Do I fear monsters? Oh, yes.
Spots glanced nervously at Nightshade as he busied himself about their small camp. Nightshade had picked this place in the thickets beside the river after she had slipped away from Dusk House that afternoon. She had said she needed time to think. He had cooked their supper of steamed cornmeal and lily root over a handful of fire. Fuel had consisted of sticks, rabbitbrush, and bits of driftwood he’d found lodged in the riverbank willows.
Nightshade seemed oblivious to the water lapping just beyond the yellow-brown stems, or the star-speckled night sky above. The whining mosquitoes that plagued Spots seemed to ignore her as she sat, back straight, hands neatly folded in her lap. Her wide eyes stared, unblinking, at something beyond this world. Periodically her lips moved, as if speaking. Her black cloak with white stars gave her the appearance of a night creature.
Spots used river water to wash out their little round brownware pot and replaced it in his pack. Then he squatted, limp hands dangling from his knees. He snorted at a mosquito that had flown up in his nose, and shook his head to keep them from whining in his ears.
“Elder?” he whispered. She might have been dead but for the occasional twitch of her lips. Watching closely, he couldn’t even see her breathe.
Grunting to himself, he shot a nervous glance at her pack. The faint whisperings carried to his souls with greater clarity. He’d sensed their disturbance growing from the moment they’d crossed the Spirit River and walked across the cornfields to Dusk Town. They’d positively shrieked when he’d borne them into the plaza that afternoon, only sighing with relief after Nightshade had suddenly turned and led them away.
He was sure he didn’t hear them with his ears—not that such sibilance would penetrate the incessant whining of mosquito wings. No, these were voices who spoke to the souls. The whispering was interrupted by a new nervous chattering—the sort that might have been made by tortured bats.
How could this happen to me? I never wanted anything to do with Power; now it falls around me like ash from a forest fire.
Something inky and unseen flapped through the night over his head. He caught just the faintest shadow passing across the stars. A shiver ran down his spine. He could feel things shifting and watching from the surrounding willows.
He tossed the last of their scanty firewood onto the dying flames. In the renewed light he unrolled his blanket and pulled the coarse weave through his fingers, wondering what protection it would give from the wavering cloud of mosquitoes, let alone the occasional soul-craving Spirit that might reach out of the darkness.
“Tomorrow,” Nightshade said suddenly, “you need to be very careful. No matter what you see or hear, do not interfere. Do you understand, Spots?”
“Do not interfere with what, Elder?”
“In the morning, when I enter Dusk House, you are free to go. I thank you for your help on this journey. You have been a brave and worthy companion.”
He frowned. “Elder? Aren’t you going back to Ironwood’s? Won’t you need me to carry your pack? Cook for you on the return journey?”
“I am not going back.”
His anxiety grew as his souls heard the Spirits in her pack crying out. “No!” he cried, unsure about what.
She cocked her head. “You have responsibilities to your family and clan. In appreciation for your help and company, I will tell you this: Take your relatives—all that you can convince to accompany you. Go from this land. Save those you can, and run.”
“Elder?”
“This is your chance to break free. You have very little time. Just enough to run back to your home and try to persuade your closest kin to leave.”
Spots frowned. “That man you looked at in the plaza today. I saw your eyes meet, felt the change in the air. I heard the voices of the Spirits I carry cry out. Who was he? You wouldn’t say. You just came straight here.”
She almost smiled as she said, “Webworm.”
“That was the Blessed Sun?” The notion stunned him. He had actually seen the Blessed Sun? The man hadn’t looked like a magical figure; his body hadn’t glowed in golden rays of light. He’d been average, overweight, and somehow soft. When his attention had turned to the fighting slaves, Nightshade had stalked away—walking with vigor he hadn’t suspected the old woman capable of.
“I have come for him,” Nightshade said simply. “It is between him and me.”
“What is?”
“The future. The past. What might have been. And what might not.”
“I don’t understand.”
“But for a choice made by a far-off Dreamer many sun cycles ago, I would have become Matron of the Straight Path Nation, the last of my clan, and the most Powerful. Would it have been better or worse for our peoples, I cannot say.”