But they would have to wait, at least until after he had talked to Wolfdreamer and knew better where his path led.
He had avoided the opportunity to let her speak her feelings.
And she knew that he’d done it deliberately—sparing them both—because he feared, as she did, that the next time he saw Wolfdreamer, the Spirit might tell him to start using some of those gruesome techniques-that Dreamers had spent thousands of cycles devising.
Kestrel lifted her fingers to finish the route that led to
the heart of the maze. But when she touched Sunchaser, her hand froze.
The auks squawked suddenly, and the mammoth cow lifted her head. Helper growled and stood with the hair on his back bristling. Kestrel gaped, startled, then she felt it, too: a fluttering like velvet wings at the edges of her soul. A tremor shook her as Power flowed into her from all directions, creeping from the trees and animals, from the rock she sat upon, from the very air itself. She had never felt it so strongly before. Like a frostbitten foot thrust into warm water, the sensation grew more painful as moments passed; it seeped upward and inward from her fingers and toes until it enshrouded her whole body in a tingling cocoon.
“Blessed Spirits …”
With difficulty, Kestrel concentrated on finishing her painting. Her hand shook as she threaded the yellow strand through the red segments, around the black and between the white lines. It required painstaking attention not to cross over, not to smudge any of the maze’s colors.
When at last she’d reached the center of the tree—the heart of the maze—Kestrel’s arm ached so badly that she could barely hold it up.
Darkness had settled like a hazy charcoal veil upon the land. Mother Ocean washed the beach quietly, as though aware that Sunchaser Dreamed, and was careful not to disturb him.
Kestrel lowered her arm and let out a breath.
Helper crept closer, to within four hands of the mammoth cow, and stared knowingly at Kestrel. Then his gaze shifted to the painting on Sunchaser’s broad back.
“What do you think, Helper?”
The dog wagged its tail.
Kestrel shivered in the chill breeze that rustled through the aspens. She would have to build a fire soon. But for a short while, she wanted to sit and stare at her artistry. The sense of lightness ran like spring breezes through her blood. It felt so good to be painting again, as though a severed limb had been miraculously reattached to her body.
The bright colors formed a glorious picture, the strands winding in and out and around each other. . Already she could feel the first stirrings of life in the painting.
Catchstraw didn’t breathe.
He sat stone still, watching, listening. The distorted maze at his feet had been forgotten.
The swooping creatures observed him with unblinking eyes as they soared through the trees. Moonlight reflected blindingly from the translucent membranes of their dragonfly wings. They had come upon him suddenly, invading his forest sanctuary like quills shot from a terrified porcupine.
Since he no longer had a private lodge, he had been forced to move his secret activities out into the open. He couldn’t risk lighting a fire, so he’d been working the maze in darkness… and the Thunderbeings seemed drawn to his activities like thirsty beasts to water.
Perhaps because he’d done so well tonight! Twisting the path like a knot of screw bean vines, stretching some runners out into linking, interwoven spirals.
The Thunderbeings dove at him. Were they… angry? Trying to frighten him away? They streaked through the forest like silver darts, coming close enough to rip off his head with their talons!
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered hoarsely.
The human faces glared down at him. They looked like children of no more than five summers. Some of them had the fat faces of infants barely out of the womb. And their wings! The smallest stretched a single body’s length, but the largest spanned five or six body lengths. How could they maneuver so gracefully through the dense forest? But Thunderbeings had magical souls.
How had he summoned them?
The more Catchstraw became entranced by their motions, the more his mouth gaped. “It must be the nightshade.”
He had found the purple flower at the edge of the meadow, in the dry, rocky places beneath the oaks. Though he’d never seen the plant before, he had recognized it immediately from Running Salmon’s description: “It has a bright-yellow center and frail, violet petals, transparent, almost too purple to believe.”
How wise he’d been to demand that Oxbalm take the village into the foothills! He’d found half a dozen new Spirit Plants, and he wanted to try every one of them. When Catchstraw had first seen the purple nightshade, he’d dug it up roots and all. Then he’d begun experimenting. First the blossoms. Then the leaves. Tonight he’d ground the roots and mixed a small amount with his tea.