Inawa’s gaze locked with Yi’s. “If Kelek catches wind of our questions, we may not survive long enough to bring the issue before the Ruling Council. If we’re wrong, the Bear Clan will charge us with treason and declare a blood oath against us.”
“As we will them if this is true.”
Yi’s gaze drifted down the length of the longhouse, meeting the eyes of those who watched them. Even though they’d kept their voices very low, people with good ears had at least caught words, maybe a phrase here or there. Just as people had that fateful day when Tila died and Kelek became the High Matron.
Softly, she said, “Who should we select as our messengers? They must be absolutely loyal to the Wolf Clan.”
Nineteen
High above Gonda, pink Cloud People continued to glide slowly across the glacial blue sky. Their rich colors stood in stark contrast to those of Bur Oak Village, still cloaked in the iron-gray shadows before dawn. Snow outlined every undulation in the bark walls of the longhouses, and frost sheathed the palisade poles like a fine glitter of quartz crystals. Throughout the plaza, people moved as though their shoulders were weighted with lead. The feel of doom pervaded the morning.
Gonda folded his arms. He stood two paces away from where Jigonsaseh, Kittle, and Sindak engaged in a quiet debate outside the council house. The meeting of the Ruling Council had begun two hands of time ago, long before dawn, and just concluded. People were filtering back across the village, heading to the warmth of their own chambers. There had been no panicked shouting or fists shaken, no accusations that they’d made a mistake staying here rather than abandoning the village and moving on … though they would come. Instead, the last remnant of the once great Standing Stone nation had discussed their possible annihilation with a degree of dignity and logic that stunned Gonda.
Kittle tucked shoulder-length black hair behind one ear and gave Sindak a poignant look. “Tell me what Atotarho wants. You should know. You’re his former war chief.”
Sindak calmly replied, “Only he can see the tracks of his own souls, Matron, but I fear he is utterly mad. I think his soul was stolen by his witch sister many summers ago.”
Gonda was an outsider from a destroyed village, a refugee who’d thrown himself upon the mercy of Bur Oak Village. He really had no right to comment unless asked a direct question by the matrons, but it was hard to keep his mouth closed. For many summers, he had served as a deputy war chief, then as the Speaker for the Warriors of White Dog Village. It didn’t matter that his village no longer existed, the need to participate in decision-making persisted.
“But surely he plans to attack us this morning. Tell me—”
“I’m not sure of that,” Sindak replied uncomfortably.
“What are you talking about?” Kittle gestured wildly to the world beyond the palisades. “His forces are on the move, getting into position around us.”
Jigonsaseh’s arm muscles bulged through her white cape. In the lavender gleam, the silver threads in her short black hair glinted. “I think Sindak is right, Kittle.”
“About what?” Kittle demanded to know. “he’s told us nothing!”
Sindak clamped his jaw. “High Matron, if I had to guess, I would say Chief Atotarho is not planning to attack today.”
“How can you say that? He’s—”
“Because, Kittle,” Jigonsaseh interrupted, “he’s not moving his warriors into attack positions. From what I can tell, they are moving into areas where there’s better protection from the wind, off the hilltops, and down into the valley, closer to water, near the ponds and creeks.”
Kittle ran a hand through her shoulder-length black hair. Her large dark eyes had a strained tightness. “Which means what?”
Sindak answered, “Maybe he’s giving you time to truly panic.”
“Truly panic? Truly? That’s an interesting choice of words.” She glanced at him like he was a fool.
Jigonsaseh shifted, and the black bear paws encircling the bottom of her white cape seemed to be bounding away. At twelve hands tall, she looked down upon everyone else in the circle. Blessed gods, she was still beautiful. Even at thirty-nine summers, with silver threads streaking her black hair, the sight of her oval face, jet black eyes, and full lips went straight to Gonda’s soft spots—and he was married to another, a good woman named Pawen. But he’d been wed to Jigonsaseh for twelve summers. He couldn’t help the way he felt. A part of him would always love her.
Gonda tugged his red-painted leather cape more tightly around him. The frosty wind pricked his bones. He tried to force his attention away from their debate and to the happenings in the plaza.