People of the Lightning(168)

When he felt certain the fire would not die, he dug more deeply into his pack, took out a small boiling basket, charred on the bottom, and rose to his feet. As he walked to the marsh to fill it with water for tea, he heard voices. Dace’s soft, pleading. Kelp’s angry. Diamondback listened. He couldn’t distinguish any of their words. In a few moments, he saw a black shadow slipping through the trees on the western side of the marsh. But just one shadow.

Diamondback wondered about that. Had they argued? Dropping to his knees, he filled his boiling basket with water. By the time he’d risen again, Dace had walked into the firelight. The youth’s mouth had twisted into a confused pout. He’d put on his tunic, and wore his dark hair in a single braid. Throwing his pack down by the fire, Dace slumped and extended his hands to the warmth of the blaze.

Diamondback returned and knelt across the fire from Dace. “Do you have a cord handy, Dace?” he asked.

“What?” Dace demanded.

“A cord. Do you have one? I need to make a tripod for my basket.”

Dace’s tight expression relaxed. “Oh, I’m sorry. Yes. Here.” He drew a small coil from his pack and handed it across to Diamondback.

Diamondback took three sticks from the wood pile, tied them together at the top, then looped the cord through the holes in the rim of his basket and suspended it from the tripod. As he moved the basket closer to the flames, he said, “Did you and Kelp find anything out there?”

Dace glared into the fire. “No. Nothing important. More tracks.”

“What about a trail? Did you find the path my mother and Pondwader took for Standing Hollow Horn Village?”

Dace blinked, seemed to come out of his inner world, and said, “Hallowed Spirits, yes, we did. Forgive me, Diamondback. I … I’m preoccupied.” He turned and pointed toward the place where Musselwhite had lain. “The trail starts near the clots of blood, and winds through the trees, heading just about straight northeast.”

“Is it a good trail? Can we follow it tomorrow?”

Dace nodded. “It’s as clear as if a herd of deer had gone through. Tracks are everywhere. Broken fronds line the path. I don’t understand their lack of caution. They must have been very confident of their safety, or—”

“No.” Diamondback laced his fingers before him. “I doubt that. Such carelessness can only mean my mother was very ill. That she was fighting every step of the way just to stay on her feet.”

“Blessed Spirits. That makes sense.”

Diamondback removed a small pouch of red blossoms from his pack, and dropped them into his boiling basket. Flowers from the horn tree produced a delicious tangy tea, and bloomed almost constantly. The rich fragrance wafted up to him.

Gingerly, Diamondback said, “I heard your voice earlier. Did you and Kelp have a disagreement?”

Dace scowled. “I have no idea,” he answered. “I heard her crying and nearly broke my neck running through the trees to find her. When I did, she shouted at me to go away.”

“Why was she crying?”

Dace spread his hands. “How do I know? She wouldn’t tell me!”

Diamondback frowned. “Did you offend her in some manner? Maybe—”

“No!” Dace objected. His young face tensed. “I didn’t do anything! I swear it! I hadn’t even been with her for a hand of time. We’d gone separate directions, searching for tracks or other evidence of Pondwader’s and Musselwhite’s activities here. Then I heard her crying. That was all that happened!”

Diamondback picked up a stick and scooped some of the coals out and under his basket, taking care not to get them too close to the legs of his tripod. “Where was she?”

Dace pointed toward the southern end of the marsh. “Near that stand of cattail down there.”

Diamondback nodded. “Could you start supper?”

“Yes, but there’s no use in going after her, Diamondback. I’ve known her all my life. When she gets like this, you can’t talk to her. You just have to let her sort out whatever’s bothering her and eventually she’ll return to her senses.”

Diamondback smiled. “I believe you, but I have to try. I’ll be back soon.”

Dace grumbled, roughly lifted his pack, and dumped the contents on the ground, then began separating out distinctively colored fabric bags. Dace, Diamondback had discovered, had an obsession with organization. The red bag contained dried meat, the green held an assortment of nuts, and the black was stuffed with long ropes of pemmican. He never put anything else in those bags—as if the act might bring him bad luck. Every warrior Diamondback had ever known had at least one superstitious habit. Black Urchin, for example, always insisted upon knotting a belt made from his wife’s hair around his waist before he would even consider leaving the village, and Diamondback’s own mother always wore a sandstar necklace beneath her warrior’s tunic. He had never seen her without it. Not on a war walk.