“Lambkill will reward you richly. He’s a very wealthy man.”
“We don’t want any reward. Except the chance to see her die.” Fiercely, Harrier threw his tea into the smoldering fire and watched it sizzle on the chunks of charcoal. “Buffalo Bird was our youngest brother. He was fun-loving and adventurous, always making people laugh.” Harrier’s face contorted. “Our village will mourn for days. And our mother Buffalo Bird was her favorite son.”
“I understand,” Tannin said. “We will welcome your help.” “Yes,” Lambkill said, “we will welcome your help.” He stood and surveyed the area. “It shouldn’t take us long. I can read the night’s events very clearly. She attacked Buffalo Bird up near the rock outcrop and then they rolled
down the hill and struck that big oak tree, where she killed him.
“And after that,” he continued, “she ran away into the forest… there.” He nodded at the place where Kestrel had entered the trees. He could identify each dead branch she had cracked in her flight. Did she imagine that the depths of the forest would be safer than the trails? Foolish woman. In the tangles of undergrowth and the mounds of deadfall, it would be almost impossible for her to hide her tracks. Especially now. She had a head start of no more than twenty hands of time.
Lambkill laughed. “She can’t hide from me. If she climbs over a log, I’ll find the place where the bark is scarred. If she follows a game trail, I’ll see her moccasin prints beneath hundreds of deer hooves.”
Harrier asked Tannin, “Is he really that good a tracker?”
“Yes. He’s the best. He—”
Tannin halted when Lambkill knelt by Buffalo Bird’s body. With sure fingers, he removed the pack from around his waist and unlaced it. “Lambkill. No! Please!” Gently, Lambkill lifted the dead baby from the pack and stood him up on the wound in Buffalo Bird’s chest. The tiny body had mummified perfectly. He’d created the boy’s clothing by slicing off the beaded sleeve of his extra shirt and cutting holes for the child’s stiff arms and neck. Lambkill had found two perfect green stones in a streambed. He’d inserted those into Little Coyote’s empty eye sockets and sewn the lids open. He could do nothing about the boy’s tiny, shriveled mouth. It had sunk to create a round hole in his face.
“See, Little Coyote,” he said huskily. “Your mother did this.” He tipped his boy forward so he could stare down at the bloody hole made by the tapir ulna. “She’s a murderer. We must find her and make her pay.”
When Lambkill saw that Tannin and the other men had stopped talking to stare at him, he rose and carried Little Coyote over to their circle. Two of the brothers stared at
the baby with distaste. It triggered Lambkill’s rage, but he kept his anger hidden and smiled. My own brother thinks I’m mad. Tannin would pay for that look a thousand times over. He should understand. He, of all people! He was there that day!
“I promise you, we will avenge Buffalo Bird’s death,” Lambkill said.
“Yes,” Harrier agreed, nodding too quickly. “If we can find your wife.”
“You needn’t worry about that.” Lambkill stepped away from the gathering and lifted Little Coyote over his head, then closed his eyes and, a step at a time, started walking in a circle.
He heard Harrier whisper to Tannin: “How did he do that? To the body, I mean.”
Tannin answered, “It’s something he learned from the People of the Masks up in the north. They clean out the gut cavities of their dead children, then they smoke the bodies to dry them. They believe that it ties the children’s souls to their bodies forever.”
“And your brother believes it?”
“Yes, I—I guess so.”
“He acts like he thinks the boy is still alive. Does he?”
Tannin responded softly, “He’s not well. He’s gotten worse since Kestrel escaped.” Rage traced fire through Lambkill’s veins. But he maintained his stern control.
“Gotten worse? Was he all right before?”
“He stayed gone a lot, on the trading trail. I can’t say when this… this began.”
They’d never seen! None of them had been that far north. But Lambkill knew. With his’ own ears, he’d heard those dead babies talk. He’d heard their disembodied voices coming through still mouths, directing, guiding. And already he could sense the first stirrings of a voice in Little Coyote. Though the Dreamers among the People of the Masks claimed that it often took years for mummified children to