Firehorn stepped around to grasp the handles, each made of narrow lodgepoles. He hesitated. “His souls, Elder. What did you mean? You said ‘what they come back as’?”
Nightshade barely shrugged. “His body will never be the same, warrior. Why do you expect his souls to be?”
She watched them as they started up the hill, barely nodding to the approaching warrior. Now, closer, the shape was unmistakably female, a striking woman, tall, with a perfect heart-shaped face. She would have been a beauty, but for the flinty anger in her large dark eyes and the hardness in the set of her mouth.
“Yes, Blessed Elder?” she asked as she came to a stop.
Nightshade smiled, reading the woman’s stormy gaze. “It is easy to hate, isn’t it, Crow Woman?”
“Anything else is weakness, Blessed Elder.” The woman’s mouth hardened even further.
“Step close. I won’t hurt you.”
Crow Woman’s frown deepened, but she nervously took another step. The flint in her eyes began to ebb as anxiety took its place.
As Crow Woman looked away, Nightshade said, “You do well to fear me.”
“Elder?” The woman’s throat had tightened, but she stood her ground, back stiff, the breeze playing with the single warrior’s feather that stuck up from the tight bun at the back of her head.
Nightshade reached out, the tips of her fingers pressing through the shirt and into Crow Woman’s abdomen below the navel. A tremor ran through Crow Woman as though she’d been stuck.
“What are you doing?”
It was barely above a whisper. “Feeling the future, girl. Sensing the energy building in your womb. Don’t you hear them? They’re crying out to you, knowing the things you refuse to believe.”
“Revered Elder, my womb is a withered vine. By the Blessed katsinas, I’ll die barren. And the gods help the man who tries to slip himself into me.”
“Yes, girl, pour that hate out. Let it run like blood from a vein.” Nightshade smiled. “Opposites attract. Now, go. Tell the war chief I am entering the water to Dream the future.”
“Entering the water?” Crow Woman looked confused.
Nightshade pointed over her shoulder to the blue-green waters of the hot springs. They steamed, cradled by mineral-encrusted rocks. Beyond them, the river looked cool and refreshing, the willows along its shores bending with the breeze. Nightshade bent and pulled her sodden dress over her head. She dropped it loosely on the grass beside her opened pack.
Reaching in the pack, she retrieved a gleaming black pot. Just big enough to be cradled comfortably in two hands, the vessel was incised with curling designs around the shoulders.
The warrior woman gasped. “It’s beautiful.”
“It’s called a Wellpot, made by only the finest Cahokia potters. Look at the walls, thin enough you’d think they were crafted of eggshell. The slip is so black, so lustrous you can see yourself reflected in it. Look closer, woman of war, and you can see into other worlds.”
Unsure, Crow Woman asked, “What do you keep in there?”
“My sister,” Nightshade replied laconically as she reached in and ran a fingertip through soft gray paste. She raised it to her nostrils, sniffing carefully. “Yes, my dearest sister. Are you ready to Dance?”
The younger woman watched in awe as Nightshade placed her forefinger to her temple, rubbing the paste around in slow circular motions.
“Go on, Crow Woman,” she said softly. “Tell the war chief I’ll have his answer by morning.”
Crow Woman cast one last worried glance over her shoulder as Nightshade slowly waded into the steaming water. Even as she watched, some gargantuan shape seemed to twist and bend in the rising steam, as if gyrating in some terrible Dance.
Twenty-six
Evening was falling when Whistle led Bad Cast out of the trees and across a grassy meadow toward the river. Bad Cast had figured they were nearing their goal when a voice hailed them from the shadows beside the timbered trail. While Bad Cast had nearly jumped out of his skin, an unconcerned Whistle had answered with a single word: “Orenda.”
Orenda. What did that mean? When Bad Cast asked, the stalwart Whistle had just ignored him.
Now, high mountains rising on either side, they walked along the bank of the River of Souls. It murmured and whispered as it poured over rocks and rapids on its way to the lowlands. The first stars were rising above the peaks to the east as Whistle led Bad Cast down to the bank and picked his way across a rocky ford creased with ripples.
The cold water felt good on Bad Cast’s tired feet. He paused only long enough to drink and splash some water on his face, then followed Whistle up the high bank and across a grassy flat.