People of the Raven(54)

“Very possible, but don’t be too hasty. There are other North Wind elders who would be more than happy to have a witch on their side.”

He considered that, thinking of Old Woman North and the stories of her endless visions that seemed to make less and less sense.

“Your daughter is unsure of what to make of me.”

“How so? Your status among us should be apparent.”

She lowered her voice. “I think she is more concerned about our relationship.”

“Our … ?” He struggled to keep both his voice and heart in check. “No, I’m sure you’re mistaken. If Roe were concerned, she would simply—”

Hornet shouted “Halt!” and trotted forward, his spear lifted, preparing to cast. Someone moved in the dark trees ahead.

Rain Bear pulled Evening Star behind him, shielding her with his own body. “Who’s there?”

An old man wandered the dark shadows cast by the trees, hands held high. Gray hair and stringy beard blew about his oblong face, but nothing could hide the Power that lived in his dark eyes. In a reedy voice he cried out, “Pray the gods, do not kill me yet. At least until I have warmed my bones. Then you may skewer me like a packrat in a berry basket.” He paused before adding, “Chief Rain Bear”—he bowed respectfully—“I come in peace.”

Evening Star cried, “Rides-the-Wind?”

Hornet backpedaled hurriedly.

Rain Bear gaped. “Rides-the-Wind? The Soul Keeper?”

The old man squinted as though he couldn’t see their faces in the darkness; then he strode forward in a ragged swirl of hides and enveloped Evening Star in his arms. “I’m so glad to find you safe. When I heard you’d escaped, I feared the worst.”

Hornet swung around to face Rain Bear and hissed, “How did he get past our guards? He should have been stopped!”

“Yes, yes. For now, find someone to clean out the storage lodge behind mine—most of the food’s been eaten anyway—then send a runner to my daughter asking her to bring food, blankets, and anything else she thinks might help.”

“But Great Chief,” Hornet protested, “he’s the most Powerful of all the North Wind Seers.”

“Yes, and now he’s here.” The gods alone know why.

As Hornet hurried away, Rain Bear turned to find the old man’s glittering eyes fastened on him like a falcon’s on a field mouse.

“I’m here, Chief Rain Bear,” he said calmly, “because you need me.”





Seventeen

Pitch was sitting up when he drifted off to sleep. His head lolled on his lax neck. He jerked back—and pain shot through his abused arm, burned across his shoulder, and hammered his fatigued and fevered brain.

At his pained cry, Roe asked, “Pitch? Are you all right?”

He blinked, seeing her across from him where she wiped Stonecrop’s bottom with dried moss. She held the gurgling little boy by the ankles as she swabbed, then threw the soiled moss into the fire, where it smoked, caught, and began to burn.

“Just trying to get comfortable,” he lied. There was no such thing when a man’s arm was raging and fever laced his mind with floating visions. Even now he could hear the faint cries of Coyote’s fetishes, and wondered at the malignant Power that filled them.

“Would you like another cup of tea? It will help to keep you warm during the night.”

“Please. I’ve been dying of thirst all evening.”

Roe dipped a wooden cup into the tea bag and brought it over.

Pitch took it and, for an instant, saw his reflection in the dark liquid. His beaked nose made him resemble a bird of prey. The mellow tang of dried cranberries rose. He took a long drink and rested the cup on the buffalohide covering his belly.

“There’s something I didn’t tell Rain Bear.”

“What?”

“I’m not sure what it means … if it means anything.” The teacup trembled in his hand.

She watched him silently, waiting for him to find the words.

“When I first touched the obsidian fetishes, I heard a voice.”

She frowned and slid closer to him. “A voice?”

“Yes.”

“Whose voice?”

Wind Woman’s chill fingers reached through the entryway and stroked Pitch’s body. He set his tea down and tugged the buffalohide up to cover his naked chest. “I don’t know. A man’s.”

Roe filled a wooden cup for herself and rested it on her drawn-up knee. For several moments, her gaze fixed on their son. “Did the voice sound like anyone you know?”

“No.”

She turned toward the bag that lay like a painted egg in the dark brown buffalo hair. “Why would a man’s voice be in the fetishes?”