People of the Thunder(148)

“And the Albaamaha?”

Blood Skull jerked his head toward the side of the mound. “Just out of sight. Amber Bead brought them just as you said he would.” He made a face. “I don’t like the idea of Albaamaha leveling charges against Sky Hand in our own tchkofa.”

Old White gave him a disarming smile. “You’d like a revolt even less, warrior. But think about it: In the eyes of Power, isn’t justice, justice?”

“Are you always this persuasive?” Blood Skull asked suspiciously.

“After all my years, I would hope that some sort of wisdom has stuck to these bones.”

“Let us go,” Seven Dead said. “I can see Smoke Shield descending the Sun Stairs.”

Old White nodded, following the man up the wooden stairway to the palisade. “And Green Snake?”

“He’s already inside with Heron Wing and Pale Cat.”

“No questions about his pack?”

“No. Should there be?”

“I’d hope not.”

Blood Skull shook himself as if dispelling some presentiment, and then they nodded to the guards. “I just hope you can be as persuasive here as you were last night.”

“More so, warrior. Wait and see.”

Seven Dead gestured his respect as they passed the guardian posts, then hesitated at the doorway. “Elder, have you given any thought to afterward?”

“How’s that?”

“No matter what happens today, it has crossed my mind that you might need protection.”

Old White considered that. “I thank you for your offer, but somehow, I think not even Smoke Shield will dare to threaten me.”

Blood Skull said darkly, “That tells me you know nothing of your enemy. A man who will kill someone under the protection of the white arrow won’t hesitate at cracking your skull.”

Old White raised an eyebrow. “I came home to die. If that’s what it takes to bring Smoke Shield down, so be it.”



Flying Hawk tried to keep his legs from trembling as he descended the Sun Stairs. It wasn’t enough that he hadn’t ordered the repairs—men were too busy trying to clean up after the windstorm. This morning his thoughts were on anything but the increasingly treacherous steps. Smoke Shield had caught him just as he stepped out into the great room. His nephew had clamped a hard hand to Flying Hawk’s throat. Jutting his face close, he’d said, “I know what you’ve done, old man. I know the depths of your treachery! If you weren’t on the way to the Council, I’d deal with you right now.”

And he had thrust Flying Hawk away, leaving him to stumble against the wall, coughing and massaging his throat while his heart hammered.

“Gods,” he whispered to himself. “He’s going to kill me for sending those warriors north.”

And Blood Skull? He’d have to be warned. Who knew the extent of Smoke Shield’s rage?

“I’ve been a fool . . . such a fool.” He reached the bottom of the staircase, for once heedless of the pain in his knee. The ache in his heart drowned any other discomfort.

He bowed to the Tree of Life and then reached out to run his fingers along the curling white stripe on its side. “I have always been tied to the red Power, but today, I can only wish you would smile favorably upon me.” Then he remembered the dead Yuchi, and blood on the white arrow. No, white Power would never forgive that. He switched to the red, rapping it with his knuckles, binding himself to its Power, and continued on his way.

A small collection of people waited around the guardian posts. Today’s Council wouldn’t generate much in the way of excitement. The discussion of the palisade was the most important consideration, though Smoke Shield’s attack on Two Beavers might rear its ugly head.

He touched his forehead in respect as he passed the guardians, and climbed the steps to nod at the hard-eyed guards. What lay behind their worried stares? Some presentiment that boded him ill?

He touched his forehead as he passed the lines of clan totems and sighed, stopping just short of the doorway. Were there a way, he’d be rid of this whole business. He was tired of being high minko, tired of Smoke Shield and his schemes, tired of his entire life.

At the rasping sound of wings, he looked up, but found no great bird hovering above him in the sky.

Willing himself forward, he entered the hallway and stepped into the tchkofa. The fire, as always, was burning brightly. Since the storm, the boys who tended it had found no shortage of snapped wood to replenish the fuel stocks.

The chiefs sat in their respective places, though a crowd had gathered behind the Panther Clan. He walked to his stool behind the altar, aware of Smoke Shield’s cunning glint. The man was smoldering, his anger apparent. But never had Flying Hawk seen his own murder behind those eyes.