“How do they mean to hurt us?”
She blinked, frowning. “Hurt you? Neither Trader nor the Seeker mean to harm your people. In one vision, the Yuchi are part of the future. Part of fixing the problem. Trader can stop the war.”
“Stop the war?”
“The one that’s coming. He doesn’t know. I haven’t told him. I think it would scare him.”
“What happens in the war?”
“Chaos is let loose. Everything is ruined. War washes like a red wave across the land. The sky is black, even during the day. When people aren’t looking into the forest for raiders, they are staring at the black sky. I see death everywhere, and the ghosts wander, seeking peace they can never find.”
“Does Trader lead this war?”
“No. If the war happens he will be long dead in your square. A terrible chief, a man with a scar on his head, will lead it. He will spare no one. Not even his own people.”
“Does Trader know this scarred man?”
“He does … and he doesn’t.” She cocked her head. “How odd that it works that way.”
“And if Trader lives? What will become of Split Sky City?”
Tell him the rest, one of the voices in her head prompted. She took a deep breath. “You should know this: One way or the other, your city here will be abandoned. Where your fields now stretch, only forest will grow. Whether you like it or not, the future of your people is tied to Trader, and whether he survives the return to his people. If Power is not restored, the Children of the Sun will be broken, scattered, and those not killed in the fighting will be absorbed by the Charokee, Shawnee, and others.”
The old man nodded wearily. “I feared as much, Contrary.”
“Ask yourself this: Was the pain of becoming the Kala Hi’ki worth the gift of wisdom? Would you Trade your Power and true vision for a whole body? You are scarred, blind, and bitter, but Power fills your life in a way it never would have had you remained whole. No gift comes without a price and terrible sacrifice. By surrendering what you most desire for yourself, you will achieve what you sincerely want for others.”
“I think I already knew that.”
“So does the Seeker.” She smiled. “Trader will discover this, but he has yet to face his trial.”
“Am I not ‘his trial’?” the Kala Hi’ki asked dryly.
“Dying on the square isn’t his choice. You, like everyone else, see the world backward. You are not Trader’s trial; he is yours.” She smiled at the irony. “How will you choose: to feed your rage and lust for revenge, or gamble on the future of your people?”
“So, if I let him go, my people are safe? I don’t understand.”
“Power didn’t make your choice simple. Killing Trader is quick and certain. He will die on the square, and you will enjoy his suffering. Letting him go is a gamble—not only on him, but that Seeker and I will succeed in restoring the harmony. I have had glimpses of the different futures. You are but one thread of the weaving.”
“And if I choose wrong?”
“Choose one way and the Tsoyaha continue for a long time to come. Choose another, and they will be forgotten within two generations.”
“Which choice is which?”
“You know the ways of Power. Do you even have to ask?”
As snow swirled out of the night sky beyond the door of Heron Wing’s house, Morning Dew added a stick to the fire and then retreated to her place along the wall. In the days since Thin Branch had led her to Heron Wing’s house, some of the numbness had leached out of her souls. Slowly, inexorably, she was becoming part of Heron Wing’s household. Even sour old Wide Leaf had grudgingly offered her an occasional kindness.
Little Stone, however, had immediately made her welcome, showing her his toys and telling her detailed stories about each of his possessions, and who had given them to him. Somehow it had devolved on her to keep track of the boy.
She glanced across the room at Heron Wing, who was stringing shell beads onto a necklace. The woman had been considerate, almost indulgent during those first few days when Morning Dew had sat in shocked silence by the fire. Without comment, Heron Wing had placed the tripod and hung a bowl over the fire to heat water. After checking it with a finger, she had calmly said, “You will want to wash yourself.” And she had handed Morning Dew a cloth to sponge herself.
She had stripped off the dress Flying Hawk had given her and scrubbed. She began halfheartedly, then with ever-increasing vigor. She had ended in a manic flurry, as if to remove the very skin from her body. She persisted, even when the bowl was empty. Only when Heron Wing bent over, placing fingers on her hand, did she slow, stare up at the woman, and burst into tears.