Authors: Kathleen O'Neal Gear

It Wakes in Me (3 page)

BOOK: It Wakes in Me

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He presses the fabric deeper, and I feel his fingers moving inside me.

“Then trust me. Trust me as you have never trusted me, and I’ll make certain you are safe.”

Feather Dancer walks back into the firelight, sees Flint stretched out beside me, and hoarsely calls,
“What are you doing? Get away from her!”

Flint removes his hand and turns. His black eyes are sheathed in the fire’s glow like orange moons.
“She’s awake. We need to give her more of the sleeping potion. It’s in that small pot beside the fire. Bring it to me.”

Feather Dancer is clearly irked by the order, but he obeys: picks up the pot and carries it to Flint. As Flint pulls out the wooden cork, a bitter odor rises.

He says, “You hold her mouth open and I’ll give her the potion.”

Feather Dancer shakes his head.
“I’ll give her the potion while you hold her mouth open.”

“I’ve studied Spirit Plants with the greatest Healers in the Black Falcon Nation, Feather Dancer. I’m better at judging how much is safe. Now do as I asked and hold her mouth open.”

It happens swiftly. Feather Dancer’s strong hands pull my jaws apart, and Flint pours the acrid brew down my throat.

I can’t fight both of them.

I swallow.

As their faces fade, my thoughts fly apart like hundreds of shattered rainbows. The brilliant shards flash and tumble all around me, and I hear Flint’s voice saying over and over again …

My sweet murderess … murderess … my sweet …

THE LAST REMNANTS OF MOTHER SUN’S GLORY SHOT through the tall pines like amethyst spears and fell across the path Feather Dancer and Flint traveled. Feather Dancer concentrated on the beauty, hoping it would relieve the pain in his hands. Since long before dawn, he’d been trotting along behind Flint, carrying the rear litter poles. They had to make it as far as they could today. If they passed the northern shore of Jasper Lake before they camped, they would enter Oak Leaf Village around noon tomorrow, resupply, and be on their way to the far north, where Priest Long Lance lived.

Feather Dancer would feel better once they were beyond the easy reach of Flint’s relatives. Every move the man made, every gesture and facial expression, told Feather Dancer he was more than he seemed. From the instant they’d left Blackbird Town, Feather Dancer’s suspicions had been smoldering. Flint never took the main trails. He selected smaller, less-traveled routes, as though he were avoiding someone or something.

In the distance, an alligator bellowed.

Feather Dancer’s pace slowed. The last thing they needed was to come upon an alligator in the darkness.

The creature’s hoarse voice carried on the evening breeze, along with the thunderous cracking of deadfall caused by a whipping tail.

Another alligator roared.

“Two males fighting,” Feather Dancer said.

“Don’t worry,” Flint called over his shoulder. “I know a trail that veers around their pond. Those two old men won’t have a chance at us.”

Feather Dancer followed Flint into a dense cluster of palmettos. Fronds racked his leggings as he jogged past.

A short time later, Flint said, “Here it is,” and turned onto a deer trail. “This will take a little longer, but we need to make camp soon anyway.”

“No, we don’t. We can travel for another two hands of time,” Feather Dancer answered. “We should keep going until it gets too dark to see the trail.”

“I decide when and where to camp, War Chief. I planned to make it to the southern shore of Jasper Lake tonight. That’s just ahead, and that’s where we’re going to camp.”

“But that’s ridiculous. The longer we are on the trail, the more poison we must give the chieftess to keep her asleep. For her sake, we
must
run as long and as hard as we can every day.”

“No,” Flint said coldly. “The only thing you must do is what I tell you to. We will make camp where I say.”

By the time he saw Jasper Lake come into view, Sister Moon’s gleam coated the surface, turning the dark water into a broad twinkling expanse of light and casting silver reflections upon the ancient oaks that lined the trail.

“We’re going to camp right over there.” Flint used his chin to point. “I’ve used it many times.”

Feather Dancer saw the sandy spit surrounded on three sides by moonlit water, and his belly muscles knotted.

Flint stopped at the edge of the water, and they lowered the chieftess’ litter to the sand. While Flint stretched his taut back muscles, Feather Dancer surveyed the location. Charcoal from old fires dotted the spit. People must camp here often, but that fact did not alleviate his concerns.

“This is not a good spot,” he said. “We must move.”

Flint groaned and flapped his arms, which made his black cape billow. “Feather Dancer, it’s surrounded on three sides by water. It’s far more defensible than an open place where we could be attacked from four sides.”

“The advantage to an open place is you can run in four directions. Here, they can come at us from the land, force us into the water, and almost certainly capture or kill us.” He reached down to grip the litter poles. His fingers cramped. “Come on. Let’s move.”

“No,” Flint said. “I have camped here many times. I know it’s safe! Besides, I’m dead tired and starving. Aren’t you?”

Feather Dancer’s stomach had been eating a hole in his backbone, but he said, “I can starve for a time longer to ensure the safety of my chieftess. Grab your end of the litter. It won’t take long to find a better place.”

Cursing under his breath, Flint lifted the litter, and Feather Dancer led the way out of the spit. They walked along the lakeshore for a good hand of time, until he spied an old sand dune that overlooked the lake. “We’ll camp there.” He pointed with his chin.

“You actually think that tiny hump is better than my spit?”

“It will be once I’m through with it.”

They trudged up the sandy slope and rested the litter on the very top. Chieftess Sora rolled to her side as though close to waking. Her long hair spilled over the litter poles.

The powerful scents of rotting vegetation filled the air. Feather Dancer removed his waist pack and gratefully dropped it to the sand, then placed his bow and quiver beside it. He still had his war ax and stiletto tied to his belt.

Flint said, “If you’ll go scavenge for dry firewood, I’ll tend to Sora’s needs.”

“You look for dry firewood. I have more pressing concerns.”

Flint propped his hands on his hips and in exasperation, shouted, “Have you forgotten that Matron Wink ordered you to obey me as you would her?”

“She also ordered me to make certain Chieftess Sora lives through this. Whenever your orders appear to endanger my chieftess I may choose to disobey you.”

“Wonderful.” Flint ran a hand through his long black hair. “That ought to get us all killed.”

“There is no ‘us,’ you fool. There is only me and my chieftess. You are one of
them
.”

Feather Dancer caught the hot glare Flint gave him as he strode down the dune and headed for a copse of dead trees.

Sometime in the past the trees had burned. Their blackened arms reached skyward as though pleading with the Star People for salvation. Feather Dancer untied the war ax from his belt and began chopping down the smaller trees. They were dry and old. It didn’t require much effort. What took time was dragging them back to camp. About twice his height in length, they were awkward. He could only haul two or three at a time.

As he dragged the last saplings to the top of the dune, Flint looked up from the small fire he’d built. Two pots hung from tripods over the flames. He said, “I used your pouch of dried fish to make a stew. It’ll be hot soon.”

“My pouch? You searched through my pack?” Feather Dancer dropped the saplings with dramatic thuds.

“What did you expect me to do? You didn’t leave your fish
out in the open for me. I had to find it. I used the last of my venison jerky this morning.”

Feather Dancer glowered. He had a number of things in his pack that he had not wished Flint to steal. Especially, the ceremonial celt that Matron Wink had given him. It was Chieftess Sora’s symbol of office and would unquestionably mark her as a woman of high status—in case someone questioned her identity. But it was also extremely valuable. Flint was exactly the sort of person who would steal it and sell it to the highest bidder.

Flint stood up and gestured to the pile of saplings. “While we wait for the stew, why don’t you let me help you? I assume we’re building a makeshift fort.”

Feather Dancer let out a disgruntled breath, but answered, “We are. Let’s lay out the logs in a square and overlap the ends until they’re waist-high.”

A short time later, they were surrounded by a wall that would deflect most arrows and spears.

“Can we eat now?” Flint asked. “I’m about to faint.”

“We should feed the chieftess first. She hasn’t had anything since—”

“She’s not the one who’s been hauling around a heavy litter all day. Sit down. I’ll feed her as soon as we finish.”

Feather Dancer crouched before the fire, but he felt guilty about obeying. In the cool wind that blew off the lake, Chieftess Sora’s hair fluttered across her face like a dark silken web. She looked both beautiful and vulnerable. He tugged his gaze away. A strong, brave woman, she would not wish anyone to see her like this. Half the world feared her. The other half worshipped her. According to the traditions of her people, she was divine, descended directly from Black Falcon himself. He felt certain she would rather die than be in this current situation.

Flint said, “Here. Eat,” and handed him a wooden bowl of stew in which stood a horn spoon.

Feather Dancer took it. Spiced with dried palm berries, the fish stew had a sweet flavor that satisfied his ravenous hunger.

Flint filled his own bowl and sank down on the opposite side of the fire. Orange light wavered over his handsome face, and Feather Dancer could see the exhaustion in his eyes.

Around a bite of food, Flint said, “Tomorrow night we should enter the lands of the Sandhill Crane People. I pray Wink got a message to their matron telling her we would just be passing through. I don’t want to have to fight—”

“You? Fight?” Feather Dancer grunted disbelievingly.

Flint’s eyes narrowed. “I knew neither of us would enjoy it, but I’m endeavoring to make conversation.”

“Well, don’t. I don’t care to hear anything you have to say.” He scooped another bite of stew and ate it while his gaze scanned the dark lake and trees.

“We have to talk, Feather Dancer. We’ll be on the trail for moons. Besides, I’d like to get to know you better. You’ve been war chief of Blackbird Town for what? Two winters?”

“Yes.”

“Sora appointed you right after she murdered her mother, Chieftess Yellow Cypress, didn’t she?”

“Chieftess Sora appointed me right after her mother died in an
accidental
fall.”

“Accidental? Do you really believe that?”

Feather Dancer didn’t look at him. He concentrated on emptying his stew bowl. He vividly remembered how heartbroken Sora had been, but she’d taken quick, decisive action to repair the damage done by her elderly mother’s last bad decisions. They’d been on the verge of going to war over a silly insult from the Red Owl People. Before the war party could leave, Chieftess Yellow Cypress had fallen to her death. Sora had accepted the position as chieftess and immediately reconvened the Council of Elders. She’d convinced them that an insult
wasn’t worth losing the lives of their young men and women; then she’d suggested something everyone found shocking. She’d told the elders that her mother’s war chief, White Pelican, had grown old and much too fond of warfare. She wished to replace him with Feather Dancer. After days of arguing, the council had finally agreed. White Pelican was outraged, of course. It had taken Feather Dancer several moons to smooth over—

“Where has your soul drifted to?” Flint asked.

Feather Dancer chewed and swallowed before answering, “You wouldn’t remember it. You were gone by then.”

Flint’s bushy black brows pulled together. “Then you’ll have to tell me about it. What happened?”

“Nothing.”

Flint grimaced. “Oh, tell me. What else do we have to do?”

Feather Dancer looked up from his bowl. “I could accuse you again of plotting the downfall of the chieftess.”

“I’d just deny it. What’s the point?”

Feather Dancer reached for his pack, drew out his ceramic cup, and dipped it into the tea pot hanging from the tripod to his right. Fragrant flower-scented steam curled from the cup. He smelled it and took a sip. “You have everyone of importance in Blackbird Town believing my chieftess is a murderer. I just don’t understand why. How does it benefit you?”

Through a taut exhalation, Flint replied, “She’s been killing people since she was seven winters old, Feather Dancer. It has to stop. I spent half my life trying to learn enough about Spirit Plants to Heal her. I was apparently too dim-witted … or just not Powerful enough to do it. We must get her to someone who can Heal her before Wink has no choice but to end Sora’s life to protect the people of Blackbird Town.”

“Chieftess Sora killed no one. How did you convince both the matron and Priest Teal that she was guilty?”

Flint took a drink of tea and rested his cup on his drawn-up knee. “It doesn’t matter, does it? No matter what I tell you, you won’t believe me.”

Feather Dancer shoveled more stew into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. “Are we really taking her to Priest Long Lance? He’s very old, isn’t he?”

BOOK: It Wakes in Me

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