Morning Dew had never liked lightning and thunder. She had been a little girl, believing herself safe in the palace at White Arrow Town, when a bolt of it hit the roof, shattering the center pole and raining bits of burning thatch down on top of her. A hard rain—like this one—had drowned the fire before it even got started. She had been left cowering, huddled into a little ball beneath one of the benches. Meanwhile people ran about, stamping on flames and screaming in panic while rain lashed the great room.
Now Morning Dew waited, hating the fear in her gut, but being brave for little Stone’s sake. For the duration of the storm, she had crouched beside Stone’s bed, holding his hand, trying to control her desire to flinch at each lightning strobe, and soothing his worry as thunderbolt after thunderbolt cracked and banged around them.
She looked up at the roof, illuminated by the flicker of the fire. Bits of soot had rained down from above when the house shook under the impact of nearby thunder.
“Why is there thunder?” Stone had asked.
“Power is on the move, little one.” She tried to give him a reassuring smile. “The snakes call the thunder, just as they call the rain. That’s why you should never kill them. Thunder, lightning, and rain are their particular Power. It goes back to the beginning times, to just after Crawfish brought land up from the deep waters to make the earth. That’s when snakes first crawled out of the Underworld. Where they went, the water followed. Even to this day, that’s why you find them around springs and rivers.”
“But thunder comes from the sky.”
“That’s right. That’s why snakes are so Powerful. Even though they are beings of the Underworld, they can call the clouds and rain. It’s just the way they are. Power must always balance, Stone. It is part of the harmony of our world.”
“Oh,” he said, seemingly unconvinced.
She glanced uneasily at the door, wondering what was happening in the tchkofa.
Like the rest of the city’s population, she, Stone, and Heron Wing had been standing at the foot of the great mound, sections of matting over their heads for protection. People had been frantic for news. It wasn’t every day that a Yuchi tried to murder the high minko. Speculation had run rampant. Rumors passed from lip to lip. In some, Flying Hawk was dead; in others, he remained unhurt. Heron Wing had waited for each bit of gossip, Morning Dew, holding Stone’s hand, close behind her. They had watched as Pale Cat made his way carefully down the rain-slick stairs. The Hopaye had called out that Flying Hawk was fine, waving down the shouted questions. Then he had walked up to Heron Wing, saying, “The Council is called. Come with me.”
Heron Wing had nodded, turning to Morning Dew.
Forestalling her, Morning Dew had said, “I’ll take Stone home. Make sure he has supper and is put to bed.”
Heron Wing had just nodded, her mind no doubt on why Pale Cat would insist she be in the tchkofa with him.
Morning Dew tucked the blanket around Stone’s chin. A Yuchi messenger had tried to kill Flying Hawk? In the name of the gods, why? In the entire time she had been in Split Sky City there had been no rumors of trouble along the northern border. To her, the act was that of a madman. Of course the Sky Hand would respond; they’d mobilize every warrior on hand to march north. This would not be any petty border skirmish, but a long, drawn-out war, with large armies marching back and forth. Pitched battles would be fought, towns burned, and a great many souls sent weeping to the afterlife.
She listened to the night, hearing the soft patter of rain. The worst of the storm appeared to have passed.
Stone’s eyes had grown heavy now that the terrible thunder had faded. Only the rolling distant rumbles of it came out of the north.
Morning Dew heard wet steps beyond the door and looked up as Heron Wing stepped in, her clothing soaked, her hair in limp strands over her shoulders.
“What has happened?”
Heron Wing stepped over to the fire, struggling out of her wet dress. She dropped the soggy garment onto the matting and shivered as she hovered, naked, over the flames. “The vote, as expected, is for war.”
“You don’t sound happy.”
“I’m not.” She bent, throwing another piece of wood on the flames.
Morning Dew stood, stepping over to pick up the dress before she leaned out the door to wring the fabric.
She reentered and placed the dress on clean matting to dry. “Could I get you something? Make you tea?”
“Yes, please. We don’t have much time.” She glanced at Morning Dew. Water droplets beaded on her normally serene face; they sparkled on her long lashes. Her eyes, however, were troubled. “Night Star would like to talk to us. We’re to wait until most people have gone home.”