“This sounds like suicide, Dust.”
“Are you coming or not?”
Sparrow looked into the fire while he considered this insanity. Hickory smoke rose from the flames in perfect coils, smelling sweet, warming his face. Jumping Badger couldn’t be trusted. His own warriors said he’d gone mad. Which meant that no one could predict what he might do. Cornhusk and Jumping Badger had created a nice, reasonable plan—for them.
Sparrow looked up. Should he tell Dust now, or after. they’d met with Jumping Badger?
Dust examined his thoughtful expression, read it perfectly, and said, “Blast you, you’d better tell me.”
“Well, I was just thinking. If I remove the curse before we have Rumbler in our hands, Jumping Badger has no reason to keep his part of the bargain. Does he? Did I miss something?”
Dust’s face slackened. “Great gods, I didn’t think—”
“I did, and I’m not removing my curse until after the Vigil Keeper is dead and you and Rumbler are far away.”
“But Sparrow, that will leave you alone in hostile country, with—”
“Well, there is another way.” He searched her face, judging her mood. The probability that he’d die had softened her expression a little. “I’m going alone. I—”
“No.
“Dust, I—”
“No!”
“Dust, there is no need for you to be there. I can go, get Rumbler, pretend I’m removing the curse, and come home.”
She shook her head, and her long braid shimmered. “Rumbler may need me. I’m a Healer. You’re just a Dreamer.”
Sparrow tilted his head to show his admiration. “What an accomplishment, Dust. I never imagined anyone could make the word ‘Dreamer’ sound so trivial.”
“I’m going.”
Perhaps a little too jauntily, Sparrow said, “Oh, come now, Dust. You’re just being arrogant. Do you really think I could have lived with you for thirty-five winters and learned nothing about Healing plants?”
“Why, yes,” she said.
He ignored her answer. “Do you recall the time that Planter was climbing the tree and fell out on her head? You were off at a nearby village. Didn’t I put moss poultices on Planter’s wounds and boil willow to cure her headache?”
“Ah. An expert.”
“There is no reason for you to go!”
Dust brushed at a speck of ash on the front of her cape, then studied the sky for a time. When she looked back at him, he might have been gazing at a face carved on a post. “I’ll be ready to leave in one finger of time. I was thinking of giving in and asking Planter to care for the Paint Rock warrior. Is that acceptable to you?”
“I swear, Dust.” Once she’d made up her mind, it took a bolt of lightning in the brain to change it. “This is very dangerous. I wish you would—”
“Yes, or no?”
Sparrow kicked at one of the hearthstones. “Planter is almost as good a Healer as you are. I would be grateful if she would care for Crowfire.”
“How soon can you be ready?”
“I just need to pack a few things. Some food, another shirt, maybe—”
“Make it less than a finger of time. If we run all the way we’ll get close to the canoe landing tonight. Meet me at my lodge.”
In their clan it was customary for young, or poor, warriors to show unquestioning loyalty to their war leader’s orders by lifting and shaking both fists. Sparrow did it automatically, just as he had in his early days as a warrior.
Dust’s brows lowered, as if she didn’t particularly appreciate the gesture. She turned to go, but didn’t.
“What about Cornhusk?” she said with her back to him.
He gazed at the bottom of the hill where Planter and the Trader sat. Cornhusk had a bowl in one hand, and was shoveling food into his mouth with the other. “Tell Cornhusk that I won’t curse his enemies, but I will give him a charm to protect him.”
“That should be good enough.”
Dust turned slightly to meet his eyes. “I know this is dangerous, Sparrow. I also know you don’t have to do this. I am grateful for your help.”
As if she knew her tender words would kindle his heart, and she couldn’t bear to see it on his face, she hurried down the hill.
Sparrow studied her back, her shoulders already squared for the perilous trial ahead, and a smile of respect came to his lips.
He ducked into his lodge and grabbed his pack.
Eleven
Wren wandered the longhouse, using her chert knife to pry up stone flakes that had been trampled into the dirt near the doorway, and to pick at the bark peeling from the sapling frame. Often, she lifted the leather door hanging and peered out at the blustery afternoon. All day long, Wind Mother had been acting like an enraged bear, slapping tree branches, scratching the ground, kicking twigs and gravel into Walksalong Village. Even the Cloud Giants looked angry. Black and brooding, they tumbled over each other, racing across the sky.