Pedeza wrung her hands. “Please. If I don’t see Sindak, someone he cares about is going to die.”
The guard’s expression changed. He looked at her from the corner of his eye, apparently thinking about the ramifications if Sindak’s friend died because he’d refused to deliver a simple message. Finally, the guard pulled his war club off his shoulder, set it beside the door, and stabbed a finger at her. “All right. I’ll tell him, but if you’re wrong and Sindak slits my throat for this—”
“He won’t. I swear. He’ll reward you. Maybe even make you deputy war chief. It’s that important.”
The man scowled at her, ducked beneath the curtain, and vanished.
While Pedeza waited under the second guard’s alert gaze, she paced. Last night had been the worst of her life. She’d loved those little girls. Watching them die, seeing them lying cold and still in the firelight, had been like dying herself. Then the parade of relatives and Healers had begun and hadn’t ended until this morning. Pedeza was exhausted and heartbroken. Zateri had met each person, consoled their grief, and thanked them for coming. All the while, she’d watched Hiyawento disintegrating like a sand sculpture in a rainstorm.
Sindak ducked beneath the curtain. When he saw her, his narrow face creased with worry. He wore a pure black cape—the color of war and death—and had his hair tied back with a cord. The style made his lean face appear even more narrow. “What is it, Pedeza?”
“Hiyawento …”
Misunderstanding, he said, “He’s not here. The war council is livid.”
She hesitated, uncertain where to begin. “Then you haven’t heard about Matron Zateri’s daughters? They’re dead.”
His deeply sunken eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed, as though he hadn’t slept in days. “Blessed gods, forgive me. No one told me. When did it happen?”
“Last night. Please, I know this meeting is critical, but if I could just have a few moments to speak with you in private—”
“I don’t have much time,” he said as he took her by the arm and led her into the middle of the plaza, out of hearing range of the guards. “How did they die?”
“I don’t know everything—just that an unknown man gave the girls a doll, and it was poisoned. Our Healers say it was filled with ground musquash root. You know how children are. They put the doll in their mouths.”
Sindak bowed his head. “That’s terrible, but how can I help?”
She braced herself. “It’s Hiyawento.”
“Is he all right? I can’t even imagine how he must be feeling. Those little girls were beautiful.”
Suddenly Pedeza’s tears began to flow. She lifted her cape and dried her eyes. “You have to come, War Chief. Matron Zateri has done the best she can, but Hiyawento has become a madman. I swear he’s lost his soul.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s gone crazy! Last night after he knew they were dead, he charged around the longhouse smashing pots, tearing down the bark partition walls, screaming at the top of his lungs. You know how much he loved those little girls. This morning at dawn, he carried them out into the forest and won’t come home. He says he’s never coming back to Coldspring Village.”
Earnestly, Sindak replied, “Tell me quickly what Zateri needs. I’ll help if I can.”
“She wants you to speak with him. She says he needs a friend, a man he trusts, and you’re the only man in our entire nation that he’ll listen to.”
Shouts rang out from the council house. Sindak turned to look, and his jaw went hard. He took Pedeza’s arm in a friendly grasp. “Where is Hiyawento?”
“Between the aspen grove and Mallard Marsh.”
“Very well. Tell Matron Zateri I will come as soon as I can.”
“Yes. I will. Thank you, War Chief.”
Pedeza watched Sindak stride back to the council house, his long legs eating the distance; then she smothered her sobs and started back for Coldspring Village.
Forty-three
The scents of water and soggy leaves rode the evening breeze near the marsh.
Sindak halted at the edge of the aspen grove and stared out across the reeds and dead cattails. Golden leaves pirouetted through the frigid air around him, alighting on his shoulders and black hair. He paid them no notice. In the distance, a thin streamer of smoke spiraled into the dove-gray twilight. The thought of trying to talk sense into a man as grief-stricken as Hiyawento made him long to return to the insanity of the war council. What could he say? Nothing, nothing in the world, could lessen the pain of losing a loved one, especially an innocent child. Or worse, two. For a moment he hesitated, trying to imagine how the conversation might go; then he shook his head and tramped around the edge of the marsh toward the campfire. Somewhere out on the water, ducks quacked.