He shook his head as though he hadn’t heard right. “I’m not going to let you walk into a Hills village alone. If they kill you on sight, I’ll never forgive myself.” He held out his arms. “Give me the child. I’ll take it away and you won’t even have to watch.”
The baby mewed, barely audible, and Koracoo’s expression turned to stone. “Gonda, you can either keep following this trail, or come with me. Either way, we’re losing the light.”
Gonda exhaled hard. Arguing more would be futile. He threw up his hands in frustration, and said, “I’ll go with you, but you’re insane.”
“Fine. You lead.”
He checked the sunlight, nocked his bow again, and headed west. The deep leaves made it impossible to walk quietly. Even though wet, they shished and crackled beneath his moccasins. Behind him, he could hear Koracoo speaking gently to the child, telling it not to be afraid, that everything was going to be all right—which he seriously doubted.
Over his shoulder he said, “And you’d better hide CorpseEye somewhere. Everyone knows that club and wants it. They’ll steal it for sure.”
“I will.”
He’d taken another ten steps when he came to a deep pile of leaves. He kicked his way through them, launching several wet clumps high into the air … and stopped dead in the trail. Hot blood surged through his veins, and he suddenly felt light-headed.
In a shaking voice, he said, “Koracoo?”
“What?”
He aimed his bow at the bare patch of ground. “Look.”
It had been raining that day. Dozens of small feet had sunken into the mud and the imprints had been preserved when the ground had frozen. Later, leaves had blown over the top.
Gonda whispered, “It is … isn’t it?”
Koracoo came up beside him, saw the tracks, and sucked in a sudden breath. For the first time in days, she looked directly at him, and their gazes locked. He saw panic in her eyes to match his own. For a few brief instants they shared their fear and grief, and he could finally get a full breath into his lungs.
Koracoo knelt, brushed at the leaves, and scrutinized the tracks. “Don’t get your hopes up. It’s definitely the trail of a group of children, but we have no way of knowing whether they are our children or not.”
“Nonetheless, we should follow this trail now. Surely you know that. Forget the baby!”
Koracoo hesitated. Her eyes clung to the small moccasin prints in the mud. Then the baby let out a soft cry, and she squeezed her eyes closed.
“You know I’m right,” he said. “Our children are worth more. I wish we didn’t have to make a choice, but we do.”
In the tawny halo of the light, her beautiful tormented face seemed to be carved of amber. After five more heartbeats, she finally opened her eyes and rose to her feet.
“No, Gonda. I’m taking the child to Atotarho Village, but I’ll be back here by dawn tomorrow. I’ll catch up with you.”
She slogged through the deep leaves and started up the trail.
Gonda stood for several moments staring at the tracks with his heart bursting in his chest. He could see his children’s faces, hear their voices calling out to him, “Father, where are you? You’re coming for us, aren’t you?”
The pain in his chest was suffocating.
He opened and closed his fists. When he could stand it no longer, he tore his gaze away from their trail and stumbled backward, breathing hard.
It took another ten heartbeats before he could order his legs to trot after Koracoo.
Six
Odion
A baby cries.
I lift my hands and cover my ears. The wail seems to seep through my skin and drifts on the pine-sharp winds that swirl old leaves up into the oak boughs before blowing them away through the chill golden afternoon. Why can’t I get the cries of Agres’ sister out of my heart?
Tutelo sleeps in the dead grass beside me. I keep glancing at her. Worrying. We are all shaky from the days of marching without food. We have rarely been on a trail. Usually we march through trackless forest, meadows, or over rocks, which has made the travel even more exhausting. Today our guards ordered Tutelo and me to climb through trees, then across an outcrop of eroding granite where stunted saplings grew as thickly as river reeds. It took two hands of time. I don’t know where the other children were at the time. Gannajero has assigned each of us a guard during the day. The guard can take us wherever he wishes if he arrives at dusk in the prearranged location. Often, the men carry us on their backs so they can travel faster.
I look around.
The camp is large. Many warriors have come to see Gannajero. But these men did not bring children to sell. They came to gamble. Fifteen men sit around a small fire, playing the stone game. There are three teams, each composed of five players. The gangly warrior, Kotin, holds a round wooden bowl. Six plum pits clack inside the dish. The pits are gaming pieces, ground to an oval shape, then burned black on one side and painted white on the other. He shakes the bowl and tosses the stones across an elk hide spread over the cold ground. Whoops and cheers go up from his friends, and howls of dismay from the strangers. Kotin throws his head back and laughs as he pulls in the glittering pile of stone knives, hide scrapers, and copper jewelry. The new warriors grumble and cast evil looks at Gannajero’s team.