People of the Thunder(16)

Everything was where it was supposed to be. The pole beds lined the walls, dimly illuminated by the glowing coals in the central hearth. Overhead the thatch roof was lost in the darkness. She drew cool air into her starved lungs, aware of fear sweat cooling on her too-hot body.

“Morning Dew,” Heron Wing called again, her voice softer now. “You were Dreaming.”

Morning Dew rubbed callused palms into her sleep-heavy eyes. “Yes . . .”

“A bad one?” Heron Wing asked.

“I’m all right,” Morning Dew insisted. “Go back to sleep.”

“Mother?” Little Stone asked from his bed. “Morning Dew? You screamed. Is something wrong?”

“Everything’s fine,” Heron Wing insisted gently.

Morning Dew watched the woman across from her sit up. She could feel Heron Wing’s piercing stare through the dark. Sense the question that rose inside her.

“It’s all right,” Morning Dew added, laying her blanket to one side and swinging her feet to the mat-covered floor; anything to forestall Heron Wing’s next query. The split cane beneath her soles was warm as she stepped over to Stone’s bed. Despite the dim light she could see the little boy’s face, make out his wide dark eyes staring up at her. “I’m sorry I woke you.” She forced a laugh and lied, “I was playing stickball in the Dream. I just made a goal. You know how that is. I’ve heard you scream, too, just like that, when you made a goal.”

“I guess,” Stone answered. But she could hear the hesitation in his voice. Heron Wing’s son was just as smart as his mother. Nevertheless, little Stone worshipped Morning Dew’s ability as a stickball player, and an adoring gleam had filled his eyes ever since Morning Dew had won the women’s solstice stickball game for Hickory Moiety.

“Go back to sleep, Stone. Dream of stickball and all the goals you will make.”

She could barely make out his smile as she tucked his colorful blanket up around his chin. Then she retreated to her bed, thankful that Heron Wing’s other slave, Wide Leaf, was spending the night with her new Albaamo lover. It would save her from suffering the nasty old woman’s knowing gaze and thinly veiled comments.

Morning Dew reseated herself on the edge of her bed and pulled her blanket up around her shoulders. A quick glance told her that Heron Wing had lain down again. The woman’s blanket rustled, and the pole bed squeaked as she resettled her weight.

Screaming Falcon . . . we would have been so happy.

But her brother Biloxi and Screaming Falcon had precipitated disaster when they brazenly raided Alligator Town and burned it to the ground. The White Arrow Chahta had been doomed from the moment the first arrow was loosed.

She clamped her eyes shut at the first stinging tears. What fools she and Screaming Falcon had been. Barely past childhood, they had had no understanding of the Sky Hand. Not of their numbers, strength, or resolve. Knowing what she did now, Smoke Shield’s daring raid against White Arrow Town seemed like a bitter blessing. He had broken the White Arrow Chahta with a single blow. In the end that was probably preferable to a slow and lingering death. Pain was better ended quickly.

It was only after Stone’s sleep-breath purled in his throat that Heron Wing surprised her by stating softly, “There’s nothing you could have done, Morning Dew.”

“I know. Dreams are beyond a person’s control. I think Stone accepted the stickball story.”

“I meant about your husband. Before you screamed, you called out for Screaming Falcon. You couldn’t have helped him. You were Smoke Shield’s slave. Had you so much as set foot out of the palace, he’d have maimed you, then beat you half to death—if not all the way.”

“I know.”

“Suppose you had slipped away, managed to cut Screaming Falcon free. Your husband was weak, half-delirious, and captives cut down from the square can’t so much as walk until their circulation returns. You would both have been killed in the end: He would have died an even harder death. You would have had to watch it, and then suffer the same.” She paused. “For the time being, you may be my slave, but the future is an unknown river. Who knows what you will find at its end, Matron? Remember, I have my reasons for wanting you back with your people one day.”

“I know.” She took a deep breath. “They still don’t have any clue who killed my . . . the captives, do they?”

“No. Smoke Shield is sure it was the Albaamaha, which if true, may turn into a fire that burns us all. Personally, I hope it was some Chahta warrior who was lucky enough to slip in, kill the captives, and sneak away in that miserable fog.”