To Musselwhite’s horror, Pondwader walked straight to Cottonmouth and held out his hands.
Cottonmouth took them.
Heart in throat, Diver watched Cottonmouth and the Lightning Boy cross the village. The crowd jostled, forming into a mob behind Cottonmouth’s guards, pushing and slapping each other, juggling for position. Every eye was on the boy. Shouts laced the wind, breathless with anticipation. The Spirit Elders had gathered into a small knot with the Soul Dancers. Their faces glowed as if from an inner fire.
These fools thought this skinny boy could save them, take them to that shining new world beyond the stars … .
Something tapped the floor mat at Diver’s left, probably another shell blown in by the rising wind. He ignored it, his attention glued to the Spirit Elders, and to Musselwhite.
But when the crowd closed in around Cottonmouth’s shelter and Diver could no longer see Musselwhite, he wearily slumped to the floor.
… And saw a hafted chert knife laying there!
Diver’s gaze shot to his guards, still intent on Cottonmouth’s shelter, then scanned the forest.
White-hot fear rushed through him.
Diamondback stood in the shadows, watching Diver, his face tense, loving. His son nodded to him, gave him a gripped-fist sign, and casually walked away.
Diamondback must have waited for just the right moment, when the village’s attention had been distracted … or … could it be that the Lightning Boy and Diamondback had worked together, timing their efforts for just this purpose?
Don’t be a fool! Too much hope is as dangerous as too little. He concentrated on breathing deeply, evenly, to mask the turmoil that rocked his souls. You must act as if only you, Diamondback, and Musselwhite are the players here. You can count on nothing else.
He hunched forward. After days of little food, of wounds and torture, how much stamina did he possess? Not that it mattered. He would fight with every bit of strength he had. Cautiously, he brought his bound hands around and began sawing through the ropes.
Oh, my son, tell me there’s a war party out there. That all of this has been carefully planned!
Forty-four
Pondwader walked through the rainy village ahead of Cottonmouth, chin up, steps light. He smiled at everyone he passed, marveling at how euphoric life could be once a man had given himself up for dead.
Guards flanked him, and more guards stood around the shelter where Musselwhite sat bound to a pole. Her dark eyes glinted She looked at Pondwader as though at her worst nightmare. He tried very hard to project confidence, to show her that everything was all right. From the corner of his eye, he could see Dace, standing outside the village in a group of spectators. So many strangers had come for the Celebration Day that no one paid attention to a few more children—as they would see Kelp and Dace. Diamondback ran the greatest risk here. He had fought some of these warriors.
Pondwader entered the shelter and hurried to Musselwhite. Kneeling, he embraced her tightly. As he kissed her ear, he whispered, “Don’t worry. I have a plan.” He felt her stiffen. Louder, he said, “Are you all right? Have they harmed you?”
She shook her head. “No.”
When he pushed back from her, he saw that Musselwhite’s eyes had fastened on Cottonmouth. An emotion filled them that he had never seen before, something stronger than hatred—more like deadly promise. Pondwader sank to the floor mats at her side, just inside the line of drips falling from the thatched roof. From the instant he had walked into the village, he’d started calling the rain. Now, thunderheads crowded together to blot out the sunlight.
He could feel their awful Power: a building fury on the verge of bursting loose and destroying everything in its path.
Cottonmouth stood on the opposite side of the fire, arms folded, his gaze on Musselwhite. They appeared to be engaged in a silent struggle of wills.
Outside the shelter, in the pounding rain, guards tightened their circle and threw awed glances at Pondwader. Beyond the ring of guards, villagers crowded together in the rain, pointing, straining to see better.
“The time has come, Musselwhite.” Without turning away, Cottonmouth ordered, “Littlehorn, move the people back. This is none of their concern. Not yet.”
A very young warrior jerked a nod. “Yes, Spirit Elder.”
As Littlehorn trotted away shouting commands, a roar of disapproval went up from the throng. The guards had to whack several people with their atlatls to get them to move. But they yielded, disgruntled, muttering.
Cottonmouth cocked his head, his expression a mixture of curiosity and disbelief. Pondwader could not help but stare into those magnetic eyes. They reminded him of the eyes of a wolf on a blood trail. Standing there in his blue ritual tunic, the circlets of mica glinting in the firelight, Cottonmouth looked magnificent. The silver hair at his temples shone pure white.