White Stone lowered his spear. “I’ll tell them, but they won’t understand any better than I do.”
Dzoo gave White Stone a teasing smile. “The chief wishes me to be comfortable. Ask yourself why.”
Cimmis rolled his hands into fists, the muscles in his forearms popping and straining.
White Stone glanced at his chief. “Then you must be willing to tell us about Rain Bear’s plans. I am relieved that you’ve come to your—”
“Rain Bear’s plans?” Her laughter was crystalline. “You think Cimmis worries about Rain Bear’s plans?”
Cimmis tried to hide his alarm, making his voice louder, more confident. “White Stone, take Dzoo to her old lodge. She’ll tell you where it is.”
“Yes, my Chief.”
Cimmis walked away, slowly, acting as though he had all day to make it back to the safety of his lodge. Every eye in Fire Village watched him.
White Stone grumbled, “Deer Killer, apparently you’re going to live to see sunset this day. But if I were you I wouldn’t repeat my dereliction of duty. Do you understand?”
“Yes, War Chief.” His body was trembling, and Dzoo watched it with a certain glee.
When Cimmis was out of hearing range, White Stone hissed, “I don’t know how you got out of the captives’ lodge, witch, but I’m taking no chances with you. You’d better be very careful.”
She bowed her head and smiled.
As they walked into the lower half of the village, children came racing out from behind a lodge and circled around, shrieking in joy, as barking dogs nipped at their heels. When they noticed White Stone, panic gripped them. Like a flock of spooked birds they retreated to the edges of the plaza to let him pass, eyes like huge dark holes in the world. A strange silence descended.
“It seems, War Chief, that you have a Powerful effect on the small and frail. Would you like to know what the Dead think of you?”
“Just walk, witch.”
She studied the painted lodges in awe. The lifelike renderings of Eagle, Killer Whale, Grizzly Bear, and Owl were the product of a people who never had to scramble for a living. “How many North Wind People are left in Fire Village, War Chief?”
“You mean pure North Wind?”
“Yes.”
His steps faltered, but he regained his composure quickly. “How many were here when you left?”
“Almost ten tens.”
“There may be eight tens now.”
Eight tens. “At that rate, the village is losing one a year. In another eight tens of years, there will be no purebloods left.”
Water puddles dotted the ground, muddying their moccasins. She watched White Stone as he considered her words; they seemed to be eating at him like a termite in an old log.
“Did Cimmis order all of the other North Wind People killed?”
“Some of them,” White Stone admitted, “but there weren’t many left to begin with. Six and ten summers ago, when Tlikit fled with her lover, they started leaving. Several have died over the cycles. Astcat begged the North Wind People from the neighboring villages to come and live here. A few did.”
“Does it bother you to serve a dying people?”
“I don’t understand. You’re one of them. A pureblood, but you favor the Raven People.”
“Poor War Chief,” she whispered. “How lucky you are. You need not look past your orders. I envy the simplicity, if not the quality, of your life.”
White Stone’s gaze shot involuntarily back up the hill. She could feel his nerves prickling, see it in the set of his shoulders. When she followed his stare, it was to see Ecan standing outside his lodge like a carved statue. His long hair hung loose around his tall body. His eyes might have been coals glowing through a darkness of hatred.
It didn’t matter; she was going home. Already she could sense the ghosts of her ancestors, hear the whispers of Power coming from the aged wood and bark of the house where she was born.
As she walked up and placed a hand on the familiar doorway, she heard her mother’s ghost crying.
“Yes, Mother. I know. He is hunting me.”
Thirty-eight
Morning light fell across the ocean, reflecting from the curls of mist that twined along the beach. Rain Bear took another sip from his teacup as he stared out at the islands offshore. Despite the early hour, men were plying nets in the muddy water. Another whale had been harpooned, almost swamping the canoe as it sounded. The hunters had regaled the crowd with the story of their perfect cast—the harpoon skewering the blowhole—and their wild ride while the suffocating whale thrashed.
After the carcass had been towed ashore, people had swarmed it, using large obsidian knives to process the blubber and rich red meat. Not even darkness had slowed them. By torchlight, the whale had been rendered to bone.