People of the Weeping Eye(8)

“Your accent is terrible,” one of the warriors answered in Trade Tongue, an arrow still riding his bow. He was wary, eyes shifting back and forth in search of other enemies.

“My apologies,” Old White countered, inclining his head. “I learned a little of your tongue, but it has been, let’s see … ten winters? No, perhaps more like twenty.”

A tall man broke from the knot of warriors, trotting his way. The fellow was young, muscular, a round-headed war club gripped tightly in his fist. His expression communicated a grimness of purpose that didn’t bode well.

“Greetings,” Old White called in A’khota. “I have come in peace.”

“Talk in Trade Tongue,” the war chief growled. “You sound like you’ve got rocks in your mouth. What is your purpose here, Trader?”

Old White drew himself up, both hands on his staff. “I have come for a young woman.”

The war chief grinned sourly and gestured at the village. “It won’t be long and you can take your pick.” A shrug. “Assuming you have something to Trade for her.”

“While I have seen her in Dreams, I have also heard tell of her. Young, perhaps sixteen or seventeen summers,” Old White said softly. “It is said that she can charm the birds. I have also heard that she talks with the Dead. Others say the Spirits speak through her.”

The smug assurance faded from the war chief’s face. “Two Petals.”

“That is the name I heard downriver.” Old White nodded amiably.

“What is your purpose with her, old man?” His tone turned hostile as he backed a step, raising his war club.

Old White tilted his head. “Have you seen the Crow Mound?”

“Of course. I am Fast Palm, war chief of Black Sand Town. My people are the A’khota. The mounds carry our messages to the Spirit World, act as portals between their world and ours. Do not toy with me.”

“Oh, quite the contrary, I assure you.” Old White raised a calming hand. “Now, imagine the Crow Mound with only one wing. Incomplete, out of balance, not a thing of Power at all, only a misshapen lump of earth.”

“I don’t understand.” Fast Palm was fingering his war club, shifting from foot to foot, clearly contemplating whether to smack the old man—and take risk offending the Power of Trade—or just order him away.

“The Crow Mound is but one of many your people have fashioned for the gods and spirits. My quest is but one of many that holy people, Dreamers, and Healers have. However, for me, it is most important. Two Petals—like one wing of your mound—completes the picture.”

“She is a witch!”

“She has been touched by Power.”

“She is murdering our chief! She spoke an incantation when he visited here, jabbering to demons and malicious spirits. She said she wanted him; then she threw up all over him when he touched her. Her bile took possession of his body and is killing his souls. He coughs up blood. His flesh is melting from his bones. She must die.”

“The fate of your chief doesn’t concern me, Fast Palm. My vision does. You will cease your attack and allow me to take Two Petals from here.”

The war chief narrowed an eye. “Assuming I agree to this silly idea, what makes you think Spring Rock Village will give her to you?”

“Like you, they won’t dare to cross me.”

Fast Palm tested the balance of his war club, pensive eyes on the wooden ball at its end. The orb was scarred, nicked, and dented from previous impacts. “If you value your life, old man, leave now.”

Old White reached into the fabric sack hanging from his belt, his right hand rummaging through the various bags, boxes, and containers within. “I ask you once more to surrender her to me.”

“I don’t even know you. You speak like a barbarian. Your dress is unfamiliar to me. What is your name?”

“I am called Old White.”

Fast Palm’s eyes widened. “Him? The one they call the Seeker?”

“Him.”

“He is a legend.” A wary smile crossed the war chief’s face. “But you … I think you are no legend. Just some silly old fool. The Old White of legend would simply sweep me and my men aside, walk through a wall of fire, split the Spring Rock palisade, sprout wings, and bear Two Petals off. You’re not him.”

“Stories are like penises. They tend to swell with the telling. In this world, I have never sprouted wings.” Old White arched an eyebrow. “Fire is another thing. What if I told you I could breathe a fire into your eyes that would burn without flame?”

Fast Palm glanced at his warriors, chuckled, and thrust out his chest. “I’d call you a liar.” He didn’t seem to notice, but the attack on Spring Rock Village had slackened, his warriors backing away to watch the curious meeting. Many were slowly inching closer, heads cocked to hear the exchange.