Closing his eyes, he concentrated on calling and calling … .
The scent of wet earth filled the lodge. Tsauz reached out to touch the ropes again, and the feathers brushed his hand. They felt cool and soft. What would Father be doing right now? Sitting before the fire in their lodge, thinking about Tsauz?
He missed Father so much it was like a fire in his chest.
A coyote yipped somewhere up on War Gods Mountain, and across the valley, an answering yip echoed. The first coyote yipped again, then howled, and up and down the shore packs of coyotes lifted their voices to join hers. The haunting melody carried on the night.
Coyote. He’s going to be coming for me.
Tsauz held on to the rope and called again.
He was so tired. He’d never been this tired in his life. The lodge started to sway. Back and forth, very slowly, as though Dancing. He could feel it moving all around him.
Rain began to pour out of the sky. He felt sorry for Pitch and Rides-the-Wind. By now they’d be soaked. Should he call to them? Tell them to come back? They could try again tomorrow, or when it finally warmed up.
“No,” he whispered through gritted teeth. “No, I have to do this! If Thunderbird is my Spirit Helper, he may be able to save Father.”
Again and again, he made the deep-throated call until his throat felt like it had been sanded.
He could barely stay awake … .
A hiss came from the rope, and it twisted in his fingers. Tsauz gasped and instinctively grabbed it with both hands, hanging on for dear life.
Thunderbird roared across the forest, and the lodge shook with such violence that Tsauz went rigid, ready for anything.
“I’m right here, Thunderbird,” he whispered. “I’m not afraid!”
The rope coiled around his wrists, tying them together. His heart battered against his ribs with such force, he couldn’t breathe.
The next roar of thunder exploded right over Tsauz’s head. He cried out when the rope suddenly went stiff, like a dead snake in his hands.
“Oh, gods, what …”
“I’m coming, young Singer. Hold on very tight.”
With a jerk, the rope soared upward, dragging him with it as it blasted through the roof and flew away into the rainy sky.
After a terrible night of rain, storm, and lightning, a cool morning wind blew out of the south, tousling Ecan’s white cape and whirling red volcanic sand across the mountain below. He crouched on the rim of the black lava wall behind Fire Village, watching the dawn-gray trails. Red Dog would be due to return this afternoon. None of the scouts, however, had sent word that they’d seen him. Had something gone wrong in Sandy Point Village? Surely Rain Bear would not have killed a messenger from Fire Village?
Slaves walked up and down the trails carrying packs on their backs or baskets propped on their hips. In the distance, down the mountain, he could see people in the Salmon Village plaza. Their gloriously colored clothing flashed as they moved.
After Matron Gispaw’s murder, her daughter, Kaska, had become the town matron. Her first order had been to build an enormous ceremonial lodge where she and a few of her most trusted allies lived—and, no doubt, where they could watch each other’s backs. He didn’t blame her for being frightened. The Wolf Tails were paid well enough that they could buy off almost any guard.
Dzoo emerged from her lodge, and people scattered like ripples of frightened birds across the Fire Village plaza. He watched her through slitted eyes. Every servant they sent her became seriously ill. Now, wherever she walked, people avoided her.
“Are you ever the clever witch,” he mused. “No one has the courage to watch you too closely. Those who do end up vomiting their guts out for days.”
She shielded her eyes and gazed out to the west.
Ecan followed her gaze. Someone ran the trail in the distance. Each time his moccasins struck the ground they left a dark dimple in the trail.
Red Dog?
He glanced back at Dzoo, and his pulse began to pound. She couldn’t see the runner. The palisade blocked her view. How could she possibly know he was out there?
One of the slaves who’d been scraping hides near the central fire glanced up, noticed her, and froze. She nudged her neighbor, and within moments they had picked up their scrapers and left. Immediately thereafter, the flint knappers grabbed up their tools and scuttled inside. In the space of a dozen heartbeats the only people left outside were Ecan, Dzoo, the guards and a few of the Four Old Women’s slaves. They had no choice. They’d been ordered to stay in the plaza, but hushed conversations broke out.
He rose to his feet.
Dzoo’s gaze lifted to him.
It was like being struck by lightning. His fists clenched involuntarily.
Her long red hair danced in the sunlight. She wore a clean maroon dress, and her large spear point hung down between her breasts. She smiled, but her eyes remained as inhumanly luminous as polished obsidian beads.