Wrapped Wrist hadn’t heard a word; his gaze was fastened on the warrior woman with a longing that couldn’t be mistaken.
Bad Cast couldn’t decide who was more interesting, the brooding and worried Ironwood, or the black-haired female across the camp. He was comparing the woman’s predatory aura with Soft Cloth’s maternal gentility when the war chief’s words brought him up short.
“No one is to approach the hot springs tonight. Our future is being decided there.”
Whose future? Bad Cast started to ask, but at the grim expressions on Ironwood’s and Whistle’s faces, kept his peace. Spots, looking cowed, ran his fingers across the scars on his arm.
Wrapped Wrist had propped his chin on his palm, eyes on the woman as she undid a wooden bowl from her pack and used a ceramic ladle to fill it with some steaming liquid.
“What future?” Spots finally dared to ask.
The old war chief’s single eye fixed on him. “Sister Moon is coming home, young hunter. A holy person, someone I trust, is unsure whether it means the rebirth or the extinction of our world. She has entered the waters, seeking an answer.”
To Bad Cast, it sounded silly. Entering the waters? What waters?
“All we can do is hope, War Chief,” Whistle said somberly.
“And pray,” Ironwood added. “Pray with all of our souls.”
A shiver rolled down Bad Cast’s back, and for the first time he wondered if he’d ever see Soft Cloth and his little girl again.
A toe pressed insistently into Wrapped Wrist’s side.
“You,” a voice whispered in the darkness. “Wake up.”
“Huh?” Wrapped Wrist blinked, rolled back in his blanket, and stared up into a midnight sky. A half-moon hung over the tree-furred peaks and cast a silvered light on the rocky outcrops. To his right, a dark form loomed in the night, some sort of irregular and monstrous shape.
“I said, wake up!” the voice hissed. “Do you want to have half the camp stirring?”
“Who are you?”
“I serve the war chief. Take me to one of your leaders: the elder named White Eye.”
Wrapped Wrist stared up at the apparition. Tall, inky with shadow, the night-backed silhouette reminded him of a kiva wall mural: a round blob with a head and long legs. Perhaps some form of distorted wading bird.
“Go away and bother somebody—”
His words were cut off as a cool stone came to rest against his cheek. He could just make out the long handle attached to the war club.
The looming shadow bent over him, saying in its odd high whisper, “You will obey the war chief’s orders and take me to the one known as old White Eye, or I will break your skull on the spot.”
A shiver ran through him. “Oh, the war chief. Why didn’t you say so.” Wrapped Wrist began wriggling out of his bedding, taking but a moment to roll his blanket and wrap his cloak around his shoulders.
“Just let me tell my friends where I’m—”
“Move. Now!”
Wrapped Wrist jammed his bedroll into his pack and staggered to his feet. He thought about kicking Spots’s blanket where it lay just to his right, but a stiff jab from the war club sent him stumbling into the darkness.
“Hey! Easy! We’re not going anywhere if I fall over and break my leg. And why are we doing this now? It’s the middle of the pus-dripping night!”
“I need to be in your village as soon as I can.”
“Why me?”
“Because the war chief told me to take one of the First Moon hunters, that you would know the trails better than anyone. Beyond that, it was my pick. I chose you.”
“That doesn’t tell me why.”
“Maybe it’s because you’re short and I’ll be able to see over your head the entire way.”
“Thanks.” Wrapped Wrist yawned, walking carefully as he picked his way past the last of the warrior’s camps. He could see Ironwood where he sat beside a solitary fire. The one-eyed war chief looked pensively at the flames as he jabbed at the fire with a flimsy stick. Assuming Wrapped Wrist could read faces, the old warrior looked worried right down to the roots of his souls.
“Doesn’t he ever sleep?”
The war club hissed like a snake as it slashed the air over Wrapped Wrist’s head. He yipped and ducked.
“Don’t talk,” the harsh whisper ordered. “Just walk.”
He swallowed hard. Gods, he’d been taken by a night-stalking monster.
Twenty-seven
A great house was more than just a building; it was a symbol of the Straight Path world. While the Red Lacewing Clan built their structures according to the movements of the sun, Blue Dragonfly Clan built theirs according to those of the moon. Each of the Blue Dragonfly Clan great houses were aligned to the lunar maximum: the northernmost position of the moon in its eighteen-and-a-half-year trek across the sky. Kettle Town had been built that way, as had Dusk House, and so, too, was the Pinnacle Great House. Each had a long balcony that extended from the top story of the northern wall. There the Priests and Blessed First People congregated on the nights of the lunar standstill to watch Sister Moon when she appeared on the eastern horizon, rising in perfect alignment with the northern wall and the balcony. It was said that those who were washed by her first light were eternally gifted by the Flute Player.