People of the Raven(26)

Antler Spoon’s jaws clamped, as though he was afraid to say more.

“Who?” Pitch shouted. “Who did you Trade?”

Antler Spoon pointed to the dead woman. “We had to give him someone!”

“Antler Spoon, answer me. Is this Dzoo?”

“No. Sweet Grass! We were too afraid to give him Dzoo! Broken Sun, he say, Dzoo’s Spirit Helpers swoop down upon us and tear us to pieces!”

A small tendril of relief wound through Pitch, to be followed by guilt. He could hear Whisker crying softly somewhere behind him.

“Who did you Trade Sweet Grass to?”

Antler Spoon’s sticklike arms flailed uncertainly. “We call him ‘Coyote.’ Don’t know his real name. Or even what he looks like. He wear a coyote mask! He been coming here for moons, watching us. We knew he out there. Many of our people seen him. But he never tried to harm us or speak to us, so we don’t worry about him. Then, two nights ago, he came down from the forest and found Broken Sun.”

Coyote? Pitch frowned. The same Coyote of whom the Trader had spoken?

Antler Spoon stepped forward, and his grip tightened on Pitch’s arm. “He ordered us to bring him Dzoo! There was nothing we could do! He say if we didn’t give her up, witch sickness and his warriors would kill my people. Broken Sun told me the whole thing.” He took a deep, shuddering breath and let it out slowly. “We protect our village! Protect Dzoo! Sweet Grass dying!”

“Look! Out in the trees!”

A soft rasping sounded as stilettos and knives were drawn clear of leather sheaths.

Pitch’s blood began to pound. He followed the pointing fingers to a spot in the darkness. A slender black shape wavered among the shadows cast by the firs.

Ragged Wing shook his head. “Who is it?”

Pitch muttered, “I don’t know, but he’s coming straight for us.”

“Is Broken Sun?” Antler Spoon asked and lifted a hand to shield his eyes against the glare of the torch.

Pitch blinked, trying to make the darkness congeal into a recognizable shape. After several moments, he let out the breath he’d unconsciously been holding. “It’s … it’s Dzoo.”

“You certain?” Antler Spoon’s voice quavered.

“Yes.” Pitch took a steadying breath. “No one else moves with that inhuman grace.”

Dzoo seemed to float around the boulders, her black buffalohide cape swaying around her tall body. The hair had been turned in for warmth, and magnificent designs decorated the exterior suede: black lightning, spirals, strange birdmen, and huge rainbow serpents. A dreadful stillness possessed her. The Cougar People began to shift uneasily.

Pitch called, “Dzoo? Are you all right?”

She entered the halo of torchlight. “Gather your things, Pitch. We have no more business here.” Then her gaze faxed on Antler Spoon.

A curtain of long reddish brown hair swayed around Dzoo as she silently marched toward the old man. Not even the snow crunched under her feet. Antler Spoon went still, like Crab suddenly coming face to face with Seagull.

Dzoo stopped three hands short of the chief and stared at him through eyes as black as polished obsidian and strangely luminous.

A dripping sound caught Pitch’s attention. He looked down and saw drops of blood speckle the calf-deep snow at Dzoo’s feet.

“Dzoo, are you hurt?” Pitch reached out to her.

Dzoo’s delicate brows arched as she bent closer to Antler Spoon, extended her arm, and let something fall from her hand. It sank into the snow like a hot rock.

She whispered, “Betrayal is a costly business, Antler Spoon. Costly in every way.”

Antler Spoon stammered, “Wh-what are you talking about? I don’t understand.”

Dzoo turned, met every eye in the crowd. “Run. While you still can.”

Silently, she walked away toward the village.

No one moved; then they surged forward, asking questions, shoving each other to get a better look at what she had dropped.

Elder Ragged Wing dug it out of the snow: A globular thing, heavy, and covered with thick black—

A cry lodged in his throat as he scrambled backward. “Oh, Blessed gods. It’s someone’s head. It’s … it’s Broken Sun!”

Pitch couldn’t turn his gaze from it.

Astonishment filled the wide, dead eyes, as though at the very last instant, Broken Sun could not believe what he was seeing.





Ten

Evening Star chafed in the confines of the small lodge Rain Bear had ordered built for her. Round, with a bark roof and walls, it measured but three paces across.

Yesterday afternoon, dour-faced women had brought her supplies: blankets, food, cooking pots, even hair combs and drab but serviceable dresses. She’d stacked everything along the east wall. In the pale amber gleam of the flames, the place looked shabby, rude, and unfamiliar—the sort of thing a hunter would throw up as a temporary shelter.