People of the River(40)

She stood silent for a moment before a deep-throated laugh escaped her lips. When she caught Badgertail's warning glance, she laughed louder, letting her mirth twine rampant through the bright stillness. Even the whimpering Orenda hushed in shock.

"It was hardly you who dragged me back, Tharon, but your whims are certainly the reason I'm here," she said smoothly. "So you killed Old Marmot. What—"

"You liar! How dare you suggest such a thing?" he thundered, his eyes darting to the Starbom, hovering hesitantly over his child. They whispered among themselves.

Nightshade paced lithely before the pedestal, her dirty red dress adhering to the curves of her body like a second skin. "It wasn't a 'suggestion,' and I doubt very much that Marmot's Power Bundle would lie to me. It was there, after all, when he stumbled back into his room after you poisoned him."

Badgertail rose to his feet so fast that he tripped over his own boot and had to grab the altar to keep from falling. Nightshade's demeanor had changed dramatically. Was this the same woman who had lain sobbing like a child only a short time ago? Power now emanated from her, lacing her deep voice and adding a sensual fluidity to her movements. Could this be another of the faces of Sister Datura? When she smiled, a haunted gleam entered her eyes.

"What did Marmot find out, Tharon? What is it you've done to anger the gods so much that they've abandoned us?"

Tharon leaned on the sacred pedestal and picked up his handspike, lifting it as if to rap it, but he didn't. His mouth puckered into a pout. For a long time he stood absolutely still, studying her.

"Do you know that Old Marmot believed you were a witch?" Tharon's teeth flashed. "He said that you were breathing death into the Wellpots. I could have you killed on that suspicion, you know." He made a wide, sweeping arc with his hand. "Everyone would approve."

Nightshade lifted a brow challengingly. "I'm the only one left who can breathe life into the pots, Tharon. Kill me and you'll cut yourself off from the Underworld forever. And without First Woman's guidance, you'll doom your people to oblivion."

Tharon slammed his spike down onto the pedestal and fought to suppress tears. "We're already doomed! Look at what's happened to us!" he screamed. "M-Mother Earth refuses to grow trees. First Woman won't send rain, and when she does, the floods kill our crops!" He flung his spike across the room. It hit a firebowl and tumbled end over end until it struck the wall with a dull thud.

One of the Starbom, a homely young woman named Kettle, gasped as oil trickled out of the bowl. She ran to grab another off the altar and replace the cracked one, chanting frantically all the while. Kettle must have become the new Firebowl Tender. If so, she would never set foot outside the temple, forever monitoring the Sun Chamber's bowls to assure that nothing snuffed their light. Tharon watched her with disgust on his triangular face.

"Enough!" he shouted. "Bring me my handspike."

Kettle finished replacing the bowl and carefully shifted the wick before she scampered to return the spike. She bowed as she handed it up to Tharon. He jerked it from her fingers, ordering, "Now go back to your place with my child."

"Yes, my Chief." She ran back to the western side of the chamber, her feet pattering like a frightened squirrel's.

Tharon toyed with his spike, tapping it into his palm before he gained the courage to descend the altar steps and approach Nightshade.

She watched him silently as he circled her, a speculative quirk to his mouth.

"I'd no idea you'd grown up into such a beautiful woman," Tharon said furtively. "I've heard that your Power has grown by equal bounds." He circled her again. "Do you know what I did for you?" he asked with a mixture of childlike joy and apprehension. When Nightshade did not answer, he shouted, "I had your old room prepared!"

Nightshade glared at him from the comer of her eye. "Why did you order me brought back here, Tharon?"

His mouth opened and closed. "I . . . well . . ."He shrugged and smiled, circling her once more. "We grew up together, you and I. Remember when you taught me how to make grass bracelets?"

Nightshade responded softly, "I remember."

His face lit witii a pained warmth. "And remember when you taught me the steps to the Spring Com Dance that your people used to do?"

"Yes."

Badgertail cocked his head. It was curious that he had never considered die probability that Nightshade and Tharon had been friends. He had never thought of anyone as being Tharon's friend, but Tharon had been eight when Badgertail had brought Nightshade to Cahokia; she had been four. Both of them babies. Both lonely. Of course they would have sought out each other.