Clamshell slumped next to the fire, the Mask clasped in her stone-dead hands.
The Magician cried out and threw off his warm blankets.
The Raven image gleamed in the firelight. Shimmering coals reflected like mottled blood on the polished jet beak. The black feather ruff shone with ghostly brilliance, scarlet, green, blue, and violet. Those eyes, nothing more than black holes, stared fixedly across the room.
Star Shell turned her head, following the gaze to see—
Silver Water sat like stone, her blankets partly fallen away from her small body. Her young face had gone slack amidst the tangle of her long black hair. She seemed drained of color, and her large eyes were wide as she stared into the Mask’s unswerving gaze.
“No!” Star Shell screamed as she dove for her daughter.
In the silence, the old dog howled.
Robin came awake with a start. He lay on his back, huddled in his blankets beside the fire in the Hackberry clan house. He stared up at the dark ceiling, where the sooty rafters were barely illuminated by the glowing coals. He’d heard a cry, not detected by his ears but within his soul, and now he could feel sweat beading on his cold skin.
What kind of cry did the soul hear? Then the words whispered on the winter wind.
“Listen, warrior, I have little time. Forjhe moment, I am free of the Magician’s entrapment.” “Who are you?” Robin whispered softly.
“That which you desire. Do not fear the Magician, warrior.
I have touched his soul. Dwarf though he may be. his Power is dwindling, dying, rotting from within.”
“Where are you?”
‘ 7 am staring at the child. She is so beautiful, but too voung despite her affinity for Power. Look at her. She hears the Song, has already learned it. You, however, are strong, Robin of the Blue Duck. You can save me from the Magician. Come for me.
Quickly, the Magician awakes! The bowl is broken. Come for me … come
… “
Robin sat up, glancing around. His heart beat like a pot drum in a ceremony; his whole body was pulsing. Woodpecker and
the rest of his warriors were wrapped in their blankets, sleeping uneasily, as if plagued by bad dreams.
Robin tapped Woodpecker, and the warrior’s eyes snapped open. “What is it?”
“Did you hear the voice?”
. Woodpecker sat up, his fingers searching out his war club.
“By the ancestors, Power is loose on the night. What voice?
Do you fear treachery on the part of Hackberry Clan?”
Robin gestured restraint, frowning. “Not Hackberry. The Mask. It called to me, but I Dreamed it awake. Do you understand?
It woke me before it spoke.”
Woodpecker lifted a questioning eyebrow.
Robin clenched a fist. ‘ ‘ Mask called to me, gave me this message: ‘ not fear the Magician, warrior. I have touched his soul. Dwarf though he may be, his Power is dwindling, dying, rotting from within.’ Do you know what that means?”
Woodpecker slowly shook his head.
Robin smiled grimly. “The Magician is weak, my friend. His Power is rotting from within. But Robin’s Power is growing.
Soon I’ll have the Mask. It wants me!”
Woodpecker swallowed hard, his brow furrowing. “I believe it did call to you, War Leader. Just before you woke me, I was Dreaming of water. It was roiling and foaming, deep and green, almost alive. I looked up, and high above, I saw you sailing through the air in a large canoe. It was as if you were a bird.”
“The Mask of Many Colored Crow.” Robin rubbed his chin.
“Yes, a bird. Go to sleep, my friend. Worry not about the Magician.
Robin, war leader of the Blue Duck, shall deal with him in time. The Mask has told that it will be so.”
The sun lay just under the horizon as Black Skull crept through the tall stands of maygrass. Snow lay in thin wisps, crunching underfoot as he took step after careful step. This day would be cloudless, cheerful after the latest of the rains. Nevertheless, like every other day in his recent past, Black Skull would hate this one, too.
Only in dreams did he have peace. There his soul could once again walk the City of the Dead. In the shadows of the tall burial mounds, amidst the presence of familiar ghosts, Black Skull reigned supreme. People greeted him with respect and watched in approval as he practiced with his club or cast his war darts farther than any other man alive.
The Trader prevented him even this small justice. Fingers of time ago, Otter had rousted Black Skull from his dreams with, “(Tome on, get up. There are ducks in the marsh back of camp.”
“Why did it take so much effort to keep from grabbing the Trader by the neck and squeezing until those smug brown eyes popped out of their sockets?
“Discipline.” Grandfather’s words haunted him from beyond the grave. Throughout his life, Black Skull had lived by that single rule—and now he’d come to hate it.