the girl.
Sora took the opportunity to more closely examine Eagle Flute Village. It consisted of around thirty domelike houses spaced five body lengths apart, and arranged in a rough square that ran forty body lengths per side. Only two houses stood in the middle of the square: the Priest’s House and what she guessed was the Chief’s House. The village population appeared to be about three hundred, perhaps three hundred and fifty—small in comparison to her own Blackbird Town, where over one thousand people lived. A ring of magnolias encircled the village, and a short distance away she saw a vast marsh
filled with reeds and fluttering birds. All around the marsh, fields of corn, beans, and squash glistened an unearthly green.
“There is our new chief,” Strongheart said, and pointed.
She craned her neck to see the young man over the heads of the crowd as he stepped out of the largest house in the village. Almost twice the size of Strongheart’s house, the chief’s residence stood four body lengths tall and eight across. Horned Owl wore only a leather skirt and held … her ceremonial celt!
Her mouth fell open, and Strongheart said, “Yes, I know that belonged to you.”
“Where did Horned Owl get it?”
“Flint gave it to him.”
Angry confusion filled her.
Tattoos covered Horned Owl’s skin, spiraling across his face like tightly coiled serpents, then winding around his arms, chest, and legs. He had a supercilious air about him. As he waved to call up his guards, the movement seemed exaggerated, almost comical. Four men stepped forward to surround him.
She started to ask a question, but her voice faded when the Loon war chief, Grown Bear, stepped out behind the new chief, followed by Flint.
A mixture of anger and longing filled her. Tall and muscular, Flint had seen thirty-two winters, but his long hair was still black, his handsome face with its chiseled features unmarked by the wrinkles of most men his age. A crude but attractive cape adorned his broad shoulders—clearly a gift from the Loon People. Made from woven hanging moss and decorated with circlets of abalone shell, it shimmered wildly in the pewter gleam that streamed through the magnolias.
Five very beautiful young women exited and stood behind Flint. They smiled shyly, as though proud to be near him.
As she had once been.
“Are those the young women being offered to Flint?”
Strongheart nodded. “Yes. I suspect he will accept all five as his wives. It will increase his prestige in our lands.”
Chief Horned Owl turned, saw Sora standing outside Strongheart’s lodge, and his eyes narrowed. He stalked across the village toward her. Flint said something to his future wives, who nodded. As he rushed to follow Horned Owl, the women sat down in a circle and began whispering excitedly. Grown Bear brought up the rear, accompanied by the four guards the young chief had motioned to earlier.
Strongheart whispered, “I’ve told him you are sick, not evil. That you have no memory of the murder. Do not make me out a liar, or we will both regret it.”
“I don’t remember it. Because I didn’t do it.”
She squared her shoulders as the crowd parted, leaving a pathway for the young chief, who tramped down it like an executioner with orders to carry out.
About her height, he had dark brown eyes and a sharply pointed narrow nose. He stopped before her, and the crowd went as quiet as the hush before a hurricane. They seemed to be waiting to see if he would strike her dead.
“Did you murder my father?” he demanded to know in a high, boy’s voice.
Sora stared straight at him. “Truly, I don’t know. I remember almost nothing from that night.”
Flint shouldered through the crowd and stood behind Horned Owl. After fourteen winters of marriage, she knew his every gesture, every expression. Beneath that serene exterior, his guts were knotted up. He gave Strongheart a desperate glance.
Strongheart said, “Matron Wink’s messenger told
Sora took the opportunity to more closely examine Eagle Flute Village. It consisted of around thirty domelike houses spaced five body lengths apart, and arranged in a rough square that ran forty body lengths per side. Only two houses stood in the middle of the square: the Priest’s House and what she guessed was the Chief’s House. The village population appeared to be about three hundred, perhaps three hundred and fifty—small in comparison to her own Blackbird Town, where over one thousand people lived. A ring of magnolias encircled the village, and a short distance away she saw a vast marsh
filled with reeds and fluttering birds. All around the marsh, fields of corn, beans, and squash glistened an unearthly green.
“There is our new chief,” Strongheart said, and pointed.
She craned her neck to see the young man over the heads of the crowd as he stepped out of the largest house in the village. Almost twice the size of Strongheart’s house, the chief’s residence stood four body lengths tall and eight across. Horned Owl wore only a leather skirt and held … her ceremonial celt!
Her mouth fell open, and Strongheart said, “Yes, I know that belonged to you.”
“Where did Horned Owl get it?”
“Flint gave it to him.”
Angry confusion filled her.
Tattoos covered Horned Owl’s skin, spiraling across his face like tightly coiled serpents, then winding around his arms, chest, and legs. He had a supercilious air about him. As he waved to call up his guards, the movement seemed exaggerated, almost comical. Four men stepped forward to surround him.
She started to ask a question, but her voice faded when the Loon war chief, Grown Bear, stepped out behind the new chief, followed by Flint.
A mixture of anger and longing filled her. Tall and muscular, Flint had seen thirty-two winters, but his long hair was still black, his handsome face with its chiseled features unmarked by the wrinkles of most men his age. A crude but attractive cape adorned his broad shoulders—clearly a gift from the Loon People. Made from woven hanging moss and decorated with circlets of abalone shell, it shimmered wildly in the pewter gleam that streamed through the magnolias.
Five very beautiful young women exited and stood behind Flint. They smiled shyly, as though proud to be near him.
As she had once been.
“Are those the young women being offered to Flint?”
Strongheart nodded. “Yes. I suspect he will accept all five as his wives. It will increase his prestige in our lands.”
Chief Horned Owl turned, saw Sora standing outside Strongheart’s lodge, and his eyes narrowed. He stalked across the village toward her. Flint said something to his future wives, who nodded. As he rushed to follow Horned Owl, the women sat down in a circle and began whispering excitedly. Grown Bear brought up the rear, accompanied by the four guards the young chief had motioned to earlier.
Strongheart whispered, “I’ve told him you are sick, not evil. That you have no memory of the murder. Do not make me out a liar, or we will both regret it.”
“I don’t remember it. Because I didn’t do it.”
She squared her shoulders as the crowd parted, leaving a pathway for the young chief, who tramped down it like an executioner with orders to carry out.
About her height, he had dark brown eyes and a sharply pointed narrow nose. He stopped before her, and the crowd went as quiet as the hush before a hurricane. They seemed to be waiting to see if he would strike her dead.
“Did you murder my father?” he demanded to know in a high, boy’s voice.
Sora stared straight at him. “Truly, I don’t know. I remember almost nothing from that night.”
Flint shouldered through the crowd and stood behind Horned Owl. After fourteen winters of marriage, she knew his every gesture, every expression. Beneath that serene exterior, his guts were knotted up. He gave Strongheart a desperate glance.
Strongheart said, “Matron Wink’s messenger told
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