“Perhaps ten days. Fifteen at most.”
Kittle boldly looks around the council house, meeting each person’s gaze, as though silently assuring them that they can survive until then. She projects a confidence that, at terrible times such as these, seems to calm the world. When her gaze returns to Zateri, she says, “We are deeply grateful for what you did yesterday. Without your help, the entire Standing Stone nation would have been wiped from the face of Great Grandmother Earth. We are in your debt. As you journey, we pray Sodowegowah does not see your faces.”
Sodowegowah was the harbinger of death. Once he saw your face, you could not escape.
“Thank you, High Matron,” Zateri responds with a nod and asks, “May we ask, High Matron, what you plan to do? Will you move, or stay to fight? You know, of course, that my father is already planning to attack you again.”
Kittle turns to gaze into Matron Jigonsaseh’s eyes. Mother gives her a stony look. I know that look. They must have argued about this issue. Mother did not agree with the decision, but she will back Kittle no matter what.
Kittle runs a hand through her black hair, and replies, “We will stay and fight.”
Dire whispers move through the people standing along the walls. They shift like a herd of deer, shying at a strange sound, preparing to flee.
I say, “High Matron, may I address the council?”
Kittle’s head dips. “Of course.”
My gaze locks with Hiyawento’s. He is War Chief of Coldspring Village in the Hills nation, and my oldest and dearest friend. The first time he saved my life, I’d only seen eleven summers. He has chopped his black hair short in mourning for his two murdered daughters. His eagle-like face, with its beaked nose, shines in the firelight. When the end comes, he will be there. I have seen it. He is with me when the Great Face shakes the World Tree and Elder Brother Sun flies away into a black hole in the sky. I lift my chin and in a loud voice, announce, “I will be leaving, as well. I—”
“What?” Matron Kittle shouts. “Are you insane? I forbid it! We need every warrior now!”
Mother’s gaze is upon me, stern, unblinking. “Please, let him finish, Kittle.”
Kittle glares at Mother, then flicks a hand at me. “Finish.”
The crowd rustles as people shove to get closer, to hear me better. My gaze remains locked with Hiyawento’s. Despite his grief, Power lives in his eyes. He is the strongest man I’ve ever known. He nods to me, as though encouraging me to continue. He knows the Dream, and knows the end is swiftly rushing toward us.
As I draw breath, something catches my attention in the rear of the house. Gitchi noses aside the door curtain. As the wolf’s lean body slides into the council house, a dark form follows him. The figure’s black cape flares around his legs. The old, tarnished copper beads that ring his collar flash azure in the firelight. He has his hood pulled up, but when he turns to look at me, the blood drains from my body, leaving me light-headed. Inside, where his face should be, it is empty. Just a black oval, darker than his black hood. It is as though I’m staring straight into a bottomless obsidian abyss. Gitchi remains by the entry, but Black Cape slips through the crowd. As he moves, he doesn’t seem to be tethered to the ground, but floating above it.
I force myself to look away, knowing he will find me soon enough.
I say, “Chief Atotarho has refused to make peace, but there are other potential allies out there. I wish to go to the People of the Landing to ask them to join our peace alliance. I will not leave until they agree. Then I will proceed to the People of the Mountain, and perhaps even venture into the Islander’s Confederacy north of Skanodario Lake.”
The silence is so powerful it has an ominous presence. Only the crackling fire disturbs the council house.
Kittle breaks the spell. “Are you so anxious to throw away your life? We need you here! If nothing else, you can wander among the People repeating your vision to give them hope. As High Matron of this nation, I refuse to—”
Mother reaches out and touches Kittle’s hand, urging her not to continue this tirade. “As part of the Ruling Council, I will cast my voice to allow Sky Messenger to walk among the other nations, seeking peace. If he fails, we are no worse off than we are today. But if he succeeds—”
“He won’t succeed!” Old Matron Daga, from the destroyed White Dog Village, blurts as she rises on spindly legs. Toothless, with snowy hair, she has a fierce expression. “The Landing People despise us as much as we do them. If Sky Messenger goes to them begging for peace, they will see it as a sign of weakness and attack us faster than lightning! I agree with High Matron Kittle. I will not approve this peace mission.” The way she says “peace” makes it sound like a curse. She sits back down and glowers at me.