People of the Raven(152)
He lifted a hand. “I think so.”
Dzoo closed her eyes for a moment, as though thanking the gods. “And the fetishes. Why did you bring them?”
Pitch let out a breath. The lodge smelled fragrant, a mixture of roasted sea lion and black seaweed. “Rides-the-Wind wanted me to ask you about one of the fetishes.”
“Which one?”
He held up his thumb and forefinger to show her the large size. “It’s obsidian—in the shape of a coyote. It took me a long time to determine the one that—”
“Contained the man’s voice?”
Pitch went numb. The hair on his arms prickled. “How did you know?”
Dzoo smiled. “I heard his voice the first time I touched the bag.”
Filled with dread, Pitch asked, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because he was calling to you. You had to hear it for yourself, or it meant nothing.”
“Hallowed Ancestors, Dzoo,” he said loudly without thinking, then made an effort to lower his voice again. “What does it mean? Who is he? And how did his voice get into the Coyote fetish?”
She shoved long red hair over her shoulder, and the tiny lines around her eyes deepened. “Now you know why I have to hunt down Coyote. He has enough Power to capture souls and imprison them inside those fetishes. I just don’t know if it was in the past or in the future.”
Pitch sank back against the wall and rubbed his forehead. The orange gleam of the fire fluttered over his hand. “If we knew whose voice that was, maybe we could stop it from happening.”
A strange haunted smile touched her lips. “What if he deserves this fate?”
He just stared at her.
She smoothed her fingers over the soft buffalohide she sat upon. “Those fetishes are more than just magical stones. You know that, don’t you?”
It felt like an earthquake building in his heart, ready to shake his world apart. “Yes. And?”
Her black eyes flared. “That bag is an army of ghosts for the man who knows how to use it.”
Pitch had trouble swallowing. The fire’s gleam seemed to close in around him. “Rides-the-Wind thinks he’s the most Powerful witch to exist in a long time.”
“Very possibly.” She ran a hand through her long hair. “I haven’t had the chance to ask him.”
Fear swelled like a black bubble in Pitch’s chest. “Are you saying he’s here? In Fire Village?”
Dzoo tilted her head, as though considering. “He is often here. He comes and goes. But he’s never far from me for long.”
Pitch reached out to touch her hand. “Do you know who he is?”
“Not yet. But I will. When he wears the mask, I can smell damp moss. At other times …”
Her voice faded as footsteps crunched the sand outside.
A man gruffly asked, “What are you two fools doing? And why do you both have your hands cupped over your balls? War Chief White Stone wishes to see both of you. I’ll stand guard while you’re gone.”
Dzoo sat up straighter, one elegant eyebrow cocked.
“But, Red Dog,” Deer Killer objected, “Ecan told us to stay here until dawn. I’m in enough trouble, I don’t wish to—”
“Yes, yes,” Red Dog said irritably. “That was before the great chief changed his mind. White Stone has convened a war council around the central fire. That lazy Wind Scorpion is missing, so you are each going to be leading war parties tomorrow.”
Whispers broke out, both men asking questions at the same time.
“Don’t ask me,” Red Dog said. “Go and get your orders straight from the war chief. I wouldn’t keep him waiting too long. He’s in a foul mood.”
The guards grumbled, then pounded away into the dusk.
Dzoo rose to her feet with the silence of Wolf and stared at the doorway.
A few instants passed.
Red Dog ducked his head through the curtain. He gave Pitch a gap-toothed grin that was anything but reassuring. His gray-streaked black hair was pinned back in a bun, which made his broken nose stand out even more. A tattered deerhide cape draped his burly shoulders.
“Tell me quickly,” he whispered. “I’m leaving tonight.”
Dzoo hissed, “The slaves say that Astcat and the other matrons will lead the group, encircled by the best spear throwers. Cimmis will bring up the rear. He’ll be dressed as an ordinary warrior. It won’t be easy to spot him. He—”
Someone walked up the trail outside, his steps as soft as spider silk. He carried a torch; its orange gleam edged the door like liquid flame. Red Dog’s eyes went wide a second before he ducked back outside, taking up his proper guard position.
The torch’s gleam strengthened as the man came closer.