At the suggestion of some Chahta who had accompanied them partway downstream, Trader made camp on an old levee of the Horned Serpent. Behind them a shallow swampy backwater was full of bald cypress, tupelo, and sweet gum. Hanging moss drooped from the branches, and white herons waded in the shallows. In summer it would have been riotous with fish and swarms of insects. The mosquitoes were already humming in loathsome columns, kept at bay only by the grease-based lotion Old White had concocted of spruce, larkspur, and red root. A fire not only gave them warmth, but cast its cheery light over the camp. Trader sat with his back propped against a tree and listened to the last of Paunch’s story. He kept noticing that young Whippoorwill continued to give him her large-eyed attention.
Why is she so obsessed with me? Not that he minded an attractive woman’s intimate stare, but gods, the woman had just met him.
In his mind he couldn’t help but compare her with Two Petals. Where the Contrary had a fuller body, wider in the hips with more pronounced breasts, Whippoorwill carried herself with a slender grace. When she moved it was almost as though she were ethereal. Whippoorwill had washed her hair, allowing it to flow around her in soft black waves. The effect was to make her face even more delicate and feminine. For the moment she watched him with a curious attention that missed no detail. Her large dark eyes seemed to drink of his very soul.
Trader muttered to himself, turning his attention back to the conversation.
“And then the Chahta captured us,” Paunch finished. “You know the rest of the story.”
Old White tapped the dottle from his pipe, expression lined. “It wasn’t wise to try and warn the White Arrow.”
Paunch lowered his head. “I know. It was my fault. Our mikkos had decided against it. I have no one to blame but myself.”
Trader had translated most of the story to Two Petals, but near the end, she had finally looked at him, saying, “I’m hanging on each of your words, each one echoing in the Spirit world. Is it because the world’s hollow? What do you think of the Chahta arrows sticking in the dead? It’s all a mystery.”
He’d glanced uneasily at her, chalking it off as one of her peculiar moments.
Old White sighed, slapped at a mosquito, and studied his pipe in the firelight. “Lucky for you that the Contrary chose you, Paunch.”
Paunch shook his head. “My Power is bad. It has led me to poor choices.” He glanced at Whippoorwill. “It has plugged my ears when they could have listened to wiser counsel.” He paused. “How has this happened to me? I have gone from a happy man to a prisoner and slave.”
Old White shrugged. “Your fate belongs to the Contrary.”
“But it was you who Traded such a precious gorget to save us.” Paunch looked confused.
Old White replied, “I did it for her, for Power. So, Paunch, I wouldn’t be too quick to think Power had turned against me, were I you.”
He nodded. “I am not the same man who once plotted against the Chikosi. Looking back, it wasn’t so bad, having a full belly and never having to worry about being hung in a square.”
Two Petals said, “Everything in its place, threads woven.”
In Albaamaha, Whippoorwill added, “The weave must now be pulled tight.”
Trader and Old White crossed knowing glances, wondering if Two Petals was referring to Paunch’s declaration, which—not speaking Mos’kogee—she couldn’t understand, or if she was talking to one of her Spirits. The way Whippoorwill followed the Contrary’s speech was a puzzle to both of them.
Trader shifted to a different position on the tree, blowing smoke up at the mosquitoes. “How did relations grow so strained between the Albaamaha and the Sky Hand?”
“They are arrogant conquerors.” Paunch spread his hands. “Look, I realize you are foreign Traders, but you must understand: This land was ours once. We came here just after our emergence from under the World Tree. The Chikosi took our heritage from us. How can resentment not fester? They just sit there, behind their walls, imposing their will through their mighty warriors. We are the ones who sweat in the sun, raising their food, building and repairing their towns.”
“I thought you had a voice in their Council,” Trader remarked.
Paunch looked at him. “You have only passed through. Seen only what a Trader would see. Yes, once we did have a voice. But that was long ago, back before the great fire, when Makes War was high minko. In my lifetime I have seen things turn against us. We have become even more meaningless than ever. Flying Hawk worked to silence our voices. The Ancestors alone know what our fate will be when Smoke Shield is made high minko.”
“Smoke Shield,” Trader muttered. “I keep hearing his name.”
Paunch declared, “He’s Chief Clan. They’re all sired of weasels mated with foul-tempered badgers.”
Chief Clan? Trader and Old White glanced at each other, expressions amused. Paunch missed it. Whippoorwill didn’t, a curious smile gracing her lips.
“It’s a large clan,” Trader noted. “There are many lineages.”
“I hope Horned Serpent crawls out of the river and devours them all,” Paunch growled. “I remember my uncle telling me how things were better in the old days. Before Flying Hawk. We might have been two peoples, but at least we were granted a little respect.”
“Back before the great fire,” Old White mused.
Paunch nodded. “People always bemoaned the fact that Flying Hawk and his dead brother were the only ones who survived that night. But even before that, so the stories say, things were turning against us. It started with the loss of the war medicine and the death of High Minko Makes War. Then Midnight Woman, the Chief Clan matron, married that War Chief Bear Tooth, and things went bad.” Paunch made a face. “I think Power wanted to be rid of them all. That’s why the Great Palace was burned that night. Power tried to kill them off, but somehow, it missed Flying Hawk and Acorn.” He grunted. “Although Flying Hawk finished half of Power’s work later. Too bad he didn’t kill himself after he drove a rock into his brother’s head.”
Trader swallowed hard, having stiffened, his ears burning as the man talked. It all brought back memories—that look in his dead brother’s eyes that he had fled from so long ago.
About to speak, Trader happened to glance at Old White, and the words stopped in his throat. The expression on the Seeker’s face was like a lightning-riven mask.
“Time to turn in,” Old White said with odd defeat.
“The currents eddy and flow,” Two Petals added ominously. “No one can stop the river.”
“It lives, and a flood is coming,” Whippoorwill added in Albaamaha.
Trader blinked, shook himself, and knocked out his pipe bowl. He gestured to Swimmer and took his bedroll before heading off into the darkness. After the talk of dead brothers, the nightmares were sure to come. This night, he wanted to be by himself.
I walk under the trees, moonlight playing through the branches. I can feel them as they come alive. The first of the sap is waking, beginning to flow toward the branch tips. Soon, they will bud. The flowers, so delicate and fine, will enlarge inside the buds, swelling until they burst the shell. Soon they will unfurl and send their sweetness into the air. Pollen will spread with the sweet aroma, finding new homes. The seeds will be fertile.
I look down at the patterns of moonlight crisscrossed with branches. I am a being of the forest. I, too, feel the call. It Dances with me, swaying with each careful step I take. I let myself flow with the forest, feeling the dormant world around me beginning to stir.
For the first time, I am stirring with it. Coming alive in a way I never have before. What will it be like to take the seed, to begin the process of new life?
I stop, seeing the dog, his white-tipped tail arcing in the pale light like some curious creature.
I kneel down, hearing the man groan in his sleep. Moonlight caresses his smooth face, reveals the movements of his eyes. His Dreams are tortured, set free to plague him by careless words.
Straightening, I pull the dress over my head, letting it settle onto the ground. I throw my head back, and the moonlight casts its magic over my naked body. I trace the shadow patterns of branches over my skin, running the tips of my fingers along the designs cast by new life. I shift slightly so that the shadows lay across my breasts, and center over my womb. The warm rush in my loins quickens.
As I lift the edge of his blanket, he stirs, still half locked in the Dream. He blinks, struggling to wake. My cool fingers find his lips, stilling the question that rises in his throat. With my other hand I reach down, feeling him already hard under his shirt and breech-cloth. Perhaps that is why I must act now, to counter the Power of his Dream with my own.
He watches me, mystified, as I untie his breechcloth, letting it fall away from his slim hips. Freed of restraint, his shaft is bathed in the soft light. I let my fingers slip down its firm length. At my touch, his body stiffens, growing as hard as his member.
My hair falls around us as I straddle him. I have seen this moment, waited for it. Brother Moon has timed my body for him. My blood rushes, heart beating with anticipation as I place the point of his shaft into my moist sheath. As I settle, the length of him fills me. The sensation is new, urgent, and wonderfully uncomfortable. I stare down into his moon-filled eyes, savoring the miracle.
His mouth opens as I begin to rotate my hips. His hands rise, closing on my breasts, rolling them with each motion my desperate loins crave.
For the moment, we are eternal, playing our part in the endless ritual of life.
When he finally arches against me, I tighten, awed by the Power of his release jetting inside me. The rising tingle is my only warning before a pulsating rush of pleasure shoots lightning through my hips, up my back, and down my legs.
When it is finished, when I can breathe again, I roll to the side, trapping his fluids inside.
Why? The question fills his eyes.
“Because you are the future,” I tell him softly.
Two Petals stood naked in the moonlight, bathed in the soft white radiance. She had been drawn to this open spot, free of the shadows cast by high branches. The moon filled her, glowing on her skin, her nipples no more than dark dots on her round breasts. She raised her arms, letting the light flow over her. A faint breeze shifted her long dark hair where it hung down her back.
She heard the soft steps approaching from behind and waited until they came to a stop to her right. Just as in the Dream, she relived the moment as Whippoorwill raised her arms to the moonlight. They stood silently, side by side, arms raised, naked bodies illuminated by the glow.
“We have Danced the first steps,” she whispered.
Whippoorwill’s hushed voice spoke—the Dream inside Two Petals’ head saying, “We are bound.”
Even across the distance, Two Petals could hear the sweet Song of her husband. It wound over the hills, through the trees, and across the leaf-strewn ground. She felt herself sway with it, and closed her eyes, letting the musical strains mingle with her souls. I hear you, husband.
In time to the Albaamo woman’s voice, the Dream said, “He knows you are coming. Have you Dreamed a way to obtain the copper?”
“Yes.” She sighed, lowering her arms as the Song faded. An empty longing opened in her souls. “It will be difficult. Tricking a clever and suspicious man is perilous at best, but he has weaknesses.”
“He and deceit are old companions. He breathes treachery with every heartbeat.”
“There are things I must learn in order to distract him.”
“Use them well. His slightest suspicion will mean disaster for all.” Whippoorwill lowered her arms. Her long black hair seemed to gather the darkness as it hung over the rounded globes of her buttocks. The woman’s slender legs were firmly braced, her bare feet on the leaves beside a rolled dress.
Two Petals said, “Trader and Old White will need you when the time comes.”
“I know.”
Two Petals turned her gaze to the forest, seeing the black shape slipping through the shadows. A large black wolf stepped into the moonlight and fixed luminous yellow eyes on them. The animal lowered his head in canine greeting.
“Your guide has come.”
They shared one final glance, bits and pieces of visions and Dreams flowing between them like colors of light.
“In the future, when you Dance, Dance for me.”
“Always,” Whippoorwill’s Dream voice replied.
Then the woman reached down, lifted her dress from the leaves, and slipped it over her head. She walked to the wolf, each step airy. The Spirit animal turned to match her pace, and they disappeared into the shadows.
Paunch didn’t know what to make of the Seeker. He had heard of the man—who hadn’t? But he’d always believed him to be a legend. And that was a problem. How did a lowly Albaamo farmer deal with a living legend? Especially one who had used a priceless copper gorget to purchase said farmer and his granddaughter’s lives?
For the moment, unable to think of anything else, he cooked breakfast.
The sun was casting its first faint rays over the trees and into their camp on the levee. Paunch shot nervous glances at the roll of blankets where the old man was sleeping, wondering what Dreams hovered inside that old white head. Trader and his dog had slept farther out, away from the camp. But then—for all Paunch knew—perhaps he always did.
Whipporwill’s blanket lay empty, and that worried him no little bit. But then, she’d always been odd. She often rose in the middle of the night and walked off.
Tell me that this is one of those times she will show up at just the right moment.
He glanced again at the Seeker’s sleeping form. How, he wondered, was he going to explain Whippoorwill’s odd behavior to her new master?
And then there was the Contrary. She was another matter. She sat across the fire from him, watching with really spooky eyes as he stirred the boiling freshwater mussels and added dried grapes, red currants, and paw-paws.
“Wish you could talk,” he said. He cursed himself for not learning Trade Tongue, but as a farmer what use did he have for the languages of the elite? For most of his people it was enough just to know a smattering of Chikosi. “I wish Amber Bead was here. He can talk Trade Tongue.”
And that got him to thinking. Was the old man even alive? Had so much gone wrong in Split Sky City that the Chikosi had discovered his duplicity and hung his old friend from the square?
“Too much for an old man to know,” he muttered, glancing again at the Contrary, wondering what she was seeing. Just an old slave? But by Abba Mikko’s eyebrows, did she have to give him that dark-eyed stare? He avoided looking at her. Meeting her eyes was like looking into midnight. Each time he felt his souls sway, as if their hold on his body had suddenly come adrift.
The Seeker rolled onto his back, yawned, and made a face. When he sat up, his brightly colored blanket fell away.
Paunch watched him climb stiffly to his feet, arch his back, and step over to the side. He relieved himself, looking up at the morning sky, stretching. Then he replaced his breechcloth and stepped to the fire before squatting to extend his hands.
The Contrary said something incomprehensible, and the Seeker glanced at the rumpled blanket where Whippoorwill had slept.
He turned curious eyes on Paunch. “I think the Contrary is telling me your granddaughter is gone.”
“Elder, don’t panic.” Paunch spread his hands. “She does this. The girl has never been right.” He tried to smile reassuringly. “Power has always touched her. She’ll be back before we go. She wouldn’t just leave me.”
The Contrary laughed.
The Seeker asked some question, and the Contrary replied.
Paunch swallowed hard, saying, “I’ve got breakfast cooking. A good meal for us. Something to keep the gut happy for a long day.”
The Seeker sighed. “You aren’t planning on running, are you?”
“Who? Me?” He shook his head vigorously. “Oh, no. I’ve had my fill of hiding out in the forest.” He forced himself to keep his attention on the fire. By the Ancestors, Whippoorwill, get back here and set this man’s souls at ease.
The Seeker frowned at the flames, shot a quick glance at the Contrary, then asked, “I would know more about the situation with the Albaamaha. Who leads this uprising?”
Paunch scratched his head. What did he say? It wasn’t like the man really cared, did he? “Why would you want to know?”
The Seeker gave him a reproving look. “We’re Trading our way down the river. Can you think of a reason that I wouldn’t have at least some interest in the local politics?”
One thing was sure, as long as he belonged to the Traders, he wouldn’t be scrambling for his life. A single glance at the canoes had told him that untold riches lay hidden in those packs. And who knew? They might end up among the Koasti, relatives of the Albaamaha. Once there he might have a chance of slipping away with Whippoorwill. The two of them could make a home for themselves. Whippoorwill could Heal, maybe tell fortunes. Things were looking up.
“Very well,” Paunch said. “The mikkos are dissatisfied, but most are cautious, afraid to wake the Chikosi bear’s anger. But people work like slaves, only to pack their harvest away to Chikosi granaries. Those people breed like rabbits. The man who most wants to see the Sky Hand weakened is Amber Bead. The stupid Chikosi think he’s a doddering old fool. Amber Bead is clever, though. He keeps his ear to the ground. He was the one who hatched the plot to send Crabapple to White Arrow Town.” He winced. “I had already sent the boy before I heard that the mikkos disapproved.”
“And you told me that he ran right into the war party?”
Paunch nodded. “He wasn’t much more than a boy. He must have confessed everything under torture.” He stared down at his hands. “It was my fault.”
“How close to an uprising are the Albaamaha?”
“I cannot tell, master. Much will have depended on what has happened while I was in hiding.” He looked up. “But I don’t think you want to Trade with the Chikosi. I have heard that the Koasati have marvelous things: shells, yaupon, remarkable wooden goods. Is it true that stingray spines and hanging moss are valued in the northern Trade? The Koasati have them in great abundance.”
The Seeker stifled a smile. “Yes, it is true.”
Paunch used a stick to stir the stew. “I can help you. Albaamaha and Koasati are related. According to the story, we were the same people once, back before we emerged from beneath the roots of the World Tree. They came out on one side of a root, and we on the other. Trading with them would be like Trading with brothers. My skills could be of good use to you.”
The Seeker nodded. “That is pleasing to know.”
“Whippoorwill and I will act tirelessly to help you make back the value of that gorget.” He gestured with the stick. “Do not think for a moment that we are ungrateful for your actions on our part.”
His stomach was growling at the smell of the stew. By Abba Mikko’s eyebrow, he’d dreamed of such while eating bugs and nuts in the forest. Traveling with the Traders would have him putting on fat in no time.
Trader came walking in, a perplexed look on his face. He was scratching his hair, his blanket rolled under one arm. The dog was pacing at his side, tail swinging. The man glanced around, noted Whippoorwill’s flat blanket, and lifted an inquiring brow.
“Do not worry,” Paunch cried brightly. “I’m sure she’s out in the forest. You know, attending to women’s things.”
Trader started. “It’s not her moon, is it?”
“No, no. She passed that not so long ago. Just before the Chahta caught us.”
Trader seemed to take a relieved breath.
“Nothing to worry about,” Paunch continued. “She’ll tell me before she has to go into seclusion.”
The Seeker said something in Trade Tongue, and Trader shot a glance at the Contrary, who spoke softly. At that Trader turned, staring out at the woods for a moment; then he rushed down to the canoes where they lay beached at the foot of the levee. He took quick inventory of his packs, and muttered to himself in obvious relief.
Paunch felt fingers of worry clutching at his souls as he furtively searched the woods. Come back, Granddaughter. This is starting to worry them.
Trader said something reassuring as he strode up the incline, and squatted beside the Seeker.
“We were discussing the Albaamaha,” the Seeker said in Mos’kogee. “The ringleader is a mikko called Amber Bead. But Paunch tells me the Albaamaha are split. Some want revolt; others are afraid.”
“What would it take to start an uprising?” Trader asked, eyes on Paunch.
“One atrocity by the Chikosi and the whole country could erupt,” Paunch told him darkly. “You can’t trust their Council or leadership. Most of them are thieves.” He paused, seeing unease rising in Trader’s expression. “The Seeker and I were just talking about heading downriver and Trading with the Koasati.”
“They have stingray spines and hanging moss,” the Seeker said mildly. “Things of great value in the northern Trade.”
“I see,” Trader said with equal aplomb.
“You know this Amber Bead well?” the Seeker asked.
“Oh, yes. An old friend. Kin of mine, actually.”
Trader and the Seeker were giving each other knowing stares.
“Could we Trade with him?” the Seeker asked.
“He wouldn’t have much to Trade.” Paunch gestured at the canoes. “The kind of goods you carry can’t be parted with for a few baskets of moldy corn. No, for good value, you would want beautiful shell, things from farther south that would make you a handsome return in the north.”
“Which the Koasati have,” Trader replied, nodding. “I think I understand.” He paused. “But wouldn’t the Chikosi have those things, too?”
“Trust me.” Paunch affected ease. “They’re as crooked as a sassafras root. We’ve been dealing with them for years. No one knows how sneaky they are better than me.”
Trader nodded, a grim set to his lips as he found his bowl and scooped up some of the stew. After a taste he said, “Paunch, you’d make a lousy Trader, but your stew is pretty good.”
No one said more as they ate, but Paunch couldn’t help staring out at the trees.
Whippoorwill? Where are you?
After the meal was finished the Traders began packing.
“I’ll be right back,” Paunch called. “Just need to use the trees for a moment.”
He hurried down the slope, eyes on the swamp. Under his breath, he muttered, “Whippoorwill?”
The empty forest showed no sign of her.
“You coming?” Trader called from behind him. “Or are you going to run like your granddaughter did?”
Paunch hesitated. Go after her? For what? More hiding in the forest?
He rubbed his belly, full to bursting since he’d eaten enough for two. No, there was no turning back. If he was to have any chance, it would be downriver, among the Koasati.
As he turned back and plodded up the slope, he asked himself, Girl? What have you done?
For two days Smoke Shield had played war games within sight of Bowl Town. He had his warriors working in tandem with Sun Falcon’s. They ran, made mock attacks, charged and shouted from behind a line of shields. Archery practice consisted of the one group releasing a volley of arrows, only to have the second group run forward and release theirs. Like overlapping waves, they practiced the advance technique, well aware that Albaamaha eyes were watching.
He had each warrior demonstrate his skill with a war club, often matching equally skilled opponents to hack at each other with sticks of wood, practicing blocking, striking, and parrying.
The message was clear: If you do not submit, we will turn this on you.
But threaten as he might, no offer of information was made as to the whereabouts of Lotus Root. Sun Falcon’s few remaining informants reported that for all intents and purposes, she might have walked to the edge of the world and fallen off.
Thus it was that a somber Smoke Shield led his warriors back into Split Sky City. He tried to come to some conclusion as to the effectiveness of his efforts. The Albaamaha in the north had seemed pacified. None of their inscrutable faces had told him anything except that they were beaten. Not cowed by any means, but they understood the doom he could rain down upon them.
“Not a word,” he had warned his nineteen warriors as they neared the city. “What we did was special, a thing of Power. You do not tell your friends, your uncles, or brothers. From this moment forward, our part in the Chahta raid did not happen.”
“What of purification?” Bear Paw asked. “We have been bloodied. There is no alternative but to retire to the Men’s House. There we must fast, drink button snakeroot, and purge our systems of pollution.”
“We will do that,” Smoke Shield told him. “But the story is that we do so because we have been in the presence of Albaamaha corpses. Our story is that some terrible Chahta Power may have been turned against us. We tell no one of what we did. No one! If any of you speaks of this thing, you will answer to me.” And then he had made them all swear, binding themselves to the most terrible of oaths.
Only as he led them up from the canoe landing, Singing, stamping, and clapping their clubs against the sides of their war shields, did he wonder if anyone would remember hunters leaving, and warriors returning.
People formed up on both sides, watching them, cheering. Smoke Shield thrust out his chest, leading the procession with the same arrogant pride he would have had he just razed a Chahta town.
Three times they circled the tchkofa; then he led his procession to the Men’s House. He could see Flying Hawk standing at the high palace gate. The high minko shaded his eyes with a hand, watching like a mute sentry from atop the mound.
Upon entering the Men’s House, Smoke Shield ordered the fires to be built up, and the sweat house to be made ready. He pointed to one of the youths lingering outside the door, ordering, “Send for the Hopaye. My warriors must undergo purification rituals to ensure that we bring no evil into the city.”
The boy left at a run.
As Smoke Shield had expected, Flying Hawk appeared in no more time than it would have taken the old man to descend the stairway and cross the plaza. The high minko entered, smiled at the warriors, and indicated that Smoke Shield should follow him out to the sweat house. He shooed the boys away from the fire they were making, and gestured Smoke Shield into the dark and cramped interior.
Leaving the flap open so that he could see if anyone approached, Flying Hawk asked, “Well?”
“I have seen to the situation. Fast Legs will tell no one of his activities. No one is the wiser.”
“And the woman?”
“Gone. No one knows where.” Smoke Shield cupped his hands. “She is too conspicuous. If she shows up, we will hear. My suspicion is that she will mysteriously disappear some night if she has the temerity to raise her voice.”
“And your missing arrows?”
Smoke Shield shrugged. “Missing, with the woman, I presume.”
Flying Hawk stroked his chin, reflecting. “There was no Chahta raid, was there?”
“Oh, yes, Uncle,” Smoke Shield replied. “And a very cunning one, too, I must add. May Breath Giver bless Great Cougar, for he solved a lot of our problems with his audacious attack. The Albaamaha are cowed, but unfortunately Fast Legs, and the kind Albaamaha who found him hurt and were caring for him, are dead. It’s a shame that Fast Legs and his helpers cannot come forward and tell their side of the story. Chief Sun Falcon and Bowl Town are secure, and the Chahta raiders have been driven off.”
“Though no one can find their trail.”
“Odd, isn’t it, that they seemed to simply disappear from the land?”
Flying Hawk watched him with flat, emotionless eyes. “Someone will talk.”
Smoke Shield shook his head. “Even the ghosts of the slain Albaamaha think they were killed by Chahta. As to my warriors, they have their own reasons to keep their tongues. These are men who followed me into White Arrow Town. They fully understand the Albaamaha threat. They understand the gravity of our situation here.”
Flying Hawk vented his irritation with a clenched fist. “You play with fire!”
“And I put it out with my piss when I am done.” Smoke Shield glared at the man. “The green shoot that started up when the Albaamaha sent that courier to warn the Chahta has been clipped off short. No leaves will sprout from this, Uncle. The Albaamaha have been paid back for the murder of the captives. They have been given a lesson on our strength and prowess. No one can lay this at the doorstep of the Sky Hand; meanwhile the plotters among the Albaamaha know that there is a price to be paid for treachery. Those who were innocent have been reminded that only our warriors stand between them and the enemy.”
“As long as none of your warriors talk.”
“They are my picked men. Their loyalty is to their people. But it would harm nothing if upon their leaving the Men’s House, their high minko rewarded their dedication to the people with a grand feast and gifts.”
“That will be done.”
“Good.” Smoke Shield smiled. “Because, Uncle, you have a stake in this, too. Each and every one of those warriors believe down in their souls that this Chahta raid was done with your blessing. They think you ordered it.”
Flying Hawk gave him a chilling look. “And why would they think that?”
“Because that’s what I told them.”
Flying Hawk was no one’s fool. He understood very well the trap Smoke Shield had laid for him. Wearily, he said, “Very well, I will go and make my report to the Council.” Flying Hawk pointed a finger. “But if any of this turns sour, you are on your own. You understand that, don’t you?”
“Nothing will go wrong, Uncle.” He smiled, feeling Power hovering in the air around him. “Nothing can stand in my way now.”
Not even you.