"I don't know. There are so many warriors, I can't know them all."
Locust glared at him with impotent fury. In the quiet depths of his eyes she detected pained understanding and sympathy. Shame reddened her cheeks.
"I'm sorry I hurt you," she said softly. "My anger isn't directed at you."
"No, I . . . I know that."
She held out her arms, and Primrose quickly came to hold her tightly. He nuzzled his cheek against her hair, and his muscular body felt suddenly frail in her arms, too frail to endure her bouts of rage. Locust patted him absentmindedly while her thoughts raced over the implications of what he'd told her. So the warriors had started to accuse Badgertail of sentimentalism. Well, what if it were true? Did that make him less a leader? With a sinking stomach, she realized that the answer to that was "Yes." A war leader had to maintain a hard, practical exterior. Any display of weakness shook the confidence of every warrior around him. Vulnerability made a leader unpredictable, and therefore unreliable in times of stress.
The fact that she understood that truth did not make it any easier for her to condone disloyal remarks from other warriors.
Locust tightened her grip around Primrose's waist. "Thank you for telling me. I need to know such things. It gives me time to prepare in case . . . well, in case something comes of such talk."
He pushed back slightly and gave her the boyish smile that always overturned her heart. "Locust? Could we go back to bed? I want to love you. I missed you when you were gone."
"I missed you too, Primrose."
He bent to kiss her gently. The feel of his arms around her, the steady rhythm of his breathing, comforted her—as it had for fifteen treasured cycles.
Nine
The lilting flute called to Lichen where she sat shivering in her blanket at the northern edge of the plaza. Several other children dozed around her with their backs against the houses, or entwined with their dogs for warmth. The old people and mothers with tiny babies sat hunched against the houses on the south side of the plaza. Moon Maiden had peeked over the eastern horizon, but her light cast no warmth on this cold night. Lichen pulled her blanket up over her icy nose so she could breathe down the front and warm her chest.
The fire where white drink was made had begun to die down, and the last of the sacred drink had been exhausted. Several times Lichen had heard men complaining that in the old days, traders had brought enough of the herb from the southern coastal lands that the drink could last all night. For the last couple of years, it was said, Redweed Village had paid too much com for the little they had received.
Lichen sighed. White drink was for grown-ups. She and the other children had Danced until very late, then been sent out of the plaza to nap while the grown-ups finished the ceremonial. Lichen could see the Dancers, silhouetted before the flames of the fire. Singing as they bobbed up and down. Six circles of people wove about like a tangle of snakes.
Old man Wood Duck, with his maimed leg, stood at the edge of the circles and Sang, shaking a gourd rattle as he swayed back and forth. The firelight reflected in his reverent eyes. He had the scratchiest voice in the village, but it didn't matter. The only thing that mattered tonight was that First Woman see the goodness in their hearts. If they kept their souls pure and treated each other well. First Woman had taught, she would go to Mother Earth and Father Sun to speak for humans. Then the rains would come and the crops would erow tail.
Flycatcher mumbled something in his sleep and elbowed Lichen before he rolled to his side, dreaming. She squirmed to get the kink out of her back.
The Dancers blurred together m her tired vision, seeming to sink into the darkness and cold. Only their voices and the tinkling bells on their moccasins assured her they hadn't been sucked up by the Water Spirits that haunted the ceremonials. All of the pigments that humans used for painting their bodies came from the bones of the Water Spirits, and on nights like this one, when so many colors flashed, the Spirits were drawn to the souls of their dead ancestors. They came to watch from the shadows, sometimes to Dance, sometimes to steal a bad child and take him to their home beneath the lakes.
A gust of wind swooped over the rock outcrops and soared down, blasting the plaza. Lichen closed her eyes against the whirling ashes and sand. The fire sputtered, sending a shower of sparks upward into the blackness.
Flycatcher rolled over and scooted forward so he could lay his head in Lichen's lap. "I'm cold," he whispered. "I wish it was over."
She stared down at his round face. Ice had formed on the tan edge of the blanket closest to his nose. "I'm cold, too. But you know we can't go in until the Dance is done. First Woman might get mad."