Orenda frowned. Then suddenly a smile lit her face. "You know what. Lichen?"
"What?"
"I'm going south. Nightshade's taking me." Eagerly, Orenda got on her knees and leaned closer to Lichen. She whispered as though it were a secret. "But not to the Swamp People's lands ..."
Wanderer knelt beside Nightshade, studying the care with which she searched the ashes. Her fingertips brushed the blackened remains of the cattail mats that had once graced Tharon's floor. "What are you looking for?"
"They've been calling me," Nightshade replied softly. "When the fire reached this room, I could hear them screaming my name."
"Who?"
"The Bundles, necklaces, and other Power objects that Tharon stole."
Wanderer cocked his head. A smoke-scented breeze rus-ded through the gutted remains of the temple, tousling his gray hair around his face. "I don't hear them."
"That's because they're not calling you."
Nightshade's hand stopped moving. Her fingers tightened around something, and she drew an iron-covered human jaw from the ashes. The iron had been pounded into a thin sheet, then wrapped around the bone. Wanderer leaned forward to peer at the place where she had found it. The mummified body of a dog, a puppy, lay beside a stone palette stained with red paint. Nightshade gathered the remains and put them in her basket, murmuring, "Don't worry. We're going away."
She stood up and closed her eyes, letting her soul lead her to the next place. Wanderer followed. Nightshade stepped around a toppled bench, knelt, and gently blew away the ash blanketing a large soapstone pipe. The face of Otter stared up at her, carved expertly from the soft green stone. Inside the bowl of the pipe were two fishhooks and a stone net sinker.
Wanderer heard a soft male voice come from the pipe, followed by the echo of female laughter and the sound of waves striking a shore. "The things Bundles remember," he said. "I wonder who they were."
Nightshade stroked Otter's side fondly. "People of the sea. I can smell the salt in the air—just like the traders describe. And I hear—"
Orenda's giggle made them both turn. She had placed her ear atop Lichen's head, over the bald spot where Wanderer had taken out the circle of skull.
"Do you hear it?" Lichen asked.
Orenda smiled broadly. "Yes. Th-That's First Woman's drum?"
Lichen nodded. "She told me that I would always be able to hear her playing my Death Song, to remind me of how I got Falcon's wings."
"You had to die?" Orenda pulled back. "She killed you?"
"No. My Spirit Helper, Bird-Man, tore me apart with his beak and swallowed me."
Orenda stood rigid, her eyes wide. "I don't think I'd want him for my S-Spirit Helper."
"Oh, it was all right," Lichen said. "I needed him to kill me. When he pecked away my head, I grew bird eyes, and then I could see the Road of Light that ties the sky to the earth."
Lichen turned to smile at Wanderer, and his heart warmed. She had changed. Power radiated from her. He could see it in every move she made.
A commotion broke out in the plaza below. For days people had been straggling in from all over the chiefdom, seeking food and shelter in the aftermath of the war.
Nightshade rose and took a step forward to watch the line of people climbing the steps of the Temple Mound. Meadow Vole led the way, a little boy hot on her heels, taking the steps two at a time. When they reached the top of the mound, the boy broke into a headlong run. Lichen gasped, "Flycatcher!"
"Lichen! Lichen!" Flycatcher yelled as he raced across the charred grass to throw his arms around her.
"Oh, Flycatcher, what happened to you?" Lichen cried, feebly hugging him back.
"We went up and hid in that hole where you and Wanderer talked to the rocks. We stayed there for two days, with no food or water. Then we sneaked away in the middle of the night. We—"
Wanderer walked through the burned debris and stood beside Vole. She smiled up at him.
"Vole," he said, "we must talk. Nightshade is leaving. She wants Lichen to stay on as Petaga's priestess."
Locust set another log into the ground trench she had dug for their new house, then caved dirt in around the base to keep the log in place. Primrose walked toward her, dragging another log down the path that led through the gutted village outside the palisades. His long hair glinted blue-black in the sunshine. He had been wearing the same yellow dress for three days, but it still looked clean and fresh. He seemed almost well again. Nightshade had sent a healing poultice that drew the infection from the flesh. Locust had forced Primrose to use it first; then, when his wounds started to heal, she had placed it on her own leg. Today, for the first time, she could walk without pain.