The Warrior's Captive Bride. Jenna Kernan

dreams.”

      “Yes, they do. I will tell you something else that I have shared with no one. During the time of my vision quest, I had strange dreams.”

      “That is not unusual, I think.”

      Much of the process of becoming a man was kept a very carefully guarded secret, just as the entry process of becoming a woman was held from the men. But she had heard this and that. She knew, for example, that when their mentors deemed them ready, a boy left the tribe with his mentor, went into the forest and stayed there. Many days later the boy would return, gaunt and changed in ways that frightened her. The candidate left as a boy and returned as a man. The tribes’ celebration for these new members was jubilant, as was the welcoming for women who were of marriageable age.

      She was well past her womanhood and still the men of her tribe had done no more than steal a few kisses and bestow a few trinkets.

      Skylark focused on Storm. “I know little of the vision quest.”

      He nodded his understanding of this. “And I can tell you little, except to say that my name must come from what I saw and I saw many things. Terrible things. I was told to choose my name from the visions or from the first creature I saw upon waking. I did not do as I was told. Do you think this could have brought this sickness?”

      “Possibly. Why did you not do as you were instructed?”

      He made a face.

      “It was night when I became aware. But it was not storming. And the first creature I saw was the same one that came to me in my visions. They came again and again. They still come. Follow me in dreams and while awaking. I thought it called me to be fearless in battle and to take many enemy lives. Now I do not know what they want from me.”

      “But you should use this creature for your name. Is that right?”

      His expression turned grim.

      She cocked her head, the unease growing at his silence. She swallowed back her trepidation. What could possibly be so terrible?

      “What animal?” she asked, the dread creeping into her with the evening chill.

      “A white owl.”

      She could not contain the shout of fear as she threw her hands across her chest. Her skin went cold as she stared in shock at this man.

      It was the worst of all possible omens.

      * * *

      Storm placed a hand over his forehead and kept it there as he spoke, the horror of his disclosure clear in his voice. “I saw many strange things, but the animal I saw again and again was the owl.”

      She could not find her voice and so spoke in a whisper. “Death. Your death or the death of those you love.”

      “Or the death of enemies in battle. I saw the owl in visions and dreams and upon waking. A white snowy owl in the summer time. A horned owl perching over my head and the sound of screech owls during the night.”

      “Perhaps...” Her mouth was so dry from the fear that she had to clear her throat before she could speak. “Owls are messengers. They bring word of impending death, that is true. But perhaps...” She was reaching for some glimmer of hope. “Perhaps... Perhaps they only foretold of this time. If this is spiritual, then you are called to interpret this message. A message from the world of the dead.”

      “Instead, I have hidden it from all but you.”

      She could understand why.

      “I knew that they called me to something. I assumed they called me to battle my enemies. I rode into all battles expecting to send many ghosts to the spirit road.”

      Or to die, she thought. She shivered at the thought. Had it not occurred to him that the owls called him to his own death?

      “My name should be chosen from my visions, but I knew that my tribe would be afraid, if I called myself White Owl or Shrieking Owl or Evening Owl. So I chose Night Storm, for the storm that finally quieted the owls.”

      “This is a terrible omen.”

      “Yes. I am linked to death. I just do not know how.”

      “Do you see the dead?”

      “No.”

      “Do you think the owls were the spirits of the dead?”

      “I do not know.” He turned his head and looked at her, his brow furrowed. He seemed to be puzzling something out.

      “What?” she asked.

      “Why are you still here?”

      Now she was the one who was confused. “You asked my help. Don’t you remember?” Was his mind worse than she supposed?

      “Of course, I remember. But most women would have run screaming in the other direction the minute I told them of my vision. Why didn’t you?”

      Why hadn’t she? “Well, I suppose because you need help and because I think I might be able to help you.”

      “You are not like anyone I have ever met. You are either the bravest of all Crow women or the craziest.”

      “Don’t call me that,” she snapped, and immediately recognized what she had done. Her eyes widened. Women did not speak to warriors in such a way. It was within his right to chasten her.

      He tucked his chin and stared through thick lashes at her. But he did not chastise or raise his voice, showing so clearly the kind of control a warrior must have over his emotions. He just watched her as her face grew hotter and hotter. She wished he’d say something. Finally he spoke.

      “We’ll speak of this later.” He stood.

      She followed him and stepped before him when he tried to move away. “Is it because of what I said?”

      His mouth quirked. “No. It’s just that my head is hurting again.”

      “Where?”

      He gripped his forehead.

      “Does that happen often?”

      “Less often than at first.”

      At first? What did that mean?

      “When did it begin?”

      “In the Fast Water Moon.”

      That was the time when the old man of the north finally released his grip upon the land and the snows receded and the green shoots poked up through the ice. A time of great change in the land. Melting ice and rushing water. What had happened to him at that time?

      She was about to ask, but he placed his broad hands on her shoulders and gave a little squeeze. “Enough talk for now. I would catch us fish or it is pemmican again for supper.”

      Frost returned, tail wagging, carrying an enormous bullfrog in his mouth. He laid it down before them and the frog leaped into the tall grass. Frost pounced like a fox on a mouse but missed, judging from the sound of the splash coming from the lake.

      Storm collected his fishing line, bone hooks and the stone sinker. But he paused before leaving. “What will you do?”

      Skylark stood and swept the folds from her dress. “I have plants to collect.” She slung her carrying bag over her shoulder and then hesitated.

      “What?” he asked.

      “Will you be all right alone?”

      His face reddened. “I am not an invalid, nor a child. Of course, I will be all right. Will you?”

      She nodded and he stalked away.

      This, she realized, was why he had not gone to his shaman. He did not wish to be watched and coddled. How could she blame him? She felt much the same. What was the point of living if she did not have the freedom to come and go? He was a man. And a man must have his pride and his dignity.

      Skylark