"I think we'll be a lot happier."
"Yes, but ... I mean . . . well, do you think that the remaining villages will work together? After all, Cahokia has been the center of our chiefdom for hundreds of cycles. Trade was handled for the benefit of every village. Cahokia has organized and funded the traders, then redistributed the exotic 'things' we've gleaned so that each village could trade them for what they wanted. And—" he hesitated, struggling to recall exactly how Aloda had put it "—^the villages have always paid tribute to keep trade going. What will happen when there's no longer a need to pay tribute?"
Gopher's eyes sharpened. "Ah, you mean to ask, do I think the trade will fall apart?"
"Yes, that's what I mean. Do you?"
Gopher turned so he could study the stars. They twinkled with an uncommon brilliance tonight. His long hair draped over the green diamonds woven into his tan blanket. "Probably."
Gopher had spoken so blithely that Petaga's mouth dangled open. "But if that happens, what will we do?"
"Fight each other, I suspect." Gopher grinned. "Which is nothing new. We've been fighting each other for tens of cycles. That's the way it was before Keran's Dream. That's how it began, with Wolf Slayer and Bird-Man, both brothers, fighting. We've always fought. Never with as many warriors as now, but haven't you noticed? Cahokia's palisades aren't exactly new, and other villages have even older earthen embankments or flimsy stockades—out of fear of their 'relatives.'"
"So you think we'll be at each other's throats? Worse than now?"
"Umm . . . no." Gopher's smile went as hard as a quartzite hammerstone. Even in the darkness, Petaga could see the glint in his eye. "There won't be as many of us when this is over. Those who aren't killed outright will be stupid not to run for their lives. I suspect that two thirds of us will be gone when this war is done." Gopher paused to inhale deeply of the earth-scented night. "You've seen the endless lines of people fleeing with their possessions strapped to their backs. You didn't imagine that they'd come back, did you?"
"But why wouldn't they?" Petaga blurted. "We're building a better life for them!"
Gopher vented a close-mouthed chuckle. "We're building a better life for us, cousin. Anyone who can afford to keep trading when this is through will be wealthy beyond his imagining. Prices will soar because unusual goods will be scarce. The Sunbom, with their treasure troves of lace, galena, copper, and seashells, will make out like thieves."
Petaga's stomach knotted. Aimlessly, he formed tiny peaks in the golden fabric over his knee, then smoothed them away again. Anger mixed with disgust within him to form a bitter brew. "Is that why you agreed to give three hundred warriors to this fight?"
"Of course," Gopher said. He smirked as though Petaga were a child. "Do you believe that your reasons—^revenge and hatred—are more noble?"
Didn't Gopher understand that River Mounds was fighting for the salvation of their way of life? That they hoped to make things easier for everyone, especially for the Commonbom, who suffered the most in times of hunger and deprivation?
Gopher casually turned sideways on his blanket, apparently sensing the emotional waves Petaga was riding. "You're such a boy. Moon Chief. You must learn to see the world through the eyes of a man. We—"
Petaga rose with as much dignity as he could find and bowed at the waist. "Excuse me, cousin. I promised to talk to Hailcloud's son. Spoonbill, before I retired tonight."
Petaga started away, but Gopher's insidious voice stopped him.
"Spoonbill? He's your age, isn't he? Yes, good idea. He'll understand you. All children your age have grand notions of right and wrong."
"At least we make a distinction, cousin."
Gopher's mouth quirked. "When you're rich and fat—then we'll talk about it. We'll see if you draw the line in the same place."
Petaga strode out into the darkness, his heart bursting. He had tried so hard to be like his father: honorable, open to new tiioughts, sensitive to the needs of anyone in trouble, calculating in war.
But as he sped through a dense brier of buffalo currant, those traits seemed suddenly unimportant. Oh, Father, I wish you were here. Like flesh shocked by an arrow point's keen edge, his grief, grief he had been suppressing for days, awakened to choke him. Tears burned his eyes.
"Father," he whispered, "what would you have done? Would you have sat back like Aloda did and hoped for the best? Wouldn't you have fought? Father ...?''
A finger of wind ruffled his hair—gently, affectionately— and a sob welled in Petaga's throat.