People of the Masks(128)

The arrow struck Blue Raven in the belly, knocking him backward. His mouth dropped open in shock, and his eyes flared as he fell to the ground.

Wren screamed, “No!”

Elk Ivory shouted, “You fool! You just violated your clan matron’s orders!”

Wren ran for her uncle, throwing herself over his chest, crying, “Don’t hurt him! You don’t understand! You don’t know …”

Blue Raven twined a hand in Wren’s hair and yanked her ear down to his lips, whispering, “Don’t say anything! You can … go home now. I want you … to go home.”

“No, please, Uncle.” She grabbed his wrist. “I can’t let them think—”

Blue Raven’s arm went slack, and thumped to the ground.

Wren cried, “No! Please, gods, no!”

Jumping Badger stalked by her, saying, “He’s not dead.” Then to his warriors, he said, “Bring him. Before he dies, we must find out where his accomplices have taken the False Face Child.”





“Shh! Keep your head down!” Sparrow shoved Dust Moon’s head under the log.

She watched through the weave of deadfall. They had spotted the woman warrior long before she’d called out to Blue Raven, and had taken cover. The woman, Elk Ivory, now stood over Blue Raven and Little Wren, shaking with what appeared to be rage. Little Wren’s cries had stopped, but she clutched at her uncle’s clothing as if she would never let go.

Four warriors gathered around Blue Raven, each picking up an arm or a leg. The arrow pierced his belly just below his ribs. The burly warrior with the Thornbush Clan haircut said, “Little Wren, you must move.”

The girl dragged herself to her feet, and looked up at Elk Ivory with imploring eyes.

The woman warrior put a hand on Wren’s back, and guided her down the hill.

“They look like they’re heading for the ruins of Paint Rock Village,” Dust whispered.

“Yes, what better place to threaten a wounded man and a little girl than surrounded by people you killed only a short time ago. If I were—”

“No one sane would camp with a crowd of angry ghosts.”

“Jumping Badger is not sane, Dust. He—”

He took a faint sharp intake of breath, and Dust froze.

“There are more coming,” Sparrow said.

“How do you know? Do you see—”

“Five or six men.”

Dust could feel the hand resting on her head clench to a fist.

In the moonlit silence, the threat seemed almost palpable. Perhaps her souls could hear footsteps that her ears could not.

“Dust, as quietly as you can, stand up. We’re going to have to try to get out of here before they come any closer.”

Slowly, she rolled over, and got to her knees beside Sparrow.

Something indeed stirred in the darkness up the hill. The wind, blowing into their faces, carried a strange scent—a queer, fetid odor like moldering meat. She didn’t see men, she saw … a luminous blur, swaying.

Sparrow whispered, “Quietly. Run!”

She felt the familiar strength of his arm go around her waist, and he half pulled her up the hill through the boulders and fallen logs. He’d always been able to see better in the dark than she. She’d often accused him of being part wolf.

“Crouch down, Dust! They may have seen us!”

She instantly obeyed, and glanced back toward the trail. Shapes materialized before her eyes, men walking in single file. One carried a long staff with a mask on it. The wood reflected the moon glow like polished silver, appearing to shine from its own inner light. The warrior didn’t seem to relish his duty. He held the staff out as far from his face as he could, and Dust suddenly understood why. The reek of rotting flesh followed him as he wound down the hillside.

“Don’t watch them, watch your feet!” Sparrow hissed. He dragged her toward the top of the hill.

Dust slipped and put her hand on his broad shoulder to steady herself. A thick carpet of damp leaves covered the ground here. They had entered a stand of sugar maples.

She did not know how long they scurried through the smoke-colored trunks, and rocks, but by the time they reached the hilltop, the cold, the fear, the fast for most of the long day, all had left her nerves overwrought.

She released Sparrow and stepped away from him. Her throat ached with the urge to cry, which angered her. She needed to think about Rumbler, to try to figure out where he might be, and instead she stood here with her hand to her mouth, gazing out across the vast silver-blue of Leafing Lake. Cloud Giants massed to the north, drifting toward them.

Sparrow walked to her, and his gaze examined every detail of her face. The wind gusted across the hilltop, blowing his white hair around his face. “Are you all right?”