Badgertail paced aimlessly for a few moments, shaking his head, fighting with himself. Then he went to pull the jug of tea from the shadowed niche in the south wall, where he'd left it to cool. Fumbling, he knocked it sideways so that a splash darkened the floor.
Calm down, he told himself. Do you want Nightshade to think you're a fool?
Carefully, he poured the tea into a small falcon-headed pot. Made from birch twigs steeped in hot birch sap, the tea tasted of wintergreen and honey. He placed the pot and two cups on the shell-inlaid wooden platter that sat atop a thick pile of hides.
Badgertail resumed his restless pacing. When he caught his image in the mica mirror suspended near the doorway, the reflection stunned him. Bulging brown eyes gazed back at him from a weave of deep wrinkles. The tattoos on his cheeks, once bright blue, had dulled to a melancholy indigo. Gray shone in his hair like strands of Spider's web shimmering in the sunlight.
When did you get so old, Badgertail? And when did you start fighting wars that had no honor in them?
Roughly, he massaged the back of his neck to lessen the tension.
Tharon had ordered him to hurl their entire army of a thousand at Redweed Village. Badgertail had protested, convincing Tharon that prudence dictated he leave at least two hundred warriors to guard Cahokia. But eight hundred battle-hardened warriors against a hundred com farmers? How could Badgertail convince his warriors to go through with it? Locust was right. Once they understood the brutality of the order, only a few of them would like it. He would have to figure something out, maybe split his forces into small groups and take only the most "hearty" warriors to Redweed with him.
Soft voices rose outside. Locust called, "I've brought Priestess Nightshade, Leader Badgertail."
Badgertail nervously straightened his tan-and-black kilt. His shell-heavy forelocks swung with his movements. "Enter."
Nightshade ducked through the door-hanging. Beautiful long black hair spilled around her shoulders; her red dress was belted with a delicate cord woven of milkweed threads. It highlighted the narrowness of her waist and the fullness of her breasts. A shell gorget engraved with a human hand draped her neck.
"Please, sit down."
Nightshade kept standing, rigid, vigilant.
Locust leaned through the doorway. "Will you need me for anything else?"
"No, thank you. Locust. I'll escort the priestess back to the temple. Go home and get some rest. You'll be needing it."
"Yes, cousin. I'll see you tomorrow. Good night." She vanished like smoke in the wind.
When Badgertail turned, he found Nightshade staring at him intently. What was it about those eyes? So black and unforgiving, they made a man feel as though he had been castrated with a dull chert flake. And yet so magnetic; it was like looking into the eyes of a coiled rattlesnake.
"Could I get you something to drink?"
"You could. Thank you."
"I have a wonderftil tea . . . and, of course, white drink."
"Tea would be fine."
He knelt on the hides and poured two conch-shell cups while he surreptitiously watched Nightshade wander his house. She scrutinized the shields, touching the painted designs with the intimacy of a mother tending a hurt child. Did they speak to her? Could she discover their bloody history just by laying a hand on them?
"Why don't you sit down. Nightshade?"
"I don't plan on being here long."
"Please stay long enough to finish a cup of tea."
She came across the room like Weasel stalking Mouse, unnaturally quiet, fluid. Her red dress spread in a circle around her when she sat down opposite him. Through the doorway behind her, sparkflies danced against the pearles-cent background of ni^t.
He handed her a cup, noticing how quickly she took it. Their fingers brushed for less than a blink of time. Trying not to touch me. Am I so tainted?
Badgertail sank back, bringing his cup carefully to his mouth to sip. The wintergreen tasted rich and sweet. "Nightshade, I wanted to talk to you to—"
"Tell me about Orenda."
"Orenda?" He gestured aimlessly. "There's not much to tell. As you've noticed, she's a bizarre child. I don't think she's left the temple in four or five cycles. She never plays with . . . with anyone, children or adults. She just skulks around the temple."
"Is she Spuit-touched?"
"No, no. I don't think so. Although—"
"Have you ever heard her speak to anyone but Tharon?"
"To Singw, when she was alive. I even saw her whisper to Old Marmot once."
"How long ago?"
Badgertail drank leisurely while he thought about the implications of Nightshade's questions. Why was she so curious about Orenda? The child had never been more than a trace of mist at Cahokia, less visible than that, if the truth be known. Badgertail remembered being startled several times by coming upon Orenda hiding in the temple, usually crying—startled, because he had forgotten she existed. "I saw her speak to Old Marmot for the first time just a few days before his death. Why do you care?"