pot was familiar and, strangely, made him think of home. With a sudden flash of memory, he knew why. It was a smell that had often emanated from a zelandoni's fire. They used the decoction to wash wounds and injuries.

"You speak the language very well. Did you live among the Zelandonii long?" Jondalar asked.

S'Armuna looked up at him and seemed to consider her reply. "Several years," she said.

"Then you know that the Zelandonii welcome their visitors. I don't understand these people. What could I possibly have done to deserve such treatment?" Jondalar said. "You shared the hospitality of the Zelandonii – why don't you explain to them about rights of passage and courtesy to visitors? It's really more than a courtesy, it's an obligation."

S'Arrnuna's only response was a sardonic glance.

He knew he wasn't handling the situation well, but he was still so incredulous over his recent experiences that he found himself with an almost childish need to explain how things should be, as if that would put them right. He decided to try another approach.

"I wonder, since you lived there so long, if you knew my mother. I am the son of Marthona…" He would have continued, but the expression on her somewhat misshapen face stopped him. She registered such shock that it contorted her features even more.

"You are the son of Marthona, born to the hearth of Joconan?" she finally said, more as a question.

"No, that's my brother Joharran. I was born to Dalanar's hearth, the man she mated later. Did you know Joconan?"

"Yes," S'Armuna said, looking down, then turning her attention back to the skin pot that was almost boiling.

"Then you must have known my mother, too!" Jondalar was excited. "If you knew Marthona, then you know I'm not a liar. She would never put up with that in a child of hers. I know it sounds unbelievable – I'm not even sure I'd believe it, if I didn't know better – but the woman I was traveling with was sitting on the back of one of those horses that was being chased over the cliff. It was one she raised from a foal, not one that really belonged to that herd. Now I don't even know if she's alive. You must tell Attaroa I'm not lying! I've got to look for her. I've got to know if she's still alive!"

Jondalar's impassioned plea elicited no response from the woman. She did not even look up from the pouch of boiling water she was stirring. But, unlike Attaroa, she did not doubt him. One of Attaroa's hunters had come to her with a story about seeing a woman riding on one of the horses, afraid because she thought it was a spirit. S'Armuna thought there could be something to Jondalar's story, but she wondered whether it was real or supernatural.

"You did know Marthona, didn't you?" Jondalar asked, walking to the fire to get her attention. He had gotten her to respond before by invoking his mother.

When she looked up, her face was impassive. "Yes, I knew Marthona, once. I was sent, when I was young, to be trained by the Zelandoni of the Ninth Cave. Sit here," she said. Then she moved the frame back from the fire, turned away from him, and reached for a soft skin. He winced when she washed his injury with the antiseptic solution she had prepared, but he was sure her medicine was good. She had learned it from his people.

After it was clean, S'Armuna looked closely at his wound. "You were stunned for a while, but it is not serious. It will heal by itself." She averted her eyes, then said, "But you probably have a headache. I will give you something for it."

"No, I don't need anything now, but I am still thirsty. All I really want is some water. Is it all right if I drink from your waterbag?" Jondalar said, walking over to the large damp bladder of water, from which she had filled the pot. "I'll refill it for you, if you'd like. Do you have a cup I can use?"