“Even if it means giving up your own desires for the good of all? Surrendering the needs of your lineage for those of the whole?” Her voice sounded far away, oddly brittle.
“Yes.” Must they have this conversation now?
“What would you give up to be Speaker?”
At the serious tone in her voice, he studied her from the corner of his eye, aware that they were surrounded by a huge throng of the people. Tens of tens of tens had come to watch the cleansing of Speaker Cloud Heron’s house, belongings, and remains. For the moment, he and his mother were the center of all attention.
“Whatever I have to,” he said in a low voice.
“Spring Cypress?”
The question shocked him. “Why? I love her. She loves me. We want to be together. Why do you think I—”
“For the clan.” Her low voice had all the flexibility of a stone bowl. “Or did you mislead me?”
“No, I …”
“The clan places its demands above those of its Speaker.”
“Yes, but I don’t understand what that has to do with my marrying Spring Cypress. Rattlesnake Clan has been our ally for so many years that—”
“Things change, boy. Clay Fat has his own plans for Spring Cypress ... but that is not your concern. Tell me now, would you marry Spring Cypress, or be Speaker of the Owl Clan? I must know. Time is short, and if you are not interested in serving, I must quickly find another.”
He tried to keep from gaping, aware that the Wolf Traders were standing across the borrow ditch with Yellow Spider, several arm’s lengths to his left. They kept glancing back and forth between the fire and White Bird. He could see them talking in low tones, trying to understand what they were seeing.
“Mother, I went north—”
“You are talking to your Clan Elder. Whatever your mother wishes is not germane to this conversation. How do you answer your Clan Elder? Will you be Speaker?”
“I would, yes, but to—”
“Even if it means giving up your own desires for those of your clan? Yes, or no?”
“I’ve planned on marrying Spring Cypress since I was a boy! We’ve always understood that she and I—”
Her implacable gaze had fixed on the burning house as the thatched roof slumped, sagged, and collapsed. Smoke, sparks, and glowing ash whirled about within the still-standing walls to rise in a curling vortex. Inside the open doorway the inferno obscured the splintered and scalloped bones on the pyre.
“Yes,” he muttered, feeling a hollow anger begin to strangle his grief. “As you have known all along.”
“No matter the cost?”
“No matter the cost.” His heart might have been stone when he added, “Even if it means I cannot have Spring Cypress.” How odd? At that moment he could barely remember what Lark’s face looked like. Had he left her so long ago? It seemed like a lifetime.
His mother nodded, reaching out to retake his hand and turning him to face the crowd. Raising his hand high over his head, she cried, “People of the Sun, Speaker Cloud Heron is dead. His remains have been cleansed. His Dream Soul will reside with us here forever. As required by our laws, his house and his belongings, the remains of his body, are being cleansed before your eyes. It is in this moment that I, as Elder of the Owl Clan, do raise this young man’s hand. Greet White Bird, nephew of Cloud Heron, son of Wing Heart, fathered by Black Lightning of the Eagle Clan. As Clan Elder I place this young man before you for your inspection.”
White Bird battled the wheeling sense of confusion, conquered it, and stood tall and straight before them. He wondered what they were seeing. A muscular young man, his chest a painful mass of fresh scabs. A man too young for such a responsibility. This was madness. A Speaker needed to be older, tempered and wise as his uncle had been.
“Hurrah for White Bird!” The shout carried over the crowd. To his surprise, the caller was none other than Mud Stalker.
While he was still reeling from the sight, Spring Cypress caught his attention by bouncing on charged legs. Her whole face beamed with joy and excitement as she clapped her hands for him.
Beside her, Clay Fat’s subdued gaze had fixed on the young girl, his look anything but reassured.
What is going on here? White Bird wondered, face neutral against the tight agony in his mutilated chest. Not all of it came from the wounds left by his tattooing, as his mother continued to thrust his hand up toward the deep purple sky. The cheering of the crowd before him did little to ameliorate the heat burning into his back.
From the corner of his eye he noticed Mud Puppy, standing off to one side, his slight form illuminated by the ghastly yellow firelight. A haunted look, one of terror, reflected from his large brown eyes. He was shaking his head, and even across the distance, White Bird could read his lips. They were repeating, “Don’t do it!” over and over.