Tharon lunged breathlessly to his feet. "Is . . . is Tick-seed the only one who was plotting behind my back?"
Redhaw lifted her hands noncommittally. "She's the only one who spoke out against you, my Chief. The others, well, they just sat by mutely. Only I refused to take part in Tickseed's plan."
"But, my Chief!" Tickseed hobbled forward, her ancient arms lifted in supplication, while she tried to focus on where she thought he must be standing. "This is sheer fantasy! None of my clan would—"
"You are guilty of treason!" Tharon judged. "Kill her!" He waved to his guards. "I will have no traitors in our midst!"
The Conmionbom jumped to their feet, yelling and begging for Tharon to retract his order, shouting defenses. But he turned his back on them and stamped toward the temple doorway. The dry grass crunched under his sandals, increasing his rage. Would it never rain?
Only Primrose's masculine voice could have halted Tharon's steps. The berdache ran up with his hands outstretched, pleading, ""Please, please, my Chief. Do not do this thing. Tickseed is innocent! I swear, she never suggested we turn against you. She only—"
"That's enough." Tharon put a hand on Primrose's flushed cheek and caressed it softly. "It's too noisy out here. Come inside and talk to me."
Primrose's face slackened in fear, but he swallowed and nodded. "Yes, my Chief."
Tharon held the door-hanging back for Primrose to enter the amber glow of tiie temple, then lowered it and turned. The guards held Tickseed's withered arms, waiting. The old clan leader had started to weep from her sightless eyes. "My Chief, please!"
"I'll have no traitors in my village!" Tharon nodded to the guards, then ducked beneath the door-hanging to take Primrose's muscular arm.
Tharon heard Tickseed let out a gasp when the guard's arrow struck her heart.
Elkhom's sandals raked the gray limestone as he squirmed his way toward a dense clump of rice grass that grew in the cracks of the rocks. The tawny stalks had barely seeded out before they'd withered. Such a dry cycle. Had there ever been one drier? Not in his memory. The grass crackled as he slid through it to reach the crest. Gingerly, he pulled himself up and peered over the edge. A huge camp filled the depression below.
Dread needled his chest. He fought the urge to leave this rock and run with all his might. But to do so would betray the warriors waiting in the distance, depending upon him. He had rejoined forces with Woodchuck and Bittedax.
Black Birch, you fool. Why didn't you stick to the plan and meet me south of Bladdernut Village?
Elkhom and Soapweed had led their warriors to the specified copse of cotton woods and found it empty. Not even Badgertail had been there. That, more than anything, terrified Elkhom. If Badgertail could have come, he would have.
Elkhom wiped at the sweat rolling off his stubby nose. He had tracked Black Birch's war party, noted their southerly heading, then swung around in a wide arc to see what Black Birch had gotten himself into. In the process, they had cut tracks from several other war parties, and the story had become clear.
A trap . . .
Sounds rose from Petaga's camp: muted voices, dogs barking. But few warriors walked through the intense heat of the day. Those who did moved quietly around the rocky spring in the bottom of the hollow. Elkhom did not see anyone wearing gold, but perhaps Petaga had dropped the symbol of the Sunbom for this battle-walk.
Elkhom crumpled onto his stomach. A gust of wind rasped through the rice grass and frosted his arms with a tan coat of chaff while he tried to think his way out of this mess. Flies buzzed and wheeled around his sweaty body.
The floodplain spread to the west, the flat expanse stippled by ponds and isolated trees; a few seedlings had managed to take root far enough away from villages to survive. The western bluff stood as an implacable backdrop to the blue ribbon of the Father Water. Along the shore, ragged squares of cornfields fringed the boundaries of villages.
The highlands to the north and south supported small villages on nearly every rolling swell of land. Elkhom wondered idly if any of those villages remained intact. He had seen so many refugees fleeing eastward, to get as far away as they could before the slaughter broke loose, that he doubted it.
Slaughter of my people, he thought sourly. / have to get word to Black Birch and the other war-party leaders who've camped outside of One Mound Village. Must warn them before it's too late. . . . And where's Badgertail?
With the grace of Snake, Elkhom backed down the incline, hoping the rice grass would cloak his movements.
Thirty-four
A furious gust of wind moaned through the firelit halls of the temple, penetrating the cracks in the roof and walls and chilling Nightshade's skin where she sat cross-legged on the floor of her room beside Orenda. The little girl was watching her own fingers twisting restlessly in her lap. She had been talking, to Nightshade's relief, though her words came with difficulty. Orenda wore one of Nightshade's robes, long and red. Nightshade had rolled up the sleeves and knotted the hem to shorten it to the right length. Orenda's black hair fell over her shoulders, cloaking the misery on her face.