Stunned silent, Lily was still trying to figure out how to shape her next question when they entered a large glade. At first, she could only make out vague shapes looming here and there around the clearing. As Tristan carried her closer, she realized that the shapes were perfectly camouflaged tents, made of some kind of unfamiliar material.
They zigzagged their way in between the tents, which grew denser toward the middle, until Lily finally saw a light. A campfire burned, its light blocked from the rest of the forest by the clever positioning of the tents. The fire struck Lily as an oddly rustic centerpiece to what was otherwise a futuristic-looking camp. It was too small to keep them all warm, and she wondered why they bothered lighting it at all.
Tristan set her down next to the fire and shook out his exhausted arms. Caleb disappeared into one of the tents, indicating that they should wait there. Lily tried to keep her throbbing ankle elevated as best she could while she waited for him to return with the sachem. Even in the low light, she could see that her ankle was swelling alarmingly fast and already starting to bruise.
Lily looked up to see a man, about thirty years old, coming toward her with a forceful yet halting stride. He had prematurely graying hair and a pronounced limp, but other than that he looked incredibly fit. The man was flanked by Rowan on one side and Caleb on the other. He wasn’t particularly large—Caleb stood a full head taller—but Lily didn’t doubt his authority. This man was a leader. The sachem stood above her, taking in every aspect of her appearance. His dark eyes drilled into hers for an uncomfortably long time, and Lily found she couldn’t hold his gaze.
“Look at me, girl,” he snapped when she tried to drop her eyes. Lily obeyed even though his searching look unnerved her. “Who are you?” he asked.
“Lily Proctor,” she replied.
“Where are you from?”
“Salem, Massachusetts.”
The sachem raised an eyebrow at Lily in surprise. “Massachusetts? We haven’t used that name for this territory in hundreds of years. Not since the Great Witch Trials.”
Rowan made an impatient sound, and the sachem raised his hand for quiet. “This isn’t Lillian, Rowan,” he said.
“But it is her,” he argued. “Every cell in her body…”
“Is exactly the same,” the sachem finished for him. He put a hand on Rowan’s shoulder and squeezed reassuringly. “I believe you and I trust your skill as a mechanic completely. But impossible or not, this girl isn’t the Lillian we know.”
“How can you be so sure?” Rowan asked pleadingly.
“Because this girl has never killed anyone,” he said with certainty. “Look in her eyes, Rowan. There’s no death there.”
Rowan looked away, chewing on his lower lip. “You willing to bet your life on that?” he asked.
The sachem smiled indulgently. Lily could tell that if anyone else had questioned him this way, the sachem would have lit into him, but for some reason he had more patience with Rowan. She wondered if they were related. They both had the same sweeping brow and strong features, and they projected a similar strength.
“We both heard the stories of spirit walking when we were kids, Rowan,” he said gently. “All Outlanders do.”
“We hear them, and then we grow up,” Rowan replied. “Do you honestly believe that she isn’t Lillian?”
“Do you honestly believe she is?”
“I don’t know.” Rowan looked at Lily, and his dark eyes softened with uncertainty.
“Is this one still powerful?” the sachem asked.
“There’s none stronger,” Rowan responded immediately.
“Can she do everything that Lillian can?”
Rowan shrugged. “Maybe. With training.”
The sachem crouched down stiffly in front of Lily. An old brace that spanned from the thigh to the calf kept his right leg straight. Something awful must have happened to his knee to require that much hardware, and Lily wondered what it was. “I’m Alaric,” he said, introducing himself.