"But, my Chief ..." Badgertail shook his head in disbelief. "They are inconsequential. Let me concentrate my forces—"
"No!" Tharon shouted imperiously. "You will attack Redweed Village and . . . and bring me the Stone Wolf that resides there."
''The what?"
"The Stone Wolf. A trader told me about it. It's supposed to have great Power."
Unable to contain his incredulity, Badgertail blurted, "You have dozens of such objects, my Chief! What good would another do you? And a Stone Wolf? How would I even recognize it? It could be a necklace, a bracelet, a pipe, anything! Why are you so interested in these Power objects?"
Tharon's face reddened, and Badgertail braced himself.
Nightshade laughed. "He's trying to protect himself. That's it, isn't it, Tharon? You think that if you can mass all the Power objects in the world around you, you'll be shielded from First Woman's wrath." Understanding dawned in her eyes. "And that's why she's draining their—"
Tharon's eyes darted wildly over the room, as though he feared everyone was laughing at him. "I want that Stone Wolf! Badgertail, you will attack Redweed Village and get it!"
His heart thundering, Badgertail bowed very properly. "Yes, my Chief."
Black Birch turned eagerly to the sacred pedestal. "And then Badgertail will join forces with the rest of us to destroy Petaga?"
Badgertail's stomach cramped. Already his mind had begun running battle plans, and he could see cycles of war, one after another, not ending until thousands had died. Bile rose in his throat.
"Yes," Tharon agreed. "Then he can help you. Is that understood, Badgertail?"
"Yes . . . yes, of course."
Tharon stepped from the altar and left the room, his head high. When he had vanished down the hallway, Badgertail rubbed a hand over his face, as if to wake himself from a wrenching nightmare. "Black Birch," he said softly, "let's meet tomorrow. It will take time to organize. We'll talk about details."
"It can't take too much time, Badgertail. Petaga's next stop is Red Star Mounds. They've three hundred warriors left there. If he manages to convince—"
"I understand," Badgertail said shortly. "We'll discuss it at dawn."
Black Birch cast a wary look at Nightshade before he bowed and left.
Badgertail's eyes focused blindly on a single firebowl that flickered on the verge of going out. He couldn't muster the will to call Kettle to come and fill it.
Nightshade rose.
She came to stand in front of him. "Tomorrow, after Wolf Pup rises. Send the escort. I'll be ready."
Sister Datura's knowing laughter echoed.
Nightshade exhaled slowly. Her fingers traced the designs on her sacred basket before she put it down by her knee. The soft sounds of the sleeping temple crept into her room: someone snoring, poles creaking and moaning, the rustling of the wind through the roof thatch. Nightshade leaned forward. Her Wellpot sat on the floor in front of her, its black shape almost invisible in the darkness.
"I'm coming. First Woman. I'm coming. Open the Gate to the Well of the Ancestors."
The water had a faint yellow sheen from the light that seeped beneath her door-hanging. Images flashed across the surface: Singw violendy shaking Orenda . . . Orenda fleeing through the temple, searching one room after another until she found a stack of blankets to crawl behind . . . Old Marmot staring into his Wellpot like a wounded vulture . . . and Tharon . . . Tharon stalking the halls . . .
"What is this, my Sister? I must talk to First Woman. These glimpses tell me nothing. Let me go deeper."
"First Woman has closed the gate. No one may enter. It's just you and me tonight, Nightshade. Here, in this world."
"What? Why? What have I done to deserve—"
Nausea overwhelmed her. She rose to her feet and reeled across the room, trying to reach her bed. Halfway there, she vomited onto the floor. She sank down, pressing her hot cheek to the cool dirt. "Oh, my Sister, be gentle with me."
Seventeen
The long, deeply blue twilight of the Planting Moon had settled over the countryside, bringing with it Wind Mother's fury. A gale had come up last night, roaring, blasting everything in its path. Now a potent gust slapped at Wanderer's fringed sleeves as he paced the ledge in front of his house; then it tormented the chokecherry bushes before soaring over the precipice into the meadows below. As Wanderer surveyed the land, his thoughts hardened like raindrops in the grip of Winter Boy. Smoke drifted in the south, rising from Spiral Mounds. A great purple smear trailed across the horizon. War!
. . . And Lichen hadn't awakened in two days. He ran a hand through his matted gray hair. She lay lifelessly on the litter inside his house.