Flying Hawk stumbled away from the falling Yuchi, barely catching himself before he toppled into the fire. In the process, he dropped his mace. The war club’s slapping impact as it broke the Yuchi’s skull rang in his ears. He’d had misgivings when Smoke Shield hung the strap of his club around his neck, letting it dangle down his back.
Unable to stand, Flying Hawk sat weakly, staring incomprehensibly at the dying Yuchi. The man’s arms and legs twitched, his open eyes staring with disbelief. His mouth formed a questioning O as his sight dimmed and the pupils expanded. Blood was leaking from the back of his head, pooling bright and thick on the matting.
“What did you do?” Flying Hawk whispered.
“I killed him!” Smoke Shield said through gritted teeth. “Green Snake? Living among the Yuchi? He’s up there . . . spreading his poison? No one must know this.”
“Green Snake?” Flying Hawk asked in amazement. “After all these years?”
“High Minko? Is something wrong?” Black Hand called from the doorway.
“The high minko is attacked!” Smoke Shield bellowed before Flying Hawk could gather his wits. “Quickly! Run and fetch the Hopaye! Go now, man! Hurry!”
Black Hand turned and vanished.
“But, I am not wounded.”
Smoke Shield bent down, peering into his eyes. “It will have to be a flesh wound, enough of a gash to enrage our people.”
“Why?” He was shaking his head. Green Snake? He is alive among the Yuchi? Coming home, after all these years?
“Because we were looking for a reason to make war on the Yuchi, remember?”
The Yuchi? I thought we wanted them to attack the Chahta.
Smoke Shield closed his eyes as if struggling for control, his shoulders trembling. “Green Snake! Gods, what evil is he spinning against us?” Flying Hawk could hear the man’s teeth grinding. “Why now, of all times?”
“He still lives,” Flying Hawk whispered. “After all these years without word . . .” He glanced at Smoke Shield. “I honestly had come to believe that you killed him that night. That somehow you had hidden his body.”
“I only wish, Uncle.”
“Green Snake lives.”
“No!” Smoke Shield thrust a hard finger in emphasis. “You will say nothing of this. Not yet. This is our secret, Uncle. No one is to know until the time is right.”
The smoldering anger in Smoke Shield’s eyes was warning enough. He’s thinking of killing me. Blaming it on the Yuchi. “Yes, yes, you’re right.” Fear focused his wits. “Quickly, go through the Yuchi’s things. Yes, there, that knife. Someone will be here soon.” He pointed. “Here, across the chest.” He met Smoke Shield’s hot eyes. “But not too deeply, Nephew, or I shall scream loudly enough that they will know I died long after the Yuchi did.”
A faint smile crossed Smoke Shield’s lips. “Does that mean you don’t trust me, Uncle?”
“You shall be high minko soon enough without rushing things along. Crushing the Chahta will leave no opposition to your confirmation.”
The slash was lightning fast. It didn’t even begin to sting until Flying Hawk looked down. Blood was welling from a deep but clean cut across his breast.
Oh, yes, we shall have our warriors. Once again, Power has played right into Smoke Shield’s hands.
Flying Hawk considered, a slow smile growing. “I am glad I am not your enemy.”
“Yes, Uncle. I know.”
Then feet pounded outside, accompanied by rising shouts. Flying Hawk looked at the dead Yuchi. The man’s blood was soaking the white arrow. He came here under the white Power of peace. May Breath Maker help me. What have we brought down on ourselves?
But then Flying Hawk had no time to worry about offended Power. He looked up to see the great room filling with angry people.
“Yuchi treachery!” Smoke Shield bellowed. “The high minko is wounded!”
As Flying Hawk was lifted, he thought, Green Snake is alive!
But what did it mean?
Somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbled, as though the heavens were enraged.
Homecoming was not what Old White had anticipated. They rounded the final bend to see Sky Hand City rising at the end of a southerly loop of the Black Warrior, its high palaces obscured by sheets of falling rain. The gray skies continued to pelt them with the misty downfall. Even Paunch put his back to the paddle, anxious to reach the shelter of the ramadas at the canoe landing.
All those years of deserts, forests, mountains, and seacoasts, and here he was, wet, cold, and miserable, wishing only to reach that place and stand under a shelter with a fire to warm and dry his old bones.
They followed the backwaters, catching occasional glimpses of farmsteads where the roofs could be seen above the banks. Then Trader’s canoe pulled ahead, angling across the lazy current toward shore. Two Petals, sitting backward, looked glum under a bark rain hat. Swimmer, perched high atop the forward packs, appeared more like a drowned wood rat than a dog.
Old White and Paunch dug in with their pointed paddles, shooting their craft across rain-stippled waters to the bank.
Home. “Gods,” he mumbled, shivering. “Get me out of here.”
Trader stepped over to offer him a hand. Old White’s cramped legs almost folded under him. He braced himself on the gunwale. “Just a moment. Let me get some blood back in my legs.”
“Paunch,” Trader ordered, “move those packs up to that ramada there. No one seems to be using it for the moment.”
Two Petals was looking around the landing, seeing the long rows of canoes, some inverted to keep the rain out. Irregularly placed ramadas had been built for just such occasions as this. Most had packs, baskets, jars, and other wares beneath. Under a few, people were tending fires, avoiding the leaks in the roofs and staring out at the rain and the newcomers.
Old White finally trusted himself to take a step. He shouldered his carved wooden pack and his bags, then slogged his way up to the ramada Trader had indicated. White breath hung in the cold air. The feel of the heavy weight in his bag was a reminder of the long-ago past. Did it know where it was, the full turning of the circle that had taken him so far away, now coming to completion?
He cast a glance up at the Skunk Clan Council house, its gray roof almost camouflaged against the sky. Lightning lanced out and vanished. A short ten breaths later, it boomed over the land.
Trader did most of the work, lugging the heavy packs up from the canoes, making three trips for every one that Paunch and Old White managed. Two Petals carried some of the lighter items, and Swimmer, as usual, carried none.
With their goods stowed under the leaky ramada, Trader crossed to a pitch-roofed shelter where an Albaamo bartered dry firewood.
Old White puffed and rubbed his cold arms.
“My life is in your hands, Seeker,” Paunch reminded, shooting frightened looks up toward the city.
“We may all freeze to death before that, you fool.”
“I think freezing is easier than dying on the square.”
Two Petals was sitting hunched up, her hands twitching as she stared absently at the city.
“What do you see up there?” Old White asked gently.
“They are watching us with empty eyes.” She shrugged. “It must be confusing to see with such clarity.”
He squinted up through the rain. The beaten soil was silvered with water. Rivulets of it ran in patterns down the landing, carrying charcoal, mud, and refuse with it.
Trader came at a run, a bundle of wood covered in matting under one arm. His expression was grim when he arrived.
“They ask too much in Trade?” Old White asked dryly. “Or are you just that displeased to come home to so much fanfare and excitement?”
“The Yuchi messenger is dead,” he said grimly. “The story is that he tried to kill the high minko. The whole city is in shock. There’s a meeting at the tchkofa as we speak. According to the firewood Trader, people are just up there in the plaza, standing in the rain, waiting to hear what the Council has to say.”
Old White considered that. “Born-of-Sun will be enraged.”
“The Council will vote for war,” Trader agreed.
Two Petals looked up, shivering as she clutched her knees to her chest. “Weaving is such an art. So many strands have to go into it. Each one has to be laid with careful perfection. Now, the warp and weft must be made tight so that the story it tells cannot leak through.”
“We’re worried about treachery, and she’s talking about weaving.” Trader dropped the wood in a clatter.
“One and the same, I would suppose.” Old White looked up at the storm. “The messenger would have come under a white arrow. You and I know that Born-of-Sun sent no assassin. This is the work of Flying Hawk and Smoke Shield.” He glanced at Trader. “It would appear that they don’t want you back.”
Trader raised a rain-dewed brow. “I was smart enough to ask if the Yuchi had delivered any message before he died. The wood Trader didn’t know of one.”
“We must be careful.” Old White gratefully knelt as Trader opened one of their jars, removing tinder. Then he uncapped another, pouring ash from their last fire until he found a hot coal. Teasing it into the tinder, he bent, blowing gently. The coal brightened, and smoke began to curl into the air. Old White almost sighed with relief as the first tiny flicker sprang to life.
“I am no longer sure how to proceed.” Trader looked questioningly at Two Petals. “Do they know they are looking for the Seeker, a Contrary, and me, or do they expect us to arrive in some grand armada? Accompanied by Dancing, Singing, and marching warriors?”
“Oh, you are expected, all right,” Two Petals said between chattering teeth. “You look so proud, seated in the Yuchi palace. You shouldn’t laugh so loudly, or eat like a starved wolf as they ply you with food.”
“So perhaps we’re not expected?” Old White tried to decipher her words. “Is she saying that they still think we’re with the Yuchi?”
“Not there, no,” Two Petals told him. “You’ll see: Every eye will be on you as you enter the city.”
Trader looked out at the rain, his dashed hopes as damp as the weather.
“I think I should go up first,” Old White decided. “One old man won’t stir much interest.” He chuckled to himself.
“What’s so funny?”
“Endings and beginnings. I was thinking of the night I left Split Sky City.”
“And?”
“Beginnings and endings are always the same.”
“Gods,” Trader muttered. “You’re making as much sense as the Contrary.”
“Yes. I know.” He listened to his knees crack as he knelt down to the growing fire. Its heat soothed his fingers. Within moments, they were all crouched over the flame, letting the heat and smoke battle the chill.
Old White watched as Trader—ever vigilant about such things—finally straightened, picking through the packs and opening the precious furs. One by one, he sorted them, taking any that were damp and laying them out to dry before they could mold.
There lay the most valuable of their wealth, outside of the metals. Skins of wolverine, two arctic foxes, northern beaver, lynx, and pine marten. They had been well tanned, pressed, and, so far, had made the trip in perfect condition. Then Trader opened yet another pack, one Old White hadn’t seen. He stared in disbelief. “Are those what I think they are?”
“Something called ivory.” Trader lifted one of the two large teeth. “They were Traded down to the freshwater lakes along with the white fox skins. The Trader was from a northern forest people.” Trader looked at the tusks, and shrugged. “He said they could be carved. I just hope these Chikosi are smart enough to know what they’re worth.”
“We’re not supposed to say Chikosi. It’s derogatory.” Old White shook his head. “That ivory you hold, it comes from one of those walruses I was telling you about. And yes, they can be carved. Worked with the same tools as people use on stone.”
He cocked his head. Had any Trader ever brought wealth like this to the Sky Hand? He glanced at the square fabric covering the war medicine. “We should make sure the box doesn’t warp. It’s waxed, but this is a pretty hard rain. You might want to dry it before curious eyes come peeking this way.”
Trader muttered, glanced surreptitiously around, and removed the cloth bag from the copper-heavy box. He found a moderately dry cloth and soaked pooled water from the hollows of the engraving. Then they held the protective fabric over the fire, drying it.
Only after ensuring that all of their Trade was safe did they resume their huddled stance over the fire, hands out to the crackling flames. For a long time they were silent, each locked in his thoughts.
Trader finally mused, “So Great Cougar is coming with a war party, Born-of-Sun will be coming with a war party, and no one knows but us. What kind of joke is Power playing on us?”
Two Petals laughed softly, but said nothing.
“We’ll find out soon enough,” Old White decided. “But perhaps the storm was a gift. No one has seen us arrive, and the people are distracted. We couldn’t ask for a better way to come home. We have time to blend in before anyone comes looking for us.”
Swimmer picked that moment to shake from nose to tail, spraying them with water.
People packed shoulder to shoulder inside the tchkofa—and these were just the chiefs and high-ranking personages who had been readily at hand. A great fire burned in the hearth, sending sparks toward the high smoke hole. Rain battled the heat, showering down from the opening, hissing as it met its adversary. Occasional gusts sent droplets this way and that, to sprinkle the occupants.
People tended to crowd back, away from the fire’s heat and unpredictable rain, making the press in the rear even more unbearable.
Pale Cat stood beside Night Star, trying to find some rational explanation to this sudden change of events. He glanced behind him, seeing Heron Wing, her damp hair hanging in strings over the shoulders of her wet dress. Her expression was pinched, concern behind her eyes.
Smoke Shield pranced out, unflinching as raindrops turned his way. A terrible rage seemed to fire his gaze as he glanced about the room. “The high minko could have been murdered! This is treachery most foul! And it was sent to us under a white arrow!” He lifted the bloody shaft, holding it up in the firelight for all to see. “The Yuchi weasels tried to assassinate our high minko! There can only be one response.”
War. Pale Cat glanced behind Smoke Shield to where Flying Hawk sat, his breast stitched by Pale Cat’s own hand. The cut had been deep, glancing off the bone in places. Flying Hawk would battle infection, and it would leave a nasty scar.
But something hadn’t been right. He could sense it. The fact was, Flying Hawk should have been enraged, but instead he simply sat like a lump. The man had appeared dazed, not even flinching as Pale Cat drove his copper needle into Flying Hawk’s flesh and closed the wound. As if numb, the high minko had stared off into the distance, seeing something long gone and wistfully lost.
“I agree.” Two Poisons, chief of the Deer Clan, stepped forward, his face passionate. “This is an affront not only to us, but to Power!” He looked around. “Chiefs, all eyes are on us! Not just here among our people—who look to us for leadership—but Power, too, waits, watching, looking to us for a response. We are Power’s strong right arm. This must be avenged. Power must be brought back into balance.”
Voices of approbation called out, feet stamping. The chiefs nodded, including Night Star. Pale Cat looked down at his diminutive aunt.
The Old Camp minko, Vinegaroon, took the floor. “Skunk Clan votes for war.” He looked around. “Two Poisons is right. There can be no other alternative. We have done nothing to deserve this foul and treacherous attack on our high minko. The Yuchi have grown too arrogant, too vile for us to take any other course.”
The tishu minko, Seven Dead, stepped forward. “Raccoon Clan votes for war. If this Council agrees, I will make the call for warriors.” Behind him, Blood Skull, too, was nodding, but there was hesitation behind his hooded eyes.
Yes, you smell it, too, don’t you, old friend?
Again feet stamped in assent.
Pale Cat laid his hand on Night Star’s shoulder and stepped out. He looked around at the familiar faces, read their anger and disbelief. “I am Hopaye. No one knows the ways of Power better than I do. No one knows the risks of offending Power—let alone in so blatant and outrageous a manner. A man bearing a white arrow has tried to kill, and then been killed himself.” He paused, letting that knowledge sink in. “What remains unanswered here is why.”
He met their eyes, pair by pair. “We must respond to his atrocity. On that we all agree, but the question still remains: Why? Why would the Yuchi high chief—like lightning from a blue sky—purposefully abuse Power in a manner that will surely turn many of his own people against him? This action will lead to the deaths of many of his people. Why?”
Even Smoke Shield seemed at a loss for words.
“This question must be answered.” Pale Cat stepped back to his place, eyes on Flying Hawk.
For a moment, no one spoke; then Smoke Shield stepped forward, stating, “There is no why. These are Yuchi dogs! They have no regard for Power and its ways! Think! How often in the past have they raided us for no apparent reason? How many times have they stolen our relatives, hung them in their squares or burned them as offerings to the sun and sent their screaming ghosts wailing into the darkness? How many of our daughters have they taken away, and corrupted with their evil seed? These people have no truth as we do. This latest atrocity is just another example of why we must finally, and forever, teach them to behave as Power has decreed for all men!”
Again the applause, but Pale Cat kept his face expressionless. Throughout the tirade, not once did Flying Hawk look up, or nod his approval. Instead, he seemed removed, oblivious, as though some more important consideration preoccupied his souls.
But what?
Then Blood Skull stepped forward and raised a knotted fist. “I, too, call for war.” He glanced at Smoke Shield, nodding slightly. “I have served the war chief as second on many raids. I will be happy to do so again, but I would have us ponder this: Before we go to war, we do need to know why. If this is truly the act of some rot-infested souls, we need to stamp it out, make an end of it. If, on the other hand, this is some tragic mistake, we must know that, too.”
Blood Skull glanced around, avoiding the glowering Smoke Shield’s eyes. “What if this is not what it seems? What if this Bullfrog Pipe acted alone? For the purposes of revenge? What if, in fact, it was his idea alone to perpetrate this foul deed?” Blood Skull spread his hands. “What if our reaction here tonight is to serve some schemer’s purpose, and the Yuchi chief, like us, is being lured into a bloody conflict that will blind us to some other person’s plans?”
Growls of discontent rose from among the spectators.
Blood Skull finished, saying, “If the Yuchi chief did this thing the way we are currently led to believe, we have no choice but to drive a fiery lance through his heart. I will drive that lance myself. But I want to do so knowing that it wasn’t just some lone demented Yuchi, driven by his own twisted Spirits, who plunged us into this.”
In the uproar that followed, Pale Cat saw the look Smoke Shield gave his second. It burned with undisguised loathing and hatred.
Flying Hawk, however, finally raised his eyes and focused his attention on Smoke Shield. A look of premonition and misery lay behind them.
Now that is most interesting.
Lightning flashed, its hot light lancing through the smoke hole in a strobe of blinding white. People started, smiled uncomfortably, and then the deafening crack of it shook the building around them.
Morning Dew had never liked lightning and thunder. She had been a little girl, believing herself safe in the palace at White Arrow Town, when a bolt of it hit the roof, shattering the center pole and raining bits of burning thatch down on top of her. A hard rain—like this one—had drowned the fire before it even got started. She had been left cowering, huddled into a little ball beneath one of the benches. Meanwhile people ran about, stamping on flames and screaming in panic while rain lashed the great room.
Now Morning Dew waited, hating the fear in her gut, but being brave for little Stone’s sake. For the duration of the storm, she had crouched beside Stone’s bed, holding his hand, trying to control her desire to flinch at each lightning strobe, and soothing his worry as thunderbolt after thunderbolt cracked and banged around them.
She looked up at the roof, illuminated by the flicker of the fire. Bits of soot had rained down from above when the house shook under the impact of nearby thunder.
“Why is there thunder?” Stone had asked.
“Power is on the move, little one.” She tried to give him a reassuring smile. “The snakes call the thunder, just as they call the rain. That’s why you should never kill them. Thunder, lightning, and rain are their particular Power. It goes back to the beginning times, to just after Crawfish brought land up from the deep waters to make the earth. That’s when snakes first crawled out of the Underworld. Where they went, the water followed. Even to this day, that’s why you find them around springs and rivers.”
“But thunder comes from the sky.”
“That’s right. That’s why snakes are so Powerful. Even though they are beings of the Underworld, they can call the clouds and rain. It’s just the way they are. Power must always balance, Stone. It is part of the harmony of our world.”
“Oh,” he said, seemingly unconvinced.
She glanced uneasily at the door, wondering what was happening in the tchkofa.
Like the rest of the city’s population, she, Stone, and Heron Wing had been standing at the foot of the great mound, sections of matting over their heads for protection. People had been frantic for news. It wasn’t every day that a Yuchi tried to murder the high minko. Speculation had run rampant. Rumors passed from lip to lip. In some, Flying Hawk was dead; in others, he remained unhurt. Heron Wing had waited for each bit of gossip, Morning Dew, holding Stone’s hand, close behind her. They had watched as Pale Cat made his way carefully down the rain-slick stairs. The Hopaye had called out that Flying Hawk was fine, waving down the shouted questions. Then he had walked up to Heron Wing, saying, “The Council is called. Come with me.”
Heron Wing had nodded, turning to Morning Dew.
Forestalling her, Morning Dew had said, “I’ll take Stone home. Make sure he has supper and is put to bed.”
Heron Wing had just nodded, her mind no doubt on why Pale Cat would insist she be in the tchkofa with him.
Morning Dew tucked the blanket around Stone’s chin. A Yuchi messenger had tried to kill Flying Hawk? In the name of the gods, why? In the entire time she had been in Split Sky City there had been no rumors of trouble along the northern border. To her, the act was that of a madman. Of course the Sky Hand would respond; they’d mobilize every warrior on hand to march north. This would not be any petty border skirmish, but a long, drawn-out war, with large armies marching back and forth. Pitched battles would be fought, towns burned, and a great many souls sent weeping to the afterlife.
She listened to the night, hearing the soft patter of rain. The worst of the storm appeared to have passed.
Stone’s eyes had grown heavy now that the terrible thunder had faded. Only the rolling distant rumbles of it came out of the north.
Morning Dew heard wet steps beyond the door and looked up as Heron Wing stepped in, her clothing soaked, her hair in limp strands over her shoulders.
“What has happened?”
Heron Wing stepped over to the fire, struggling out of her wet dress. She dropped the soggy garment onto the matting and shivered as she hovered, naked, over the flames. “The vote, as expected, is for war.”
“You don’t sound happy.”
“I’m not.” She bent, throwing another piece of wood on the flames.
Morning Dew stood, stepping over to pick up the dress before she leaned out the door to wring the fabric.
She reentered and placed the dress on clean matting to dry. “Could I get you something? Make you tea?”
“Yes, please. We don’t have much time.” She glanced at Morning Dew. Water droplets beaded on her normally serene face; they sparkled on her long lashes. Her eyes, however, were troubled. “Night Star would like to talk to us. We’re to wait until most people have gone home.”
“So there’s more to this than meets the eye?”
“Perhaps.”
Morning Dew nodded as she went about warming the tea. As it heated, she studied Heron Wing. The woman’s stomach remained flat, her waist narrow above rounded hips that tapered into muscular thighs. Her high breasts with their dark pointed nipples remained firm and provocative.
I hope I look half as good at her age, she thought.
“Something bothering your souls?” Heron Wing asked, giving her an appraising look.
Morning Dew smiled. “Just thinking of the future.” She waved it off. “More to the point, why would the Yuchi high chief send an assassin to kill Flying Hawk? Is there some reason I don’t know?”
Heron Wing’s classic brow arched as she took the tea Morning Dew poured. “You and Pale Cat think a lot alike. He is wondering the same thing. Something happened in the palace when he was stitching up the wound in Flying Hawk’s chest. He smells a skunk among the raccoons. That’s why we’re called to Night Star’s.”
“And you want me to go? What would I know about Born-of-Sun?”
“I haven’t the foggiest idea. Have you ever met him?”
“Once, long ago. I was still a girl, he just barely a man.”
“I see. And?”
She laughed. “I thought him one of the most unusual young men I’d ever met. He speaks fluent Mos’kogee. He was charming, intelligent, and had a smile that made my heart flutter.”
“A rogue?”
“Hardly. I thought he was responsible beyond his years.”
“That is his reputation.” Heron Wing chugged the tea, shivering again, but most of the moisture had been wicked away by the fire. “Find me something warm and dry to wear. We don’t want to be late.”
“And Stone?”
“Wide Leaf will be here soon. I saw her in the crowd outside the tchkofa. She had to attend to some things first. I don’t think she’ll be—”
“I’m here, I’m here,” the old woman called as she stepped in through the door. “By the Ancestors, it’s a wet one out there. You be sure to wear a rain hat.” She stepped forward, dress dripping on the floor. “Bless you, lady. That fire is the finest thing I’ve seen in years.”
Heron Wing pulled her dry dress over her head, saying, “I don’t know how long we’ll be.”
“See you when you’re back.” Wide Leaf gave a toss of her hand.
Morning Dew followed Heron Wing out into the night. Once again, it was pitch black. This time, beads of rain spattered down on the piece of bark she held over her head.
“I would have you think,” Heron Wing said. “Could Great Cougar have thought this up? Could this be a way of distracting us, diverting our attention away from the Chahta?”
Splashing through the puddles, Morning Dew considered the idea. Heron Wing had a clever mind. Could that indeed be the case? She remembered the man, keen-eyed, smart. He was a devout warrior, attending all of the rituals and ceremonies.
“No,” she stated firmly. “The Yuchi came under the white arrow of peace. Great Cougar—cunning warrior that he is—would never abuse Power in that way.”
“You’re sure?”
“As sure as I am of anything.”
“But,” Heron Wing mused, “if someone else abused the white Power, Great Cougar wouldn’t hesitate to strike, would he?”
“Make no mistake about Great Cougar. He will use any advantage given him in war.” She stopped short.
Heron Wing made a few steps, then turned. “What?”
“One thing you do not want to try and do is lay this at his doorstep. I tell you, he is an honorable man. If the Sky Hand were to accuse him of misusing Power in this way, it would goad him to any length to destroy you. There could be no hope of peace until an apology was offered.”
“Then,” Heron Wing mused, “we must try and ensure that no such charges are made.”
Morning Dew looked up at the night. “Gods, has the whole world gone mad?”
“Apparently so,” Heron Wing agreed. “Though only Power and the gods know how we can stop it.”