She studied the thin man in the starlight. “Nashat isn’t going to like that.”
“I know,” came the weak reply.
Windwolf sat with his back to the stone, elbows on his knees, wrists loose. He had watched the fire burn down to coals, casting periodic glances at Skimmer’s form where she slept with her daughter in the rear.
Dipper and Silvertip lay side by side; the boy whispered, the words mostly incoherent. But on occasion, the boy would say, “Wolf Dreamer?” with enough anguish to send shivers down Windwolf’s spine.
Is the boy really a Dreamer?
He leaned his head back against the stone and wondered. To do so was a diversion that kept him from pondering his own mad plan. What had seemed inspired took on the cloak of the ludicrous. His plan now seemed little more than the ravings of desperation.
Since they’d arrived, he’d secretly endured the same fear that lined the faces of those closest to him: wondering how they’d survive Kakala’s next attack. But it angered him to be reminded of it every moment by their eyes—eyes reverent with faith in him. They believed he could protect them, and of all the things that could be said about him, how could a man who had lost his wife, who had watched his people destroyed and dispersed, save this vulnerable band of Lame Bull People?
He sat, back against the resisting stone, and put his hands on either side of his head, pressing hard, trying to force some sense into his worry-laced soul.
“Come on, Goodeagle,” he said, barely audible. “Don’t let me down. Tell Kakala exactly what you think I’ll do.”
But in the heat of battle, he knew he wouldn’t have time to second-guess Goodeagle. A sharp ache invaded his chest. He fought it, filling his mind with hate. He thought he’d explode. Remembering.
He could see Goodeagle’s face so clearly, see the almost Dreamy look in his eyes.
How could I have been so foolish?
“You balance each other.” Bramble’s voice haunted him from the past. “You are brutally practical. Goodeagle reminds you of the gentler aspect of life.”
Ah, yes. So gentle. He winced at the memory of that hideous lance jutting out between Bramble’s blood-smeared breasts.
Is that what you wanted, Goodeagle? She was your friend, too.
After a finger of time, he crawled to the bedding Dipper had laid down, stretched out on the hides, and stared at the shadowy ceiling as he examined his narrowing options.
Too often thoughts of Bramble intruded—he imagined touching her hair, her skin.
He’d trusted Goodeagle—trusted him like a brother.
It’s my fault. I should have known.
Goodeagle had been dropping clues for moons: a missed meeting here, a lame excuse there, a change in his eyes.
Bramble had tried to warn him … .
Across a silken bridge of memory, he heard her say, “Something’s wrong with Goodeagle. He has a sickness in his heart.”
He closed his eyes.
And now, I am going to bet all of our lives on him. On the things he’ll tell Kakala.
Twenty-six
Sitting beside Kakala, Keresa studied the huge Council chamber, and slowly shook her head. The honeycomb of ice glittered in the light of the fire. The opulence of the place amazed her. The bluish dome of rock seemed to twinkle in the firelight.
Kakala moaned softly, and shifted painfully on the thick layer of buffalo, elk, and musk ox hides where they’d laid him.
The rest of her warriors had stared around uneasily at first, gawking at the painted parfleches, the wealth of hides, and paintings of the animal Spirits. These things were the plundered loot of the Sunpath People, carried here on the backs of captives, to create a display of Nightland might for Nashat, Ta’Hona, Satah, and Khepa to admire.
But at what cost to us and the Sunpath?
She shot a sidelong glance at the Guide, trying to ferret out his true motives. Thin and hollow-cheeked, Ti-Bish sat cross-legged on a plush giant beaver hide. His beautifully tanned caribou-fawn shirt had been decorated with images of Raven. He wore a cape made of the midnight black feathers over his shoulder. The man’s hair was greasy, pulled back in a braid that snaked down his back.
The Guide periodically reached out when Kakala groaned, and at the mere touch, the war chief stilled, almost sighed with relief.
What sort of man is he? The question knotted in Keresa’s soul. In the Guide’s name, they had gone to war in a way that had been completely alien to her people. From hunters and occasional raiders, they had become dedicated killers. But at what cost?
She dared not count the dead, or remember their faces. All of those friends and companions, like Maga, whose souls now inhabited the camps of the Star People. How many women and children had been left fatherless? To what ultimate purpose?