The Broken Land (46 page)

Zateri glanced around the circle. No one seemed to be breathing. They were hearing Sky Messenger’s vision for the first time, or at least part of it, and none could turn away. Kwahseti’s face had slackened, as though she felt the truth of it rising up from the dark place between her souls. Chief Canassatego was listening with his eyes closed.

“The sky will split wide open,” Hiyawento continued, “and a snowy blanket of thistledown will fall. As it spreads out all over the world, the judgment will take place.”

Thona uneasily shifted his weight to his other foot. Waswanosh observed him from the corner of his eye. Both men appeared chastened, half-believing, but not quite.

Awed, Gwinodje murmured, “It—it’s Powerful.”

Kwahseti nodded. As she brought up a hand and touched the cape over her heart, she said, “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I want to believe. Very much.”

“Wanting does not make it true, Matron,” Thona remarked.

“No.” A breath of wind fluttered her gray hair. She brushed it away. “But I plan to be ready, just in case.”

“What do you mean, ready?” Gwinodje tilted her head.

Out in the forest, Elder Sister Gaha walked. The hem of her dress set the branches to swaying, and a musical shishing and clattering wafted to them. A light snow started to fall, featherlike, glittering on the branches.

“I mean that when the time comes, I will be on the right side.”

“But …” Gwinodje looked around questioningly. “What is the right side?”

“I don’t know yet, but when I get there, I will.”

Still staring upward at the campfires of the dead, Hiyawento said, “The side of kindness. Which is, I regret, a side I have not always fought for.”

No one responded, but Zateri could tell from their expressions that some of them were thinking that good war chiefs couldn’t afford such weaknesses. Thona scowled. Waswanosh had a faint sneer.

Slowly, each person in the circle followed Hiyawento’s gaze, looking upward into the night sky where a thin layer of Cloud People pushed southward, fuzzing the campfires of the dead, rushing away as though fleeing the supernatural storm to come.

“I’m going to find my blankets.” Kwahseti lifted a hand. “A pleasant evening to you all.”

“Before you go …” Hiyawento quietly said. Kwahseti turned back to face him. “If you could form an alliance with the Standing Stone nation to defeat Atotarho, would you?”

Kwahseti stared at him as though asking the question proved beyond a doubt that Hiyawento’s soul was out wandering lost in the forest. But there was something else in her eyes—some hesitation that made Zateri’s blood rush.

“Kwahseti,” Zateri whispered, “just consider—”

Kwahseti turned her back and walked away. One by one, the others said good night and followed her, plodding across camp to their own fires.

When they stood alone, Zateri moved close to Hiyawento and slipped her arm through his, holding him. Quietly, she asked, “Are you all right?”

He blinked at the sky as though puzzled by what he saw there. His narrow face and hawkish nose reflected the flickers of firelight.

Finally, he answered, “My souls are broken, Zateri, and I cannot find a way to pull the pieces together.”

“Well …” The word condensed and sparkled. “Perhaps you shouldn’t try to.”

“Why not?”

She squeezed his arm. “My husband, kindness does not dwell in souls that are whole.”

Forty-nine

Sky Messenger

T
he milky light before dawn casts a soft pearl glow over the snow-covered hills.

As I follow the trail up over the rise and look down across the valley to the south, an inexplicable dread fills me. I halt on the rocky ridge, waiting for Taya, who plods up the trail behind me.

Rose-colored mist eddies close to the ground, twining around trunks and boulders. In the distance, leafless trees rise and fall like gray waves, dipping down to where Yellowtail Village and Bur Oak Village nestle side by side, their palisades sheathed in frost. Reed Marsh curves around the western and northern edges of the villages, cupping them like a protective hand. Dark Cloud People blanket most of the morning sky, but a thin band of pale purple swaths the eastern horizon.

Movement. Down in the dense maples. Only my gaze glides across the landscape. After ten heartbeats, I whisper to myself, “Warriors.”

As the morning light brightens, my trained eyes begin to pick them out. Visible through the trees are line after line of archers. Four lines that I can see. As one line fires, the next will move up, and so on, until the first line must again face the enemy.

Taya’s steps pat the soft earth behind me. She slips an arm around my waist and lets out a peaceful sigh. It surprises me a little. “I’m glad we’re almost home.”

She doesn’t notice anything amiss, but why would she? Though I’ve been working hard to teach her to
see,
the skill takes time.

I drape an arm over her shoulders and softly say, “I want you to be calm. Can you do that?”

She tips her face up in confusion. “What do you mean?”

I kneel and draw the lines of archers in the thin snow, then make a crescent for Reed Marsh, and circles for the locations of the villages. “Do you see them?”

Taya lifts her gaze and scans the hills, glances back at his map, looks up again. Slowly, the joy drains from her beautiful young face. I see her eyes stop at each place where warriors are clearly visible in the forest.

“Oh, no. Grandmother must have received word that we’re about to be attacked. We have to hurry. Let’s run!”

She starts to launch herself down the trail, and I catch her arm and pull her back. “The warriors are jittery, worried about their own lives and the lives of their families. Never run into a line of archers.”

“But they know me! Every warrior out there has—”

“Fear creates a strange kind of blindness. Your eyes are wide open, but the only thing you see is your own weapons. Your ears hear only your heart pounding. Let’s continue walking down the main trail in clear sight. They’ve already seen us. They’ll be watching, monitoring our movements. Keep your hands open at your sides.”

For the first time, she looks up at me as though I know more than Elder Brother Sun. A swallow bobs her throat. “I will.”

I put a hand lightly on her shoulder to encourage her to walk at my side, and she clings to me like a shadow.

We’ve gone no more than one hundred paces when the trail curves and I see an eerie sight behind us. To the west, a cloud of snow billows over the trees. But it’s not falling from the sky. It rises from the ground, like summer dust, kicked by the trotting feet of warriors. Because of the way the hills fold, I doubt the Standing Stone archers see them yet. I swing around to look at the Standing Stone lines to the north of the villages, then back at what must be the enemy. I can hear them now. Beneath their pounding feet, Great Grandmother Earth rings like a drum being struck. The thunderous roll echoes.

“What is that?” Taya turns to look over her shoulder.

“Just keep walking. We’ll be home before they get here.” I grip her hand to keep her from running.

She jerks around to look back at the billowing snow, and when understanding dawns, I feel her heartbeat stutter in her wrist.

“Are those … warriors?”

“Yes, but—”

“Enemy warriors?” she cries. “They’re coming right at us!”

My grip on her hand tightens. “Do you see where the trail to Hills country meets the main trail that curves around the eastern side of the villages? When we hit that, we’ll run. For now, just walk.”

I lead her down the trail.

Fifty

E
lder Brother Sun blazed scarlet and gold into High Matron Kittle’s eyes as she marched along the outermost catwalk of Bur Oak Village, speaking confidently to her warriors, judging their moods, making her way down to where Skenandoah stood. At regular intervals, jugs of water and cups hung from the palisade, at hand for later when thirsty warriors could not leave their posts. Beyond the palisade, thick morning mist curled and spun across the valley.

When he saw her, Skenandoah bowed. “High Matron?”

In the glistening vapor, he more closely resembled a pale-faced phantom than a war chief. Muscular and of medium height, he had seen thirty-four summers pass. Short black hair, cut in mourning for the many friends he had lost in the long war, clung damply to his square face. Red feathers, ornaments of war, fluttered at the bottom of his long war shirt. He had his bow slung over his shoulder and carried a quiver bristling with arrows. A war club, ax, and two deerbone stilettos hung from his belt.

Kittle smiled. “What’s going on out there?”

He propped an elbow on the palisade and gestured to the hazy battlefield. “Our archers are in place, but the fog is so thick in the valley bottom they won’t see the enemy warriors until they emerge like fanged wolves from the gray.”

“You’ve seen no Traders, no travelers, no messengers traveling under white arrows? Nothing?”

Skenandoah gave her a sad look, seemed to be debating with himself, then clearly decided to ignore her implication that she was waiting for a messenger from Atotarho, hoping to end this before it began. “No, High Matron. Just the two terrified sentries who ran in at dawn after sighting the approaching army.”

Her heart sank. She didn’t know what she’d been hoping for, perhaps that Atotarho wished to make peace, which was as unlikely as seeing summer replace the winter solstice. Had she grown so desperate she’d started believing in fantasies?

A slight breeze rustled across the marsh and swept the fog aside, driving it through the reeds and cattails like smoke from a bonfire. She watched it trail down the valley. Just as quickly, more mist rolled in to fill its place. The frosty world dazzled.

“How are our warriors holding up?”

Skenandoah gave her a firm nod. “They will do their duties, High Matron. They will stand until they cannot stand any longer.”

Kittle braced her arms on the palisade beside him and stared out at the morning. As he climbed into the sky, Elder Brother Sun blazed through the mist like a ball of flame in the middle of a great cloud.

“High Matron,” Skenandoah said cautiously. “I’ve heard the elders whispering. May I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

For a moment, he appeared to regret that he’d said anything. His lips pressed into a bloodless line, and he frowned down at the warriors stationed at the base of the palisade. For her ears alone, he asked, “Is it true that the Ruling Council has already decided we will surrender at nightfall?”

Blood rose to Kittle’s face. She felt lightheaded. She prayed they would not have to resort that, but … “It is most certainly
not
true. Who told you that? No, never mind, it doesn’t matter.” She stabbed a finger at him. “We will fight until our last breaths. Is that clear? You tell your people that at this very moment the council is planning a great victory celebration.”

A faint smile came to his lips, as though he knew she was lying, but appreciated it just the same. “I will tell them, High Matron.”

To cover her discomfort, she reached for the cup that hung from a peg on the palisade, filled it from the water jug, and drank. She felt wide awake. More alive than ever before. As she returned the cup to its place, she saw clouds of snow billowing over the western ridge, then a slither on the far side of the valley. The mist eddied and swirled as though brushed by a huge hand.

Kittle froze, staring. Elder Brother Sun climbed into a gap in the mist and seemed to explode. Brilliance surged across the valley. The land became a flowing field of diamonds, whiskered with frost-bright trees. The stone arrow points of her archers glittered as they aimed their bows.

She gripped Skenandoah’s wrist so hard her nails drove into his flesh. “They’re coming.”

He nodded. “Yes. I saw them a long time ago.”