The Healer smiles. “Yes. Connected. Related. That’s why we must name our enemies carefully, because killing the enemy has only one outcome: We kill a part of our own soul. And by doing so, we cripple the world itself.”
“The world is already a cripple. Who cares?” Sindak says.
Wakdanek leans back as though utterly confounded by Sindak. “I care. Very much.”
“That’s nice. However, sometimes your enemies deserve to die. I mean, don’t you want revenge against the people who killed your wife and took your daughter captive?”
Pain flickers in Wakdanek’s eyes. He clenches his jaw for a time. At last, he answers, “Since we are all related, Sindak, right now the entire world is resonating with my grief. Even the souls of my enemies. They’ve already harmed themselves far more than I ever can.” His gaze flicks to War Chief Cord.
Sindak glances at Cord, too; then his brows lift. His expression says that the Healer is either lying or stupid. “Well, Wakdanek, I feel better for you. However, if the same thing ever happens to my family, I plan to hunt down my enemy, chop him to pieces, and feed him to my dogs. And since we are all related, I expect that while I watch each bite slide down their throats, the world will also resonate with my thrill of justice being done.”
Mother has apparently been listening. She turns halfway around in the bow, and says, “Less talking and more paddling would be helpful.”
Sindak and Wakdanek both dig their oars into the water, and the canoe flies forward like an arrow. Ahead of us, there is a wide bend lined with leafless prickly ashes. As the current sweeps us around the curve, I see a few shriveled red-brown fruits still clinging to the twigs. The boat abruptly sways and leaps as we maneuver around submerged rocks. Cold spray hits me in the face. When we are through, the river spreads out again and calms down.
Wakdanek says, “We should talk more, Sindak. Perhaps, in time, we can find something we agree upon.”
“I doubt it, but I’ll hear you out.” Sindak drags his paddle and guides the canoe around a floating log.
Wakdanek shakes his head.
They stop talking.
Gitchi grunts and squirms as I shift to lie down on the packs. I hold him against my chest. While I gaze out at the sunlight in the treetops, Gitchi licks my chin. I feel safer with him close, as though he is already guarding me. I let my eyes fall closed.
Perhaps, if I hold the puppy tightly, my muscles will stop twitching long enough for me to get some sleep.
Twenty-three
Akio herded the children down the leaf-covered trail into the forest. Twenty paces from the canoes, he found a small clearing in the brush surrounded by towering sycamores. The massive branches cast dark crisscrossing shadows across the rocky ground.
He ordered, “Lie down, all of you. Flatten out on the ground and be quiet!” At the age of sixteen summers, he was the lowest-status warrior here. He couldn’t afford to fail. If even one child escaped, the old woman would surely kill him; then he’d never make it home. And he wanted to go home, badly.
The children stretched out across the bed of frosty leaves, but the hawk-faced boy, Wrass, kept staring at Akio. How did the child have the strength to move? His face was so battered and bruised his own parents wouldn’t recognize him. His left eye was swollen almost closed, and dried blood covered his skull. Part of his scalp had been torn loose. It would be a miracle if he didn’t lose patches of hair. Akio had seen that happen to badly beaten men. The loose patches of scalp died, leaving strips of gray bone showing in the middle of what was left of their hair.
He glanced back toward the clearing where Gannajero stood. He was doing his job. He’d proven himself, and just as he’d been told, after two moons of being allied with Gannajero he’d already acquired enough wealth to live comfortably for the rest of his life. I get to keep that. That’s what he said. And everything I get before I go home. It’s all mine.
Just the thought of what he’d do with such wealth left him practically panting to please Gannajero, to keep her from suspecting …
Zateri, who lay beside Wrass, cupped a hand to his ear and whispered something. Wrass glanced at Akio, then subtly nodded.
Akio wet his chapped lips. Had the children seen something? He drew his bowstring back a little tighter and examined every shadow.
Wrass turned to whisper, “He could just be a lone fisherman, Akio. Why don’t you leave him be?”
Akio stepped forward. “Didn’t I tell you not to talk? Do you want to die, boy?”
Akio aimed his bow at Wrass’ head, but his gaze jerked back to Gannajero. She was moving, tiptoeing toward the canoes like a hunting weasel. When she reached the edge of the water, she hesitated—seemed to be cataloging the contents of the canoes, looking for something. Finally, she climbed into one and started shuffling through the packs.