Tsauz stared in blind disbelief. “Rides-the-Wind? Truly?”
“We will try, my son, but I can’t promise anything. He is old … and he recently gave me a hint that his health might be in jeopardy.”
Tsauz sat back on the hides and let the sense of wonder fill him. Very few boys received instruction from the old Soul Keeper. The idea made Tsauz’s thoughts swim. In a hushed voice, he said, “I would like him to teach me, Father.”
“I’m sure. I would have given my very life to have been taught by that crazy old man.” Bowls clattered as though Father were stuffing them into a hide bag.
“Didn’t he wish to teach you?”
“Well, he might have, but my grandmother said he was dangerous. She wouldn’t allow it.”
Tsauz wondered about that. Wouldn’t allow it? Rides-the-Wind was one of the most holy men in the world. Why would any matron not jump at the chance of having one of her descendants taught by such an august man?
Father finished tucking their few possessions into the bag and said, “We must hurry. The slaves have prepared breakfast around the central fire. Let’s eat so we may be on our way. I want you to be very brave today. In fact, I’m counting on it. Just keep this one thought in your head: We are going to War Gods Village for the ceremonial. Nothing more. Understand?”
“Yes, Father.” But he had to ask himself what more there might be than the ceremonial.
Fourteen
Pitch blinked. Disbelief had just begun to set in. He’d been hit. The sticky blood cooling his skin, the stinging agony and insult to his flesh, couldn’t be denied. Blinking again, his vision blurred as Dzoo rushed him toward the village.
Am I going to die? The question slipped sideways through his mind as he hurried down the familiar path. Sudden nausea gave him the slightest warning. His stomach lurched, and he pulled away from Dzoo to vomit. She didn’t even allow him the simple relief of wiping his mouth. The bitter taste of bile and acid lingered on his tongue as she propelled him forward.
Woozy and wobbling, he stumbled along. Voices were shouting. He caught the image of one of the young warriors, a village guard, as he stepped out of the trees. Dzoo seemed to be speaking from a great distance, giving orders.
The world began to spin, and Pitch whimpered in fear.
Am I dying? Was that the hazy loose sensation that curled into the pain?
They passed more trees, vision jerking with each step. Then they were in the village. He should have been relieved at the sight of the familiar houses.
“Easy, Pitch,” Dzoo told him firmly as she lowered him to the ground. Glad to rest, he hunched forward, holding his wounded arm. A crowd gathered, whispering, asking questions.
He looked into Dzoo’s eyes as she bent over him, inspecting his wound. Her words seemed to vibrate in his bones. “You’re safe now. I must go after him.”
“No!” he had wits enough to protest. “Wait! Take warriors with you.”
Dzoo ran cool fingers down his cheek, her smile like a sunrise. “It isn’t that easy.”
He pressed his eyes closed, forcing himself to concentrate. “Dzoo, you can’t …” But when he opened them again, she was gone. Vanished.
He stared around at the gathering people, searching in vain for Dzoo. Then Roe pushed her way past the gawking crowd. He smiled up into her face. It was all right. He could die now. Looking terrified, she leaned over him, fingers probing his blood-soaked wrappings.
“I’ve sent for Father,” Roe said. “He’ll be here soon.”
She was tall and slender, with a triangular face and slanting brown eyes; she looked older than her ten and six summers. The hood of her eagle feather cape waffled in the wind as she threw his clothing back to better examine the wound.
“How bad is it?” His voice stuck in his vomit-choked throat.
“You’re bleeding.”
Roe pulled the obsidian knife from his belt and sliced the wrapping Dzoo had put on him. Blood immediately began to well in the two punctures.
“Gods!” she cried, and cut a long strip from the bottom of her leather dress. When she began wrapping it around his wound, the pain almost blinded him.
Roe cut the ends of the leather bandage and tied it; then she wiped her blood-slick hands on her red leggings. “When the bleeding stops, we’ll remove the bandage and clean …”
A din went up from the crowd, and Pitch saw his father-in-law shoulder through the press with War Chief Dogrib close behind. Dogrib’s long braid hung over his shoulder like a glistening white snake. His pink skin had an eerie yellowish glow in the morning light. It took a moment for Pitch to place the North Wind woman who walked at Rain Bear’s left: Matron Evening Star.