People of the River(107)

"Into thinking we're still in the south?" Hailcloud asked.

Basswood added, "In the south and burning our way north."

Hailcloud balled his fists. For two days he had been asking himself the same agonizing questions. How many fires are enough? Will too many look suspicious? How are the small harassment parties doing? Have our lookout parties managed to capture and kill each of Badgertail's runners to keep him from gaining any information? If Badgertail falls for our ruse, where and how will he position his warriors?

"I don't know," Hailcloud said. "We're counting on him going north. I pray he does that. If he goes south instead ..." He shook his head.

Bull Tine ran a hand over his dirty ridge of hair. Dislodged dust swam in the fading light. "When do we join forces with Gourd's warriors?"

"Tomorrow—if everything goes as planned." Father Sun, let it be so. "We need to hear What's happening in the north."

"I'm sure Petaga has everything organized."

"Yes," Hailcloud assured him. "Of course he does."

But doubt gnawed at his ribs. When Petaga had ordered him to lead the diversionary war parties, Hailcloud had objected, arguing that Petaga needed him close at hand in case something went wrong with their plans. The instant we engage Badgertail, something will go wrong. There were too many variables in warfare to be certain of anything. But Petaga had maintained that he could handle the initial attacks if Hailcloud would just create enough confusion to keep Badgertail wondering what they were up to.

Basswood leaned forward to unlace his water sack from his pack, which lay against the back wall. He opened it and took a drink, then handed the sack to Hailcloud. "Everything is a gamble. Let's all pray that Father Sun agrees with our cause. Did anyone catch sight of movement in the bottomlands today?"

Heads shook all around, and worry sank knives into Hailcloud's gut. Where could Badgertail be? What trap was he laying?





Twenty-three


Lichen sat on her bed, her chin propped atop her knees. The yellow spiders on the walls whispered to the Stone Wolf, barely audible, brooding. She strained to understand their words. Strange that she had never heard them talking before, though she had slept in this room thousands of times. But Power was loose on the night. She could feel it nipping at her flesh with tiny fangs.

She fiddled with the red spirals on the hem of Wanderer's green ritual shirt, creasing them between her fingertips while she studied Wanderer and her mother. They sat cross-legged near the dead fire in the middle of the house. They'd lit no firebowls and had lowered the door-hanging for privacy. Opaline shadows, soft and translucent, fell over them.

If Lichen had to listen to their silence much longer, she wouldn't be able to breathe. What had they said to each other before she'd entered? Something bad, she guessed. Her mother's face looked stormy. Wanderer smiled sadly while he drew magical signs in the hard-packed dirt of the floor.

Is that what the Stone Wolf and the spiders were discussing? Their voices had dropped even lower.

Lichen turned away to gaze out the window. As she watched. Moon Maiden's face slipped above the craggy skyline near where she and Wanderer had talked to the rocks. The tumbled boulders stood like dark sentinels against the silver undercoat of moonlight.

Can Bird-Man come and help me? The rocks say that he has never left you . . . but I saw him fly away through my window.

This window.

Lichen tilted her head inquisitively. Maybe Bird-Man did live inside her—like the shadow of her soul, always there, but not really. She'd known in the Underworld that he was coming, even before she'd seen him flying through the sky. As if their souls touched somehow.

"Vole," Wanderer said very softly. Lichen's heart started to pound. "You don't have to believe my Dream, but—"

"I don't believe it," her mother responded in a low, shaky voice. Anger and hurt flashed in her eyes. "I think you've taught Lichen enough. Maybe I won't let her go back to see you ever again!"

Wanderer's fingers continued to draw magical designs in the dirt, but the deep wrinkles around his eyes tightened. "Dreamers are not made in ten days, Vole. Thunderstorms do not come from wisps of cloud. Lightning is more than a tongue of fire. If Lichen has to learn on her own, the pain will probably drive her away from Dreaming. Power has chosen her. This is not something you or I have a say in. She will be a Dreamer. The only choice we have is whether we help her . . . or leave her to stumble around trying to find her own way."

"Some people do better stumbling around than being guided by a crazy old . . ."

Her mother suddenly stood up, and Lichen jerked involuntarily. Tears stung her eyes. She pulled her lips in between her teeth and clamped them tightly to keep them from trembling. She just wanted to live with Wanderer for a little while longer—she didn't want to hurt her mother.