An amber shimmer glided from the crack. Lichen watched in awe as the shinmier slithered down over Wanderer's legs and formed a pool on the floor.
"Lichen?"
She saw Wanderer opening the trap wider. In a sudden flood, light gushed out, fountaining up in blinding golden waves. Lichen gasped when it touched her. It felt cool. The light Danced, forming into strange, birdlike patterns that flapped across the room, circled her head, then hovered to stare at her through glittering eyes. Bird-Man's Helpers. They carried messages. Lichen waited for them to speak.
"Don't be afraid," someone said.
Lichen did not understand what she should be afraid of. This was beautiful. The Light Birds fluttered closer, coming so near that she could feel the puffs of their wings on her face. Suddenly she felt the wings flapping inside her chest, soft, erratic, and her body lifted off the ground, rising higher and higher. Then the deep rumble of Thunderbird echoed tiirough her soul, and the light changed, forming into the face of a man. He had eyes so kind that they tore at her heart. His smile turned forlorn. Remember the owl, little one. Remember . . .
The light burst into flame around her. It engulfed the Power symbols on the walls and spread down to explode in Wanderer's blankets. Thunderbird roared again, the sound deafening amidst the crackling of the flames. Fierce yellow tongues licked toward her, devouring her hair, burning her flesh until it peeled from her bones!
"No!" Lichen screamed. "Stay away!"
She lunged for Wanderer's door. The light pursued in a vast golden torrent. "Help! Help me!"
She dove out into the darkness and weakly got to her feet.
Like a pouncing beast, the light swallowed her up again— glittering in a blazing whiripool. Lichen ran, heedless of direction. She screamed, "Wanderer? Wanderer!"
Something heavy tackled her and knocked her to the ground. "Lichen, it's all right. You're all right! It's Wanderer. Shh . . . shh!"
She saw his face hanging in the blaze, but the light faded like paint diluted by water, thinning until nothing remained but the darkness.
"Wanderer?" she called weakly.
His eyes had gone owlish. Behind him, in the house. Lichen could see the trap lying on its lid by the side of the fire. No light streamed from it now. She looked up at Wanderer and started to sob in great choking gulps.
"Oh, don't do that. It's all right." He gathered her into his arms, where she buried her face in the folds of his buckskin shirt. He smelled pleasantly of smoke and sweat. "You don't know what you did, do you. Lichen?"
"What?" She gazed up at him through blurry eyes.
Wanderer smiled. "YouyZew. I've never seen anyone learn to fly so quickly. You'll have Falcon's soul before you know it."
"Maybe I don't want it anymore. Wanderer. The light hurt me!"
"I know," he said as he stroked her hair. "That was my fault. I shouldn't have pushed you so fast. But you did it. Lichen. For just a moment, you flew!"
Long before dawn, they put on heavy coats and hiked to the gray hump to let Father Sun go.
Badgertail stood stiffly atop the mound, watching the burial procession move past the line of torches that marked the route across the starlit plaza. Chanting undulated on the still air. Six warriors, three men and three women, conveyed the litter bearing the body. They moved like ghosts in the windblown glare of the torches, visible one instant, gone the next. Behind them came Moonseed and her clan members, with all of the servants who had ever attended to Bobcat's needs. Their wailing rose on the quiet night, as pathetic as a newborn's mewl. There must have been ten in all—^most of them young women.
Badgertail gritted his teeth, trying not to think about it . . .
Eighteen members of the Sunbom followed next in line, beating drums or shaking gourd rattles, waving prayer feathers over their heads. Nightshade led the group. She looked ethereally beautiful. Her red dress had been painted with pigment made of crushed galena mixed with oil. The resulting silver color gave the stylized serpents, crosses, and hand symbols a gaudy splendor.
Lastly, Tharon rode in a curtained litter, borne on the shoulders of eight muscular attendants, their hickory-oiled skin gleaming as they approached.
Badgertail waited at the northern end of the log-lined tomb excavated into the mound. He refused to look down into that terrible glittering darkness. Tharon had ordered that Bobcat be placed on a blanket of twenty thousand shell beads, dozens of chunkey stones, and arrow points. It represented the finest work of special artisans—ten lifetimes' worth of wages for a single com farmer.
Bobcat would have hated it.
The bare breeze whispered forlornly to Badgertail, and he thought he heard Bobcat's voice calling out in a final good-bye.