No need to guess what he saw in her, since he announced it. His language was unfamiliar, but some of the words came from familiar roots. She recognized “woman” and “Mongol” and “spy”—the last a word very like her real name, in Tocharian.

She could have framed a denial in words he might vaguely recognize, but there were more effective languages that did not involve words.

Cnán shrugged out of her cloak, drew herself up, made a derisive snort, and fixed him with a glare.

It was better than slapping him in the face. The hunter recoiled half a step, then recovered with a mock stagger. Now the green eyes really were laughing. He glanced to his right, gathering a third party into the unspoken conversation: the archer, using the end of his bow to push a branch out of his way and step closer.

This was the tallest man Cnán had seen in years, possibly in her whole life. She knew that the men of Christendom were of greater stature than those of the steppes, but this one was likely a giant—even among his own kind. His hair and beard were red-blond. He was not handsome, but there was a strength in his face that demanded respect. He examined her for a few moments, then faced the hunter, who was still chuckling. They exchanged some halting banter that included a few more repetitions of the words “Mongol” and “spy.” Their languages sounded the same to Cnán, but must, in fact, have differed, since they were not communicating very well.

After a few misunderstandings, the archer broke into Latin. But the hunter only shook his head and held up his hands.

Time to take charge, clearly.

“I am Vaetha,” she lied—in Latin. The words from her mother’s second tongue rolled forth with surprising ease. “I come from lands far to the East with tidings for Christendom. I would deliver this news to the master of your Order. Please take me to him.”