Smoke Shield had revelations when he was in the sweat lodge. Something about the close, hot darkness and the biting steam that prickled on his skin. Here there were no distractions, just the darkness and the heat. Notions and ideas came upon him, usually to be brought to fruition later, as had happened with the White Arrow Town and the Chahta raids. Now he was considering the Prophet.
Nothing in Smoke Shield’s life had prepared him for Two Petals. The woman filled his thoughts as he spooned water onto the hot stones. It exploded as it trickled over the hot rocks, bathing his slick skin in steam.
He gasped, drawing the heat into his nose and throat. It prickled along his arms, coaxing sweat to bead. He leaned his head back in the darkness, and whispered, “Thank you, Power.”
That it had sent the woman to him was a gift, one that he still could not comprehend.
“Nephew?” his uncle’s voice called.
Rot it all, why did the man always have to interrupt him here?
“Coming.”
He reached out, muscles lax from the heat, and pulled back the hanging. He crawled out into the cool daylight to find Flying Hawk standing with his arms crossed, a dark look on his face. Smoke Shield climbed unsteadily to his feet, slicking the moisture from his wet skin.
“Blood Skull tells me that you have recalled the scouts from the Horned Serpent River Divide. Is this true?”
“It is.”
“Why? By the gods, they’re our eyes on the Chahta!”
“I did it to allow Great Cougar to send his warriors into my trap.”
“Trap? What trap? This afternoon the Albaamaha mikkos are meeting to discuss moving our supplies north!”
Smoke Shield chuckled to himself. “Do you trust Power, Uncle?” He cast it away. “Of course you do. That’s why you’ve been brooding over the murder of the Yuchi. Forget it. White Power is weak, draining away like the falling river after a flood. Soon it will be gone. Faded. The red Power is in ascendance.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Let me ask you, what is the last thing you would expect Great Cougar to attempt?”
Flying Hawk frowned. “A massed strike at Split Sky City.”
“Good answer—and the right one. I should have seen it myself.” Smoke Shield looked down at his glistening body. He tightened the muscles in his belly, enjoying the way the light gleamed on the rounded knots outlined under his skin. He could almost feel Two Petals’ fingers skipping lightly across them before dropping lower. No, don’t think about it. Not now. He didn’t want his shaft stiffening in front of Flying Hawk.
“Great Cougar is going to strike at Split Sky City?”
“That’s just what he’s going to do.” He forced his gaze to meet the old man’s. “Uncle, did you know that our scouts have grown bored? Did you know that some have even taken to gambling with the Chahta, sharing fires?”
Flying Hawk blinked, slowly shaking his head. “What?”
“They’ve been out in the forest for how long? Think about it. What’s a lonely, bored man going to do? The Chahta speak our language. We have the same customs and rituals. And now that they’re sharing food, gaming, swapping stories, what kind of easy prey would they be for the cunning Great Cougar?”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Of course not. We aren’t meant to.” He looked around at the city. “Not that I have any particular fondness for the fools, but I have called most of them back rather than allow them to be needlessly butchered.” He waved it off. “Oh, I left just enough to be captured by Great Cougar. He’s probably on his way now, followed by a horde of warriors.”
“How do you know all this?” Then Flying Hawk’s face brightened. “You have a spy?”
“Oh, yes. One sent by Power. She has told me things.”
“This woman you keep in your quarters?”
“The very same.” Smoke Shield flexed his right arm, watching the muscles bulge.
“And how does she know these things?”
“She has seen the future and told me how it will all happen,” Smoke Shield said, looking off to the south.
Flying Hawk clearly thought he was raving, but just enough doubt remained. To still it, Smoke Shield said, “Oh, it will occur just like she says it will, Uncle. And what if I had ordered our warriors north? When Great Cougar drove his forces through the hills to the west, there would be nothing to stop him. Split Sky City would be like a fresh ear of corn, ready for the shucking.”
“But our plans . . .”
“I have changed them.” Smoke Shield crossed his muscular arms. “So when the Great Cougar’s warriors arrive, we shall crush them like a nut between two stones.”
“What of the outlying farmsteads? Even if the scouts are captured—as you insist they will be—we’ll see smoke, and the Albaamaha will come fleeing before them!”
“Great Cougar’s plan is to make haste. He’ll leave the Albaamaha alone for the time being, figuring he can burn them out on the way back as a distraction to lure us into ambush after ambush. I don’t intend on letting him do that. Just the opposite, actually. I want to drive his survivors east, into the hills. They’ll be easier to hunt down that way.”
“Your spy told you all this?”
“She sees the future. Power is my ally, Uncle.” Smoke Shield’s eyes narrowed. “And don’t you forget it. Act against me, and I will know.”
He had asked the Prophet, “Should I kill Flying Hawk now and become high minko?”
“No.” She had stared into his eyes, a slight smile on her lips. “He still has a role to play. Flying Hawk’s moment of surprise must be complete. Only when sad tears well in his eyes will he fully understand.”
Smoke Shield narrowed his gaze as he studied his baffled uncle. Yes, he would enjoy the sight of the old man’s tears. For that promised moment alone, he would bide his time.
Flying Hawk lifted his arms helplessly. “Blood Skull also tells me that you have ordered the warriors to make camp north and east of the city.”
“That’s right. I want any of Great Cougar’s spies who might slip through to think we’re unprepared. He will see an unsuspecting city, our defenses collapsed and laid flat. In that last moment, the discipline of his warriors will break. They will charge forward expecting an easy slaughter . . . revenge for White Arrow Town. And then I shall hit them from each side. The surprise will be complete.”
“Your spy told you all this?”
“Some. The Prophet may know the future, but I know war.”
Flying Hawk nodded, a strange light in his eyes. “But . . . what about the Yuchi?”
Smoke Shield laughed. “Power will warn me. The Prophet will tell me the way to smash the Yuchi. And after I demonstrate my leadership by breaking the Chahta, my warriors will follow me to the ends of the earth!”
As he sat before his house, Trader ran the shaft of his new chunkey lance through his hands, feeling irregularities in the wood. Then he reached down for the damp piece of hide. He’d dabbed it on a bowl of finely sifted sand. Wrapping the sand-impregnated hide around the shaft, he began laboriously running it up and down the wood, smoothing and shaping.
“We have more than enough to worry about as it is,” Old White said mildly. “Do I need to remind you that the last person Two Petals was seen talking to was Smoke Shield? I don’t need to tell you how the Chikosi feel about a married woman bedding any man she’s not supposed to.”
“I said, leave it be.”
Old White sighed before he looked down at Swimmer. “Your master could kill us all.”
Swimmer thumped his tail in reply, then dove for his stick, figuring that any attention was an open invitation.
Trader growled under his breath, then added, “Last night was a miracle, a Dream. I would not Trade that for anything.”
Old White tossed the stick. “Just don’t forget who she’s married to.” He watched the dog charge off, catch the stick on a bounce, and come trotting back. “Hang it, where is Paunch?”
“Maybe the Albaamaha mikkos delayed the meeting?” Trader lifted the lance, staring down its length with a practiced eye. “One of them might be late getting here. Even if equinox is tomorrow.”
“Paunch should have at least come and told us that it was postponed.”
A female voice spoke in accented Mos’kogee. “They refused to let him come for you.”
Trader glanced up and stared. “Whippoorwill?”
The slim woman rounded the corner of their house, her long hair shining. She wore a clean brown dress belted at her narrow waist. Her feet were clad in moccasins, and she carried a fabric pack over one shoulder. Slim brown fingers clutched the strap. Whatever the pack contained, it wasn’t very heavy, but bulky, with irregular knobs and lumps sticking out here and there.
She walked up, cocking her head, and Trader almost shivered at the sight of those knowing dark eyes. “My sister sent me. Come.”
“Your sister?” Old White asked.
“The Contrary. She’s busy. If you still wish to address the mikkos, you must come with me.”
“Why are you doing this?” Old White asked.
“Because Power is battling over the future. I am on the side of my people.”
Trader reached for his war club while Old White grabbed up his pouch of herbs. After giving the reluctant Swimmer a stern order to stay, they hurried after the girl.
“They wouldn’t let Paunch come?” Old White asked.
“Lotus Root and her people don’t trust you.”
Trader kept shooting glances at the woman. Whippoorwill seemed completely oblivious to the fact that she’d vanished in the night after coupling with him on a distant river.
“Where have you been?” Trader demanded.
She gave him an eerie glance. “Where I needed to be.”
Shaking his head, Trader was aware of Old White’s prying look. But the Seeker held his peace as they threaded their way through houses. They skirted around the plaza where people were congregating in expectation of a stickball game between Thunder and High Towns. Walking wide of the crowd, they exited the south gate. Whippoorwill, Trader noticed, walked with an airy grace. She almost seemed to float as she led them serenely through the Albaamaha village and down a slight rise to a large Council House.
There, two burly Albaamaha stepped forward to bar their progress. Trader recognized both men from the night at Amber Bead’s. “No one may pass. This is Albaamaha business.”
“Power calls them,” Whippoorwill said, as if that were explanation enough.
“I said, woman, that no one will pass.”
Old White stepped forward, withdrawing his hand from his large belt pouch. “We would speak with the mikkos.”
“Go away, old man.” The Albaamo grinned.
“And you.” The other smacked his club into his hard left palm as he grinned at Trader. “You’ve got a club. Try and use it, please.”
Old White sighed, raising his hand. “Have either of you ever seen chili?”
Both bent to stare at the fine red powder on the Seeker’s hand. Old White blew.
“You old fool!” one cried. The other backpedaled, wiping at his face.
The second man barely hesitated, his club swinging in an arc, cracking loudly as Trader blocked it. But before he could strike a counterblow, the man sneezed. Then both were sneezing and then pawing at their faces.
“Witched!” the first howled. “We’re witched!”
The second man had dropped his club, hands to his face. He staggered back against the wall, sniffing and coughing.
Whippoorwill walked past them, unconcerned, through the doorway.
“I’m going to have to get some of that,” Trader told Old White.
“I’m afraid the source is far, far from here.”
Trader ducked through the doorway and stepped into the Albaamaha Council House. The place was rude in comparison to the fine buildings other peoples constructed for the purpose. The benches were uncovered, the floor just dirt without matting. High overhead the wall poles had been bent together and tied, saplings running between them and covered with thatch. A crackling fire burned in the center.
About the margins, a collection of twelve old men were seated along with assorted women of similar age.
Lotus Root held the floor, a warrior’s bow in her hands, arrows scattered at her feet. She gaped in disbelief.
“Master!” Paunch cried from the side. “Trust me, I tried to . . . Whippoorwill?” He struggled to his feet, rushing across the floor to hug his granddaughter. “By the Ancestors, I was so worried about you! Where have you been?”
“Bringing the Traders,” she said simply, and walked over to Lotus Root. “You will let them speak. Red Awl’s ghost knows. Like me, he too has seen. He was right all along.”
“You dare call up my husband’s ghost?” Lotus Root’s eyes widened.
Whippoorwill slung the pack from her back, handing it over. “This is what you seek. He is here, returned from where the Chikosi left him.”
Trader watched Lotus Root take the pack, open it, and glance inside. She started, swallowed hard, and sank to the floor as if her legs had lost all strength.
Old White walked over to Lotus Root. The woman looked dazed. He reached down, pulled the fabric on the pack back with one finger to glance inside, and then let it fall closed again.
Straightening, he turned to the stunned mikkos, looks of consternation on their faces. “I am Old White, called the Seeker. As Amber Bead knows, Power has brought us here.”
“I have heard of you,” one of the old men said. “But this is Albaamaha business. Why are you here?”
“To bring Power back into balance,” Old White said with authority. “Chaos is about to be let loose.”
“I have seen,” Whippoorwill said, walking to Old White’s side. “Grandfather was my witness that day. He was there. Together we watched Screaming Falcon retreat from Alligator Town. If you will save our people, you will listen to what I saw in my vision.”
One of the guards came stumbling in, his face wet with tears, eyes red and welling. Amber Bead waved him back. The man—his expression that of misery—blinked and sank to his knees.
Old White nodded, saying, “First, let us hear Whippoorwill’s vision. And then, my friends, let us consider how to bring this trouble with the Chikosi to an end.”
Whippoorwill began to speak.
Great Cougar stood on the high bluff overlooking the Horned Serpent River. He wondered if this was how a hawk felt, staring down at the world below. The last of his long line of warriors had made the Horned Serpent River crossing and were climbing out of canoes. The water near the bank had been churned muddy, like a bloom of brown rolling out into the current to be borne downriver. His warriors scrambled up the slope. From his high vantage they looked like miniatures, their roached hair pinned, shields, bows, and arrows clacking, war clubs hanging from their belted loincloths. Their moccasined feet added to the beaten stipple on the bank as they filed into the woods. The last of them pulled the canoes up, other willing hands dragging the dugouts into the trees, flipping them over to drain, and stacking them like cordwood.
The effort had been massive, the largest such undertaking he had ever directed. For most of the day he had stood, watching canoe load after canoe load of warriors with their weapons and supplies ferried from one bank to the other.
Earlier that day, he had also watched the shocked and chastened Chikosi scouts, their arms and legs bound, be ferried the other way. Under guard, they would be marched to Feathered Serpent Town and held until he and his warriors returned. Then, along with any additional captives that had been taken, they could spend their time in the squares.
Five! We only captured five along this entire stretch of river! So where had the others gone? His few scouts, the ones he had slipped back, deeper into the forest, had reported seeing Chikosi trotting happily back toward the Black Warrior Valley. They had looked carefree, relieved. Why would Smoke Shield pull off his scouts? It didn’t make sense.
The five they had captured—the friendly ones who had taken to talking with his scouts—had seemed shocked, almost stunned. They had looked at their sheepish Chahta counterparts as if they’d been rudely betrayed.
“We know nothing!” they had cried. “The rest were told to return home! To prepare to head north to fight the Yuchi!”
The Yuchi? Great Cougar watched the mud slowly drifting along the bank, headed off toward the gulf.
Could the Chikosi really have been called away?
He glanced up at the sun. All of his warriors had made the crossing by midday. Now, even if they were spotted, it would be a race. Any Chikosi scout he might have missed could travel no faster than his fleetest of runners, and they were already on the trails.
Tomorrow was equinox. All he had to do was push his fast-moving force to Split Sky City. And who knew? Perhaps the rumors of war with the Yuchi were true?
“By Breath Giver’s grace, let it be.”
Split Sky City would be in flames before the Chikosi could even think of turning back from the north. He turned, heading into the trees at a dogtrot.
Flying Hawk panted as he reached the top of the Sun Stairs and braced one hand on the gate to look back at Split Sky City where it spread below him. The city was packed. Two towns played a game of stickball in the southern plaza beyond the tchkofa. From here, he could see the Men’s House, where even now, Smoke Shield was enjoying the company of his picked band of warriors.
He shook his head, reaching down to massage his nagging knee. The long climb was becoming ever more difficult. But the pain in his knee was nothing compared to the worry chewing away at his souls.
Turning, Flying Hawk entered the palace grounds and touched the guardian posts reverently as he passed. He nodded to the guards, entered the great room, and walked to the hallway. There, he stopped in the dim light and called, “Prophet? Are you there?”
“Come, Great Chief,” the woman said in Trade Tongue.
Flying Hawk pulled the hanging to the side and stepped into Smoke Shield’s room. The woman wore a beautiful white dress decorated with chevron quill work. She sat on one of the benches, knees pulled up to the side. Her long black hair hung loosely about her shoulders, freshly washed and combed so that it caught glints in the firelight.
When her large dark eyes met his, his souls swam, as through drawn inexorably into the timeless depths. He swallowed, struggling to get a grip on himself.
“My nephew tells me—”
“I do not speak your language, Great Chief. You must talk in the Trade Tongue.”
He frowned, trying to place her accent, but couldn’t. In Trade Tongue, he said, “My nephew tells me that you predict the future.”
“I predict nothing. I am the rock, letting time flow past, watching it part and head backward. It won’t be long now. At the head of the stream I can look down the river . . . see the swirls and eddies I have traveled.” She smiled. “My husband will encircle me. I can count the courses of the sun until that moment. Together, we will Dance as we exchange worlds.”
Flying Hawk cocked his head, trying to make sense of it. Time? Her husband? Exchanging worlds? Gods, she was spouting nonsense!
He demanded, “Why are you here?”
“To live the Dream.” She stared off to the side, saying, “He doesn’t understand. Odd, isn’t it, that the simplest things elude people?” She turned her eyes back to Flying Hawk. “You are a butterfly, fluttering about in the sunlight, but winter comes. Where will your colors be then? Your wings are already faded, Great Chief.”
“Oh, no. They are right here.” She tapped her chest. “They Dance within me, circling around and around, awaiting the caress of my husband.”
“Smoke Shield? Is that what you seek here? To marry him?” He chuckled. “You poor deluded fool. I don’t know what stories they tell in your foreign land, but here, among the Sky Hand, you will only be a third wife. More like a paid woman, actually, since you have no clan or family.” He shook his head. “You have tricked yourself, as well as Smoke Shield.” He made a casual gesture. “Not that I mind so much. It’s something of a delight to see him fall for your deceit after all the others he has misled.”
She studied him as though he were some odd discovery, but refused to rise to his bait.
Flying Hawk sighed then, a sinking feeling in his breast. “What would I have to give you to entice you to leave? Copper? Pearls? Perhaps some sacred object? Something that would make you a rich woman wherever it is that you came from?”
“I am only here for a moment, but much will happen before I join my husband.” She smiled. “Your brother has come back from the dead. Even now, that fateful piece of stone hangs from his side. The blood of murder still lingers, hidden in the crevices.”
“Stop that!” he cried, his chest tightening. Then his eyes narrowed. “Ah, so that is your game? You think my brother is back from the dead?” He thumped his breast. “Since the day I killed him, I have carried his memory here, struggled to be what he would want me to be. But I’ll have you know this: I’ll never fall for your lies.”
“You only delude yourself, Great Chief. But Power wills it so. You can save yourself, but you won’t. You could rally to Green Snake and—”
“Green Snake!” He burst out laughing. “I fear that slip of the tongue has revealed you, Prophet! Now I know you for what you are: a Yuchi spy.”
Her eyes widened, and she smiled wistfully, as if at a silly child who amused her. “You know the truth about the Yuchi. Blood still stains the white arrow and haunts your Dreams. The wound in your chest heals poorly, your souls reluctant to renew flesh mutilated in deceit.”
Flying Hawk slapped his hand angrily against the door frame. This time, Smoke Shield, you have gone too far. Gods, how do I rid our people of your folly?
“You cannot,” she said, as if hearing his thoughts. “Your fear of Smoke Shield is greater than your fear for your people. You have lost so much of yourself, nothing will bring it back. Your brother will destroy you, and that you will not be able to bear.”
“My dead brother?” He stared at her in sudden hatred. “I should kill you.”
“But you won’t,” she said simply. “Smoke Shield hovers over you like a great black cloud. His lightning is flickering in the depths. In the end, he will belong to my husband. Power will have its due.”
“Do not toy with me, woman!”
Her dark eyes seemed to expand, drawing him in. He braced a hand on the door frame as the room seemed to waver.
“When all is gone, High Minko, black raven wings will enfold you.” Her voice sent an eerie chill through his souls. Images of the Spirit Being from his Dreams flickered in his memory.
Shaken, Flying Hawk turned, hastening from the room. His souls were churning, thoughts a jumble. The image of his brother sprawled beside a dead buffalo washed through him like a flood. He felt the stone in his trembling hand—saw again the bright red blood. It oozed from his brother’s ruined face and broken skull. Brilliant scarlet mixed with vibrant green grass beneath his brother’s crushed head.
Oh, yes. If I could bring you back, I would. You were my strength, and I need you now in a way I never have before.
But the dead were dead. He might be able to call upon his dead brother’s souls—to plead as he so often had for forgiveness—but in the end, it all fell to him.
Think! She has purposely tried to mislead you!
The woman was a Yuchi spy! And this whole nonsense about Great Cougar attacking the south side of the city? What lunacy! But his nephew had taken her bait like a hungry bass did a small frog. She had convinced him to hold his warriors to the south, awaiting an attack that any logical thought precluded. Why?
Green Snake! She mentioned Green Snake! And then it hit him. Green Snake was coming at the head of a Yuchi army. By now they would have heard of Bullfrog Pipe’s murder under the protection of the white arrow. They would be enraged and—with Green Snake as a guide—would be slipping down from the highlands, avoiding the main trails, taking the back routes.
Gods, we’re like ducks floating over a submerged alligator!
How did he counter this latest madness? How did he rid himself of the cottonmouth in their midst?
Flying Hawk stumbled out into the great room, his eyes on the smoldering fire pit. Faint wisps of smoke rose from the hearth. The palace was silent, most everyone at the stickball game. He shot a quick look back at the hallway and then at the war clubs hanging on the wall. He could walk back and smack the woman’s brains out. She couldn’t defend herself, even against his old muscles.
But how do I hide her body? The memory of his brother’s blood, so vividly red in the sunlight, remained to haunt him.
No, even if he succeeded in removing the body, the matting would have to be replaced. Smoke Shield, cunning as he was, would search for sign of what had become of her. He’d see the new matting first thing and put it all together.
If the “Prophet” remained, however, and led Smoke Shield even further into her mad schemes, then perhaps there would be a way.
He pursed his lips, nodding, seeing how it might be done.
“Blood Skull,” he murmured. “I need Blood Skull. He hates Smoke Shield enough as it is.”
Was it his imagination, or did he hear wings rasping in the air as he hurried for the stairs?