Flying Hawk added, “You went with the delegation we sent to White Arrow Town when he was made high minko. You personally presented young Biloxi with our gifts. Did you think at the time he would be a threat, no matter how filled he was with himself?”
Smoke Shield frowned. “I thought Biloxi was a fool. It’s partly Sweet Smoke’s fault. She fawns too much over the boy. Kept him home instead of sending him out. She couldn’t bear the thought that something might happen to him. He’s never been out of the Horned Serpent Valley.”
“So he judges the world by what he’s been told.” Dangerous. Most dangerous. “Did you spend time with him? Get a feel for how he thinks?”
“Sadly, no.” Smoke Shield smiled sourly.
“Ah, yes, I remember the stories. You were more interested in the sister, this Morning Dew.”
Smoke Shield gave an absent shrug, fixing his eyes on a smoldering pile of corn where a granary had collapsed.
Flying Hawk considered his nephew. “Liked her, did you?”
“She wanted nothing to do with me.” Smoke Shield couldn’t hide the narrowing of his eyes, or the sting of rejection that thinned his lips.
Ah, the stories were true. He was infatuated with the girl. Rumors were that Smoke Shield had been even more moody since his return from White Arrow Town. It was whispered that he’d come home preoccupied, some said obsessed.
“She only had eyes for Amber Stone.” The scar that marred Smoke Shield’s cheek seemed to writhe.
Smoke Shield had always been a plotter, enough so that it often occupied Flying Hawk’s attention to the detriment of other pursuits. But, perhaps this time, if properly directed … “I have always worried about your passions, Nephew. Rage and anger can be of great value in life … provided they are channeled and balanced. If I give you this woman, this Morning Dew, can you find that balance?”
A faint smile curled Smoke Shield’s lips, his calculating souls twisting like serpents behind his gleaming eyes. “We have been attacked, Uncle. Blood has been shed. Our kinsman, Stuffed Weasel, is being tortured to death even as we speak. We are obliged to strike back, to return the balance. The dead must be appeased. It is how Breath Maker created the world. If we leave this out of balance our souls will sicken. Power will drift away from us, focus itself on other peoples.”
“Dare not to lecture me on the different ways Power is balanced in the world.” He extended the heavy stone mace, resting the turkey-tail shaped head on Smoke Shield’s shoulder. “How many warriors will you need to take White Arrow Town? How much time will it take to plan? When you strike, I want it to be swift, sure, and complete, not some botched raid where surprise is lost, our warriors are killed, and after a futile demonstration outside their walls, you just come home and declare victory.”
Smoke Shield’s gaze had fixed on one of the sprawled corpses; late-season flies were feeding greedily on the man’s bare skull. “I can take them within the moon, Uncle. Provided that the Council will allow me to do this thing my way.” A pause. “And if they will trust me with our people’s war medicine.”
Flying Hawk sucked pensively at his lower lip, his sidelong glance fixed on his nephew. If he fails, if he loses the medicine, it will be a symbol to the Albaamaha, to the Chahta, the Yuchi, the Pensacola, and every other enemy we have that we are weak. The entire world will consider us broken, and pounce on us as if we were wounded rabbits.
Smoke Shield reached up and touched the scar on the side of his head. “You talk of passion, Uncle? When it came upon me, at least I was smart enough not to murder my brother.”
You tread on dangerous ground, Nephew. “Very well. If the Council allows, you will have your raid.” His voice went hoarse. “And the medicine to accompany it.”
Smoke Shield smiled in satisfaction.
Flying Hawk added, “You know what failure will mean to the people?”
Smoke Shield stepped over to the closest corpse and dropped to his knees. He ran his callused fingers over the blood-clotted skull. “We will all end up like this. Food for maggots and beetles.” He looked up. “I am no war chief like the long-dead Makes War, to be captured and lose the war medicine. No, Uncle, as you shall see, I am very different.”
From somewhere in the past, Flying Hawk could hear his murdered brother’s eerie laughter.
Six
Trader faced a dilemma. He considered it as he sat on the bow of his beached canoe and watched sunset shine its last light on Red Wing Town. Wealth was a blessing, the thing of Dreams and ambition. At the same time, it was a terrible curse.