“Yes, what is it?”
“He said to tell you he loves you and is trying very hard to save you.”
“Save me? Me?” Ecan asked in confusion. “From what?”
Pitch walked around him and embraced Dzoo. She rested her chin on his shoulder and stroked his back, as though comforting him. In a soft voice, she asked, “You told her?”
“I did.” Pitch pushed away to meet her gaze. They just looked at each other. Each appeared relieved and happy to see the other.
Ecan frowned. How could she know what message he’d brought?
How can she know any of the things she seems to? Does she truly see the future? Or is there a spy in Fire Village? Someone carrying messages between her and …
He suddenly felt weak.
It was the only answer.
Dzoo said to Pitch, “Have they assigned you a lodge?”
“Chief Cimmis told me that after I spoke with you and the Starwatcher, I would be confined to—”
“No.You will stay with me.” She glanced at his arm. “I need to see to your wound. Your journey may have harmed it.”
He wet his lips nervously and looked around Fire Village. “Will they allow it?”
“Let us hope they do not interfere.” She gave Ecan a lethal glance, put her arm through Pitch’s, and started leading him toward her lodge. Just loud enough for Ecan to hear, she said, “What of the fetishes? Did you bring them with you?”
“Yes.” Pitch touched his belt pouch.
“What fetishes?” Ecan called.
Pitch looked like a boy with his hand caught in the berry basket. “I—I brought something for Dzoo. It’s actually hers to begin—”
“Hunter! Remove his belt pouch and bring it to me.”
The young warrior trotted forward, untied the hide pouch from Pitch’s belt, and handed it to Ecan. He jerked the laces open and pulled out a small leather bag painted with red coyote prints.
In less than three heartbeats, his hand stung, as though being bitten by a thousand tiny ants. Fearfully, he whispered, “Where did you get these?”
“You don’t know?” Dzoo asked.
“No!” Ecan hastily tied the bag to his belt and tossed the empty pouch back to Hunter. “Return this.”
Pitch stared in shock. “Starwatcher, you can’t take that! I’m a messenger! Under the protection of—”
“They do not belong to you, young Healer,” he said.
Dzoo challenged as she whispered, “Lift the sack to your ear, Ecan. Tell me what you hear?”
Ecan hesitated, searching her half-lidded expression for some sign of a trick. Pitch had a wide-eyed look, part wary, part fearful. Ecan lifted the sack, and never taking his eyes off Dzoo, listened.
Only the faintest of voices seemed to come from the bag, but voices nonetheless. The rim of his ear began to burn, prickling like his hand. A cold shiver, as if driven by a winter blackness, ran down his spine.
“I heard nothing,” he lied.
Dzoo’s lips parted, her eyes like the swells on a midnight ocean. “Did you hear your own voice, Starwatcher?”
“My voice? Don’t be ridiculous.”
She tilted her head, red hair spilling. “Then perhaps he’ll just let you die in peace. I thought he would want you, too.”
“What are you talking about? He? He who? And why would he want me?”
“I want my bag back,” Pitch said stiffly, and extended his hand.
Dzoo’s long hair fluttered around her shoulders as she released Pitch’s arm and walked toward Ecan. “Do they belong to you, Ecan?”
He opened his mouth to respond, but Hunter said, “Starwatcher? The chief is motioning you to the Council Lodge.”
Ecan shot a quick glance to confirm that Cimmis was waving. He started up the trail, but his steps faltered when a sudden dark sensation swelled from the bag and filtered through his chest. He looked down.
Whispers. I hear whispers. They’re calling my name.
In a series of flashes, he saw dozens of faces: some old, some very young. All had their mouths open: screaming or crying, he couldn’t tell. They reached out to him.
“Yes,” Dzoo said softly, her voice penetrating past the whispers. “They think you can save them, Ecan. They don’t know you, do they? And more important, you don’t know them.”
It required great effort for Ecan to walk all the way to the Council Lodge.
Fifty
Cimmis crouched before the fire that Kstawl had built in their lodge. Worried in a way he hadn’t been in years, he laced his hands over one knee and watched Astcat pace near the door. On the way back from the Council Lodge, wind had torn locks of hair loose from her bun; it hung around her face in glistening silver threads. She kept propping her walking stick, staring at the floor, then taking a step, turning, and walking back in the other direction.