People of the Masks(159)

Acorn searched her bruised face. “Very well, but if you fall again, I don’t know what will happen to you.”

Wren nodded.

Acorn straightened, and started walking.

Wren focused her good eye on the backs of Acorn’s moccasins. Grains of wet sand clung to the leather.

Her entire body hurt. But she couldn’t let herself think of that.

Instead, she thought about Rumbler. About the way he had looked at her the night she’d rolled him onto her cape and dragged him off Lost Hill. About the sound of his cries when he’d found his mother.

And she thought about Uncle Blue Raven.

A thousand winters from now, when her lonely soul wandered the dark forests, she would hear his voice ordering her to lie, to tell people it had been his fault … and the hurt would have nowhere to hide in her ghost’s body.

In the trees to her left, a branch cracked.

Wren pulled her head up.

He moved from tree to tree.

Dancing. Hiding and peeking out. A specter of blood and sunlight flashing between the dark trunks, his face luminous.

The crimson slashes across his chest had become streaks of fire.

His whisper seeped from the sand and sky, I told you, Wren. I told you you would come.





Thirty-Three



Iron-gray light streamed through the smoke hole, waking Dust Moon with a start. Her heart pounded as she propped herself up on one elbow to look around. Had it gotten so late? The fire had burned down to coals. A soft red gleam coated the interior of the lodge, dyeing the baskets on the walls, and the black hair over Rumbler’s face.

Sparrow lay on his side facing Dust, fast asleep. A wealth of white hair fell around him. Her gaze drifted over the deep lines in his face, the dark circles beneath his eyes, the sensual curve of his lips, his beaked nose.

In their entire life together, she had never longed to touch him more than at this moment.

But she didn’t. The sight soothed her. Rumbler lay on his back with the top of his head touching Sparrow’s, and his hand buried in Sparrow’s hair, the embers in the fire pit behind them wavering redly, the rich scent of wood smoke blending with that of damp bark walls.

The innocence and stillness made the night to come seem unbearable.

If she died it didn’t matter, but it was very important to her that they live.

The night of Flintboy’s death, after Sparrow had left her, she had lain in their bedding, alone for the first time in her life, and screamed at the gods. And at Sparrow. His strength had anchored her to the world and, without it, nothing had seemed quite real. During the eighty-three days of his absence, she had wandered the village like a sleepwalker, only half-alive, caught in a terrible nightmare from which she could not escape.

Every instant she had feared Sparrow was dead, and prayed that the gods would give her the strength to stand it. Somehow she knew she would have to, for the sake of their daughter and grandchildren. For their clan.

But the thought of him being dead had left her longing for death, too.

She didn’t ever want to feel that way again.

Sparrow’s hand rested palm up on the warm buffalo hide between them. Dust reached out and lightly touched his fingers.

An ache swelled her heart.

This might be their last day together, and she wanted to tell him a thousand things.

She let her finger trace the side of his forefinger down to the curve of his thumb.

His eyelids fluttered. He murmured, “Worried that by tomorrow we might be dead?”

“Death doesn’t frighten me, Sparrow,” she whispered.

“The idea of living without you frightens me.”

His lips twisted in a slight smile. “You’ve been reading the tracks of my souls.”

She studied his closed eyes. “Have I?”

“Yes.” He opened his eyes, and propped his head on his hand. “I’ve been thinking …”

She gave him a few moments to continue, but when he occupied himself smoothing his fingers over the curly buffalo hide, she said, “I already hate the idea, Sparrow, and I’ve only heard the tcne in your voice. What is it?”

“It’s practical.” He sucked in a deep breath. “There’s no reason for both of us to be in the thick of the fighting. I—”

“I’m staying here with you. I can shoot a bow.”

“I know that, it’s just that … well … Rumbler won’t go to the forest unless one of us goes with him, and he will certainly be safer out there than in the village. Also, just as importantly”—he clasped her hand and drew it against his chest—“Dust, please, I don’t want you here.”

“But you need me here. Gull said they needed every bow—”

“I remember what he said.” He clutched her hand more tightly. “But I also know that if you are beside me, I will be so concerned about you, I won’t be much good to Gull.”