Why hadn’t the High Heads—with all of their clans and influence —ever mentioned the Mask’s disappearance?
Stop thinking about it! Mica Bird sucked in a steadying breath. You’ll drive yourself crazy.
Perhaps he was crazy already. It had surprised him when he’d realized that he had to have the Mask! With it, he would be the next leader of the Shining Bird Clan, and would raise his clan above all the others in the Moonshell valley—even above the clans to the north.
Tumbled boulders, angular fragments of weathered sandstone, poked up through the leaf mat. Mica Bird struggled to catch his breath. The top had to be close now.
Why did it have to be so hot and humid? The very air seemed to sap his strength.
Step by trembling step, he continued his climb.
Through the mass of trees, he could make out the irregular line of stone that marked the mountain’s cap. Close, yes. It had to be here somewhere.
He searched for any sign the old man might have made in passing. Grandfather didn’t walk so well these days, his body crooked and bowed by age. How had the old man made this steep climb?
Panting and gasping, Mica Bird picked his way over roots and vines until he reached the sullen scarp. The sandstone had blackened with age where it thrust out of the mountain’s side.
Sundered and cracked, it nevertheless provided a serious obstacle to any further progress.
Squinting against the burning sweat that streamed down his face, Mica Bird studied the rise. A hill like this would have been fortified in his own territory. War didn’t plague the clans often, but when it did, people liked a place to retreat to. The isolated farmsteads might be efficient for fanning, but not for defense.
Placing his feet carefully, he worked his way along the broken rock, stepping around holes where trees had fallen, their massive trunks rotting away on the ground.
On one flat surface, a pile of fresh bear manure still drew flies. Mica Bird’s grip tightened on his atlatl. Bears didn’t usually attack a man, but they could be dangerous if surprised.
The cawing of the crow sounded louder.
So where was this shelter? How far did the sandstone ledge extend?
Or had the old man been blowing wind? Was that it? Had it all been a story? Was that why the High Heads had never mentioned the Mask? Grandfather was clever enough to make up such a story. He could have kept his authority by lies as easily as by the truth.
Feeling suddenly weary, Mica Bird settled on one of the boulders.
Mushrooms grew in the molded leaves at his feet. Had the old man hoaxed the clan? Was his Power nothing but illusion?
Had his terrifying personal aura been a trick to keep the people under his control?
Stories passed from lip to lip about how Grandfather had looked at a rival through the Mask … and killed him dead.
Could that have been feint? Perhaps a little water hemlock slipped into a drink?
Mica Bird licked his dry lips, remembering the burning intensity in the old man’s eyes. No, it couldn’t have been a trick.
He could not—would not—believe that.
Standing, he forced himself onward, searching for the dry overhang. He disciplined himself to pay attention, battling to remain vigilant despite his weariness and thirst.
The Mask of Many Colored Crow had to be here. The old’ man had always done what he said he would do, whether it was the destruction of a rival or the offering of a sacrifice. He must have brought the Mask here, returned it to the shriveled hands of a dead man.
Despite his keen eye, Mica Bird almost missed the place.
Cedar trees had grown in a green web over the mouth of the overhang, hiding it. Only the curious odor of musty air caused him to backtrack.
Mica Bird pushed through the supple branches and stared.
The weathered sandstone caprock, splotched with moss and water stains, jutted out from the hilltop to create a small cavern.
The roof of the hollow had been stained black by fires, and the rear wall looked rough and irregular. Bare ground lay before him, dark and dry from dung and old fires.
When Mica Bird stepped into the recess, a sudden chill ate into him. Blinking in the gloom, he could make out two shapes leaning against the rear wall. He forced his weak legs to move and stepped into the darkness. The air seemed to swell and billow around him.
“You’ve come.” The old man’s voice sounded weary, defeated.
“Grandfather?”
As Mica Bird’s vision adjusted, he located his grandfather’s withered form where it hunched against the rock in the back.
How bent and crooked he appeared. Was this the same man Mica Bird remembered? Where had the broad shoulders gone?
What had happened to that arrogant Power that had radiated from Grandfather like heat from a glowing rock? This man, this dried pod of a human, couldn’t be the same, could he?