“Can’t prove that by me. And, I’m not so sure about you, either.” Messing with a Matron—a First Person, no less!
“A spy lives on risk, Bad Cast. She’s a lonely woman with no one to rely on but herself. She has only her wits, an aging Priest, and a handful of warriors to protect her. When Spots set that fire last night, he scared her. She could lose everything. They’re vulnerable up there, and she knows it.”
“Vulnerable! You should have seen the food they’ve got stored. We always thought we could starve them out if we had to. That or cut off the water.”
“They have enough water stored in the rooms along the south wall to see them through until the Blessed Sun’s warriors could relieve them.”
“Then how are they vulnerable?”
“Work it out. Then maybe you can answer all of the grouse-stupid questions rolling around in your simple head.”
I’m not simple! But he wasn’t sure he believed it.
W rapped Wrist took a deep breath and shifted Ripple’s litter in his firm grip. He could feel the strain in his shoulders, and if it was bothering him he knew that Spots must really be smarting.
They walked down out of a cloaking patch of timber and into the lush meadow grasses that grew between the trees and the willow-banked River of Souls. Here, it was a clear mountain stream, unlike to the south and west, where it was a sluggish, muddy current cutting through high desert.
This was known as the Valley of the Hot Water Springs—a place where the River of Souls dashed down out of the rugged high-country canyons. Here its waters were Blessed by the bubbling hot springs—a gift from the Below Worlds—before it drained into the high bluffs and broken mesas claimed by the Straight Path Nation.
His people occasionally traveled this far to look for game, or to bathe in the springs. The elevation in this part of the valley discouraged farming, so few families from any people had tried to settle here. They did come, however, to leave pahos—prayer feathers and multicolored prayer sticks—at the bubbling and steaming hot springs. Where the hot springs issued from the rocky earth and spilled into the stream was considered sacred ground—a doorway to the Below Worlds.
Here, too, the Traders passed. Some coming over the high mountain passes to the east, bringing buffalohides from the Great River Valley or jerky from the distant plains beyond the final mountain wall.
This was the last refuge. It was with relief, after bearing the heavy burden of Ripple’s unconscious body, that Wrapped Wrist and Spots hoped to camp, to rest, and perhaps to meet up with Bad Cast and the warrior Whistle.
“Think they … made it out?” Spots asked while huffing for breath.
“I hope so. Assuming, that is, that Whistle was able to extricate himself from Burning Smoke’s rage over losing his prisoner and his signal bonfire all in one night.”
Spots was winded, his knuckle-white hands clutching the poles of their makeshift litter. He had started to stumble, his steps hurried and awkward.
Ripple—his sallow skin speckled with perspiration—lay suspended on the litter. Half curled between the poles, he cradled his maimed left hand protectively. Bloody mucus had begun to leak past his dry lips, and whimpering sounds could be heard from deep in his throat.
“How’s he doing?” Spots asked between gasps.
“Still fevered.”
Ripple had been that way since dawn, as though his inflamed body had chased his souls out to hover loosely in the air. During this dangerous time the souls could simply leave, in which case the body would die.
“I can’t believe what they did to him.” Spots shook his head.
“You didn’t see him down there in that hole. The very sight of him, filthy, bleeding, and frightened … It made my souls weep.”
“We must do something. Things like this can’t go on.” He stumbled. “I must rest. Sorry.”
“There, down by where those rocks break the willows. They give cover and access to the river. That’s a good place.”
Spots veered farther downhill, his pace lagging as the thick grass and colorful wildflowers pulled at his feet. The place Wrapped Wrist had indicated consisted of large gray boulders pitched up in some long-ago flood. Between them, water lapped at a narrow pebble beach.
Spots made his fatigued way to the hollow between the rocks and gasped with relief as he carefully lowered the litter. He sighed and walked loose-limbed down to the bank, knelt, and began sucking up great drafts to slake his thirst.
Wrapped Wrist massaged his arm muscles and followed, kneeling beside his friend and drinking before cupping water and splashing it on his face. For a long moment he looked out at the clear stream. Sunlight played brightly on the ripples cast by the current. He could see the wavering outlines of rocks and stones in the shallow bottoms. A sinuous column of insects hovered on wings that glowed silver in the sunlight.