People of the Raven(104)

His fault. All of it.

If he hadn’t agreed to White Stone’s plan …

“Enough!” He balled a fist and slammed it into the lodgepole. “Stop this!”

A tripod with a tea bag hung near the flames, scenting the air with the tart fragrance of dried cranberries.

As he bent down for a wooden cup, reaction to the strain set in, and he began to shake. He stared at the blood welling on his skinned knuckles.

He got up again and started walking, shedding jewelry and garments as he went. Shell bracelets and rings slipped from his hands and bounced across the floor as if alive. When he pulled his shirt over his head and violently threw it at the wall, the garment fluttered down like a many-colored feather. Sweat glistened on his naked chest. He tried to unlace his moccasins, but his fingers could not seem to find the knots.

White Stone and Red Dog had not returned yet, and he thanked the gods for the reprieve. Every instant White Stone was still out looking for Tsauz, he could hope the boy lived. But if they returned with news that Tsauz … that his son …

“Dear gods, not today. I couldn’t stand it.”

His dreams had been tortured. Every time he started to fall asleep, he heard Tsauz shout, “No, Father, please! Please, don’t leave me!”

He reached for his son’s bedding, crumpling it in his fingers as he pulled it to his chest, buried his face in it, and wept.





Thirty-four

White Stone pulled off his drenched cape as they entered Fire Village’s palisade gate and exchanged pleasantries with the guards. He glanced at Red Dog. The old warrior looked as exhausted as White Stone felt. His graying black hair stuck to his furrowed forehead in wet locks. Mud spattered his bare legs, and his skin was threaded by red welts from branches, briars, and snags. They’d run straight up the mountain, eating and drinking as they went.

Two days before, they had rounded a bend in a patch of thick timber—and collided head-on with Sleeper’s warriors, who were headed the other way. In the melee that followed, White Stone had yelled, “Run!” and he and Red Dog had burst through, beating feet as they’d never run before.

Sleeper’s warriors had chased them the entire way. White Stone and Red Dog had used every trick known to them, doubling back, leaping off the trail, splashing up or down streams, then climbing out through tree branches to keep from leaving signs of their passage. Sometimes they stayed just beyond spear range. At others, it had seemed inconceivable that Sleeper’s warriors could have followed the convoluted path they’d taken. Then they would magically appear several hands of time later, still dogging their trail.

White Stone made a face as he ran his hands down his trembling legs.

“Red Dog, I want you to stand guard while I speak with Ecan.”

Red Dog scratched his broken nose. “Are you afraid of being overhead, or afraid you might need my protection?”

Annoyed, White Stone ordered, “Just keep watch.”

Red Dog grinned, flipped up his hood, and nodded as they plodded wearily toward Ecan’s. Rain was falling again, the drops pattering on White Stone’s head. At the moment, he couldn’t have cared less. The way he felt, everything below his waist might have been made of stone.

White Stone approached Ecan’s decorated lodge with a look of dread he knew he couldn’t hide. His heart was beating dully as he called, “Starwatcher? War Chief White Stone wishes to speak with you.”

He could hear someone scrambling about inside. The rustling of bedding and a low whimper made him look questioningly at Red Dog before he asked, “Starwatcher?”

“Maybe you’d better check,” Red Dog muttered.

“Keep watch.”

“Yes, War Chief.” Red Dog smiled. “Just wake me when you’re finished.”

White Stone clapped him on the shoulder and ducked into the interior. Larger than most domiciles, Ecan’s stretched three body lengths across. His sleeping hides lay against the west wall beneath a row of weapons. A collection of finely flaked stone axes glinted in the light. From poles above stacks of bark boxes and willow baskets hung a row of skulls.

It was said that Ecan fed them powdered seaweed every day when he was home. When he was away, the slaves had instructions to keep them happy with offerings. The story was that Ecan used to abuse them until old Rides-the-Wind told him that if the souls grew unhappy they could destroy the village.

White Stone wasn’t sure he believed it, but who wanted to take chances?

The bedding moved again, and White Stone squinted, making out a girl, perhaps nine or ten summers old, cowering under the hides.

“Who are you?”

She swallowed hard, eyes huge with fright, but no sound passed her lips.