He lifted a tall ceramic pitcher and sipped at the blackberry juice. Grit grated on his teeth. Dust. It was everywhere: blowing on the wind, leaving its scent in his nostrils.
A hollow moaning was spun where Wind Baby howled through doors, around corners and protruding roof poles. Spirits were out. He could feel them, hear them as they slipped about in the dark wind. Yes, a dark wind indeed.
He peeked out and found the night stygian despite the promise of a full moon. He wondered how Blue Racer was going to fare up on First Moon Mountain; thousands of people would be watching, and Sister Moon was nowhere to be seen on the equinox of her homecoming.
Something whispered behind his ear and he turned, staring. He heard them all the time now: chittering little voices. Or he’d hear a shout; but when he turned, only the echo remained, hollow between his souls. The laughter was the worst. Just that afternoon, he’d spun around and shouted, “Stop it!” at Wind Leaf. His war chief had looked at him with shocked eyes, and quietly asked, “Stop what?”
Did no one else hear the voices?
Chortles of delight fluttered around his ears, and his eyes were drawn to the witch’s pack where it hung from a peg in the corner. He’d looked through it, found the Tortoise Bundle, and inspected its worn leather. The beautiful black bowl was like nothing of local manufacture. He’d sniffed the gray paste it contained, and supposed it was datura. Other items had included a thin copper man-snake-bird image he’d never seen before. A huge shell gorget had been decorated with a spider effigy circled by a snake that was eating its own tail. Small sacks made of colorfully feathered bird skins held various powders and potions. Bits of bone, dried animal feet, and other amulets defied any explanation of their purpose.
Fact was: He hadn’t had a good night’s sleep since he’d gone through the pack. As he stared at it, he wasn’t sure but that he ought to set fire to it. He’d picked it up the day before with just that intent, but at the last moment, rehung it before pacing back and forth. Then someone had called that a black signal fire burned in the north. Black, but not white. Leather Hand’s signal that he’d only captured Night Sun.
Night Sun. I’ve got her. Where Night Sun goes, Ironwood will follow.
An image formed: Ironwood, years ago. Webworm had been his deputy back then. What fine friends they’d been. Life had been so simple. Ironwood gave the orders, and Webworm carried them out. Ironwood’s youthful words clung like cobwebs in Webworm’s memory: “Be strong, my friend. Never forget your warriors in arms. Your life is theirs, theirs is yours.”
The corners of his lips quivered. How had they lost such a perfect friendship? He would hate to see Ironwood’s body, to have to remember how it had been between them. Gods, how he missed that life. He’d been so happy back then. But for a twist of fate he would have married Cloud Playing and been happy for the rest of his life. A man could only love like that once.
“Webworm?”
Was that his mother’s voice? He cocked his head, struggling to make out the words, but they faded right out of the air.
Voices, voices. Where do they all come from? It hadn’t been this bad until the Mountain Witch had walked into his room.
Yes, Nightshade.
He glanced over at the corner where Nightshade’s bag hung from its peg. Even as he did, the voices grew louder. Some spoke in a tongue he’d never heard. The language of the Mound Builders, he supposed.
“I really ought to burn you,” he muttered.
Whisperings and rustlings made him whirl and stare owlishly at his bedding. Something had been there, hadn’t it? He’d just caught movement from the corner of his eye. Jabbing at the blankets with a nervous hand, he found only cloth atop the cushioning layers of buffalohide.
Webworm muttered under his breath, sipped more of the berry juice, and scratched beneath his arm. Was that smoke he smelled on the wind? If only he could sleep.
No, he dared not. When he drifted off, it ended in disastrous nightmares.
He blinked, yawned. A child began to cry, sadness and grief in the driven sobs. He scrambled to the doorway and pulled the hanging back. Nothing.
“Did you hear a child?” he asked the dark shape of the guard who huddled in the wind-blown dark.
“No, Blessed Sun.” The warrior sounded wary.
Rot it all, that was the third time he’d asked the guard if he’d heard anything. Maybe the man’s ears were plugged with the thrice-accursed blowing dust.
He crawled back to his bed and slumped onto the blanket. Blinking, he forced himself to stay awake.
Gods no, you dare not Dream. When he did, it was more than just voices.
He was just drifting off when he heard the serpent’s Powerful hiss.