“It isn’t a matter of complacency, Speaker. I face the perennial problem of those accused of witchcraft: belief. No matter what I state in my defense, people will believe what they will believe. I am not a witch. I wish no one—even my enemies—ill. The more strident my voice is as I cry out my innocence, the more assured others will be that I am guilty of using Power for my own gain.”
“And what gain is that, Salamander?”
He gestured around. “If I had that kind of Power, Speaker, I would return my mother’s souls to this world. Owl Clan and the People have more need of her wits and knowledge here than do the souls in the Spirit World.”
“Are you sure of that?”
“Yes, Speaker Thunder Tail. The Spirit World is already well served—it has my uncle and brother.”
“Your mother never spoke very highly of you.”
“Let us say that I wasn’t what she expected in a son.”
“But you ended up as Owl Clan’s Speaker.”
Salamander smiled wryly. “I think we both know how that happened. But, since it did, I will do my best for my clan, Speaker. I was unprepared for this. I can only hope that as time passes, I will do a better job.”
“And the witchcraft?”
“Were I a good witch, my clan would be preeminent. I would be basking in the reflected fear and respect of my fellows. I would be plotting with Mud Stalker and Deep Hunter to replace you as leader of the Council. I would be surrounding myself with copper, stone, and exotic hides from the far reaches of our Trade. I think I would be busy destroying my enemies, making them die horrible deaths.” A smile crossed his lips. “I ask you, do my enemies tremble at my name?”
“No, Speaker Salamander, they do not.” Thunder Tail fingered the soft bearhide on his shoulder as he thought. His eyes kept straying to Wing Heart, and Salamander could see the hurt.
“She loved you,” he said softly. “More than all the others.”
Thunder Tail looked uncomfortable as he returned his attention to Salamander. “I don’t know what good it will do in the end, Salamander, but for one, I don’t think you are a witch. There is, however, something about you that worries me. When I am around you, I can feel it, a tension in the air, as if you are headed for some terrible fate.”
“With all of my souls, Council Leader, I hope not. But I give you my word, I will do everything within my ability to keep from hurting the People.”
“What of your barbarian wife? People would accuse her of witchcraft, too.”
“Assuming that I knew how to recognize a witch, I’ve never seen it in her.”
“And when she goes away?”
“She meets with her family.”
“Does she plot against us?”
“Of course. We killed her brother and her friends.”
“But you don’t think she’s dangerous?”
“Speaker, never, under any circumstances, believe that she isn’t dangerous.”
“Then why do you live with her? Surely not just for the sandstone.”
Salamander chuckled softly, shaking his head. “It is a complicated thing to explain. I love her. She is my wife, and I enjoy the time I spend with her. Can you understand that? She does things for me, excites my souls when I look into her eyes.”
“What of your other wives?”
“They are the same. Each one is different, each has her own qualities.”
“But you can trust Pine Drop and Night Rain. You know they won’t cut your throat in the middle of the night.”
Salamander felt the prickle of warning again. “Speaker? Whatever made you say that? I can anticipate the threat Anhinga poses. She came to us as an enemy. It is those we trust the most who will drive the dagger deepest into our hearts.”
Thunder Tail nodded in agreement, and a fist tightened around Salamander’s souls.
Night Rain slipped as she followed her cousin, Water Stinger, down the path south of Sun Town. The trail was slick with mud from an afternoon rain shower. Water Stinger had appeared at her house as she patiently drilled stone beads while seated in the ramada’s shade. The young warrior had been winded from a long run, and asked for her and Pine Drop.
“Sister is gone. You just missed her. She has taken a basket and gone to collect the first goosefoot greens.”
“Then you come!” Water Stinger had insisted, practically dragging her after him as he headed south the way he had come. “It’s important. Uncle wants you there.”
So they hurried, taking a deeply worn path that led south along the steep embankment overlooking the bottomlands. The way wound through trees that gave periodic glimpses of the cane bottoms where the channel was obscured by the spring flood. Water gleamed silver as sunlight was reflected through the vegetation. The whole world had taken on a blinding green, and the smell of blossoms carried on the air.