"Actually, it's not Tharon who wants you. It's Nightshade. She told me that you'd found the way to First Woman and that I had to protect you and bring you back to Cahokia. Do you know the way?"
Wanderer peered at Badgertail in silence. Locust looked pensively from one man to the other. Knowledge glowed in their eyes—dark. Powerful. The sounds of the day intensified. The call of a meadowlark boomed in Locust's ears, and the whisper of the wind through the dogwoods turned ominous.
"Yes," Wanderer responded.
"You do know the way to First Woman?"
"I do."
"Then we must get you to Cahokia quickly. Perhaps, if the rains come and Mother Earth grows fertile again, we can end this madness."
Wanderer stared down at his long fingers. "I don't think so, Badgertail. We need guidance from First Woman, all right, but this 'madness' will not end until Tharon is dead. So long as he's alive, he'll keep knocking the Spiral out of balance. It's his way."
"What are you talking about?"
Wanderer straightened and faced Badgertail. "What does Tharon want with the Stone Wolf?"
"He's on some . . . Power quest. A trader told him about it. I don't know why he wants it—he just does."
Badgertail's brows drew together. "Why? Do you know where it is?"
"If I told you yes, what would you do?"
"Demand that you turn it over.**
"And then?"
"Then I'd assign a small war party to escort you and the Wolf back to Cahokia."
A gulp bobbed in the flabby folds of Wanderer's throat. **And my friend?" He tilted his head toward the woman, who fought to keep her face impassive, but a flush had crept into her cheeks.
Badgertail turned and glared at the latticed shadows cast by the dogwood limbs. Splashes of sunlight flowed into the spaces of the dark weave, forming a pattern like scattered bits of amber. He said, "She won't be going."
Vole slowly wilted against the rock. Wanderer moved his moccasined foot over so that it touched hers in encouragement, but he spoke to Badgertail. "And if I refuse to reveal the location of the Wolf?"
Badgertail swung around harshly. Locust could see the indecision on his face. Nightshade wanted Wanderer. Badgertail couldn't kill him for refusing. Badgertail's eyes went over Vole quickly.
"You would bargain for this woman's life? Is that what you're telling me? All right. Wanderer. I will grant you that. Tell me where the Wolf is."
Wanderer shook his head. "No. Not you, Badgertail. I can't. The Wolf is a very great Power object. It's not a thing of warriors. But I will tell Nightshade. She's the Great Priestess at Cahokia now. Isn't that true?"
"Yes, but—"
A childish scream tore the day. Badgertail spun on his toes as Locust sprinted to the edge of the rocks. Near the overgrown bank of the creek, Southwind, kneeling, struggled for a moment, then hauled a young boy out of the weeds by the scruff of his neck. The boy twisted wildly, kicking, biting, trying to wrench free of Southwind's iron grip.
When Southwind lifted his war club to kill the boy, Locust shouted, "No! Wait! Bring him here."
"Why?" Badgertail asked.
"Children are less skilled at lying. Perhaps he knows where the Stone Wolf went."
Southwind tramped into the grove and threw the boy on the ground with a grunt. Maybe eleven or twelve summers old, the child was big for his age. He had small, dark eyes and a crooked nose. He scrambled to his knees, breathing hard.
"What's your name?" Locust demanded gruffly.
"Screechowl," the boy responded. He wet his lips in fear. When his gaze landed on Wanderer and Vole, hope blazed in his eyes.
Locust exchanged a knowing glance with Badgertail. "Screechowl, what happened to the Stone Wolf?"
"Why don't you ask her?" the boy responded, jerking his head toward Vole. "She's the Keeper."
Badgertail didn't deign to glance at Wanderer or the woman. He motioned Locust back and knelt before Screechowl, staring hard into those young, terrified eyes. "Which house belonged to Vole?"
"The one at the southern edge of the village—close to the creek."
Badgertail looked up at Locust. She shook her head. **We checked. We found nothing in the ashes of that house."
Badgertail turned back to Screechowl. "Where could it be if it wasn't in the house?"
"I don't know. Maybe Lichen has it."
Wanderer lurched to his feet. Badgertail's jaw hardened. The old man's wrinkled face had gone as white as snow. Through the gaps in the rocks behind Wanderer, in the patches of blue sky, wisps of clouds painted graceful swirls.
"Who is Lichen?" Badgertail asked.
Wanderer said nothing.
Screechowl piped up, "She's her daughter." He pointed at Vole, who squeezed her eyes closed in response.