“I see.”
Anhinga saw the slow spread of misery in his expression.
“It’s serious,” Yellow Spider added, his muscles bunching under his smooth brown skin. “I have contacts, people who are obliged from the Trade White Bird and I brought down river. They are going to accuse you of witchcraft tomorrow.”
“I have been anticipating that.” Salamander’s fists opened and closed. “Cousin, no matter what, I want you to remember your promise to me that day at the canoe landing. Will you do as I ask, not as your heart demands?”
What was this? Anhinga turned her eyes on Yellow Spider. He was fidgeting, rocking his weight from foot to foot. A faint nod was his only answer.
“Good,” Salamander said with a sigh.
“What are you going to do?” Anhinga asked.
Salamander’s lips twitched. “I am going to try to save myself and the clans,” he answered. “As we were just discussing, sometimes in order to save yourself, you must give up everything. Timing will be the most important thing.” With that, he pushed himself to his feet, looking completely haggard.
“What are you going to do?” Yellow Spider demanded.
“For the moment”—silver fish scales glittered on Salamander’s hand as he rubbed his face—“I am going to see Speaker Thunder Tail. After that I have a stop to make at the Serpent’s. Then, if I can, I am going to try and get a full night’s sleep.”
Wing Heart’s voice caught them by surprise. “If there is any trouble, you be sure to alert Speaker Cloud Heron. He’ll handle it.”
“Yes, Mother.” Salamander sounded like his souls were bleeding. “I will do that first thing.”
“I’m coming with you,” Yellow Spider said, and for the first time, Anhinga noticed the ax hanging from his hand.
“Me too!” Anhinga cried. She hadn’t made two steps before Salamander’s hand caught her elbow.
“No, please,” he said gently. “If you would help me, be here when I return. I won’t be able to sleep tonight unless you are here to hold me.”
The fear in his voice paralyzed her. She stood rooted as her husband and his kinsman walked off into the night.
Fifty-nine
Dew gave the world a grayish tint in the pale light of dawn. Salamander prodded the smoking fire with a stick as he looked out past the pestle and mortar to the plaza. The grass had been beaten flat by the Northern Moiety players as they prepared for the game, now only three days away. Fingers of silky mist wound around the Women’s House where it perched atop the Mother Mound. They drifted over the plaza and slipped between the houses like ghostly serpents on the prowl. The Bird’s Head was sheathed in gray, a Spirit figure dominating the west.
He could feel the last tendrils of the Dream, like the dawn mist, slowly fading away. The vision had been so clear. He could still see the images old Heron had shown him of the coming day.
He had used the smallest sliver of mushroom. It had been enough to open the doors of his Dreams. He had reached Heron, Danced with her, and she had let him see.
Salamander poked at a coal and sniffed at the mint tea that steamed in a stone bowl at the fire’s edge. In the growing light he could make out the latest of his mother’s fabrics, a white, red, and purple design that sported a red potbellied owl with huge eye disks in the center.
Salamander stared into the round black eyes she had woven into the fabric. Was he still seeing through the fast-shrinking tunnel brother mushroom had opened, or was the creature really alive?
“So, we have come to it, haven’t we?”
The weaving remained mute.
“Today I shall make my decision. You and Many Colored Crow must wait to see which of you I choose. Or will you take that chance? What if you just killed me? Would another be more compliant to your wishes than I am?”
The owl’s large eyes pried at him, trying to see into his souls.
Salamander stepped over and inspected the fabric. He ran his fingertips over it, feeling the softness. Mother had used carefully separated flax fibers. As far as Salamander could tell, she had finished last night before retreating to her bed. Using a sharp stone flake, he cut the threads and lifted the fabric from the loom. After one last admiration, he draped it over his shoulders, then resettled himself at the fire to keep track of his tea.
His eyesight blurred with bits of the vision old Heron had granted him. The day’s events unfolded like a lotus flower. He saw Pine Drop, her eyes blazing righteously as she faced the Council. Saw Back stood guard in the darkness, his souls wreathed in hate and anger. Anhinga pointed at two ceramic pots decorated with interlocking owls. Mud Stalker smiled at him in triumph. He saw the craftiness in Deep Hunter’s eyes. Half Thorn gleefully clapped his hands, crying, “I win! I am to be Speaker!”