People of the Silence (21 page)

“The Blessed Sun is sick again, Elder,” Wraps-His-Tail answered. “We have been carrying the message around.”

Dune’s bushy brows plunged down. “That hardly seems the sort of duty Ironwood would give his two best warriors.”

Wraps-His-Tail shrugged. “We were at hand.”

Cone added, “Ironwood wished to ensure that we beat the rumors. You know how people panic when a Chief falls ill. They always say he is dying.”

“Yes, that’s true.”

“Well,” Wraps-His-Tail bowed again, “we must be going. We promised Ironwood we would be back by tomorrow.”

“Be off, then.” Dune waved a hand. “Tell Crow Beard I wished him well.”

“Indeed, we shall, Elder!”

Both men trotted on up the trail, heading toward the main road which led south. Dune watched them go, his eyes slitted suspiciously.

“What is it?” Poor Singer asked. “Is something wrong?”

“Not according to them.” Dune fingered his sagging chin.

The old man ducked back into his house and Poor Singer heard him talking to the mouse. The door curtain swung, flashing in the sunlight.

“Dune!” Poor Singer said. “I have something important to tell you! Wait until you hear what I did this morning. You won’t believe it!”

Poor Singer pulled back the curtain and saw Dune slipping on a tan shirt. His white hair shone in the firelight. Crouching, he added more wood to the fire, and asked, “What?”

Poor Singer swelled his chest. “I learned to be a newborn! On my first try!”

“Did you?” Dune’s bushy brows arched.

“Yes, but you were right,” Poor Singer quickly added, “it wasn’t easy. Not at all. I had to work
very
hard.”

“I see.”

Poor Singer shifted uncomfortably. “See … what?”

Dune got to his feet. The wrinkles around his small round nose twitched. “I see that you and your pride are still standing tall in the light.”

Ten

Six body-lengths wide, the road shimmered with crushed potsherds. Not all roads had such a surface, but many did, particularly those near sacred sites, or towns. Night Sun hurried, her black-and-white cape flapping around her like bat wings as she trotted past Kettle Town. Just to the east of Talon Town, it rose in stepped layers, its famous colonnade shining in the sun. Behind its north wall with its hanging porch, the rounded tower rose to the ladders and hand-holds that led to the stairway and the road north to Center Place.

Night Sun’s cousin, Moon Bright, was Matron of Kettle Town. When the people, who perched on the roofs of the multistoried building, yelled questions at Night Sun, she just waved and continued on. She could see Talon Town ahead, shining whitely in the afternoon sun. A nearly perfect half-circle, the flat east–west wall of the giant structure faced south, gleaning the winter sun’s warming rays. Slaves clustered around the single entrance in the western half of the flat wall, grinding corn in the mealing bins, carrying out the refuse, weaving brightly colored fabric on large looms. Two deerhides were being stretched on wooden frames. Women labored over them, scraping them with stone tools.

Young Swallowtail—fourteen summers old, muscular, and very tall for his age—knelt beside them, butchering a deer with a long obsidian blade. He took short, expert strokes, separating out each muscle, laying it on a flat stone to the side. The pile of rich red meat stood four hands tall. Each slave had specific duties. Swallowtail tended to cutting up animals and dusting the ceremonial masks in Talon Town. Both he and his mother, Mourning Dove, were extremely talented and loyal slaves. As Night Sun trotted up, Swallowtail smiled and greeted, “It is good to have you home, Blessed Matron.”

“Thank you, Swallowtail. I hope you are well.”

He beamed. “Oh, yes, better now.” The boy glanced at the bandage on his arm. “The poultice you placed on my cut is working. No evil Spirits have entered the wound yet.”

Night Sun smiled. He’d slipped and fallen down a hillside while carrying a large pot of water. One of the jagged sherds had slashed his upper arm. “I’m glad. I will look at it again tomorrow, just to make sure.”

“Thank you, Blessed Matron. I…” He looked up suddenly and pointed. “I think you are being hailed.”

Night Sun turned to the mounds that thrust up in front of Talon Town. Long, square, and flat-topped, they’d been built over old trash mounds, squared off, and heightened to allow the commoners to see above the south wall and into the plaza. During the ceremonial dances, those mounds were packed with spectators. But they served as more than viewing platforms. An enemy would have to sneak through a narrow defile about five body-lengths wide—between the mounds and the south wall—to rush the entry. Anyone so foolish would find Talon Town’s warriors raining arrows down upon him.

The burly slave master, Gray Wood, stood atop the eastern mound, his red shirt billowing in the wind. He was waving his bow to catch Night Sun’s attention. He called, “Welcome back, Blessed Night Sun!”

“Good day, Gray Wood!” she shouted. “How is my husband?”

Gray Wood lifted a hand uncertainly. His shadow stretched long and straight, pointing eastward. His loose hair glinted blue-black. “Only the gods know. But surely he will get better now that you are home.”

Night Sun smiled weakly and hurried on into the narrow portal. Through the entry, she could see the
Yamuhakto,
the Great Warriors of East and West, who stood painted on the curving rear wall of Talon Town, thirty hands tall, magnificent. The rich blues, reds, and yellows of their terrifying masks took on an unearthly light in the afternoon sun. The lightning bolts in their upraised hands were aimed down at the plaza, at anyone or anything that might dare disrupt the sacred harmony of the Straight Path people.

Over the past twenty summers, Sternlight had often Dreamed that Power was abandoning the canyon, disowning the Straight Path people. He’d warned that if they didn’t do something soon, they would see their world crumble to dust. Last summer, Sternlight had gone out into the desert to fast and pray, then had returned at a run, shouting at Talon Town’s artists to paint everything—interior and exterior walls, pots, clothing, jewelry—anything that would hold an image, a shred of the vanishing Power.

Then he had broken down and wept for four days and four nights, until he’d had no more tears to give.

Suddenly frightened, Night Sun ran through the entry, passing, to her left, the slave chambers and the Cage where they kept prisoners locked up. Three large kivas dotted the plaza in front of her. Ladders thrust up from their roofs, allowing entry and exit. A long strip of rooms cut through the middle of the plaza to her right, dividing it in half. Ahead, five stories of rooms rose, each story stepped back, resembling a huge staircase. Ladders led from roof to roof.

She bowed briefly to the Great Warriors, then began climbing, gripping the pine poles, her feet working, scaling the next ladder, and the next, until she reached the fifth story. Though most chambers in Talon Town were entered by ladders through holes in roofs, this block of rooms had T-shaped doorways. The shape helped cool the rooms in the summer. The cool air near the floor was hindered from escaping by the narrow base of the “T,” while the hot air vented through the wide top. Ironwood stood beside the doorway she sought.

Night Sun stopped, breathing hard, and peered into his eyes. Tall, sun-bronzed, he leaned against the white-plastered wall with his muscular arms folded. He’d braided his graying black hair into a single plait that draped over his right shoulder. Muscles bulged under the fabric of his long red shirt. He wore black leggings and sandals. At the age of almost forty-six summers, the War Chief’s violent life showed in his face. Deep lines etched his forehead and curved around his wide mouth, accentuating the flatness of his nose. Even when he smiled these days, he looked sad, though deep inside her, he would always be the handsome laughing youth she had loved so desperately.

But that was a long time ago, wasn’t it, Ironwood? Back when we were both young and outrageously foolish.

As she walked toward him, he straightened, and tenderness softened his dark eyes. “Forgive me,” he said as he extended an arm to block the door. “Crow Beard left orders not to let you enter his chamber.”

“That doesn’t surprise me, Ironwood. He’s never known what was good for him—or for anyone else, for that matter. Is he alive?”

“Yes. Barely.”

“Then he needs me. Get out of my way.” She gripped his arm and tried to force it down.

He held fast. “Blessed Night Sun, would you have me disobey—”

Night Sun swiftly ducked beneath his arm and stalked across the elaborately painted room toward her husband’s bedside, where Sternlight knelt. Dressed in white, his long hair shone as blackly as it had twenty summers ago. He gazed at her solemnly.

“Aunt,” Sternlight said, “you know that I am honor-bound to tell you—”

“I do know it, nephew,” she cut him off. “Which means there is no need for you to say it. Besides, Crow Beard is asleep. He cannot punish you for something he does not witness.”

Sternlight raised an eyebrow. “True.”

Night Sun knelt opposite him and gazed upon her husband. What she saw frightened her. Thin gray hair clung to his freckled scalp in damp wisps, and his wrinkled face was flushed. His chest moved rapidly beneath the blankets.

She bent forward to touch his gaunt cheeks. “Hallowed gods,” she whispered. “What have you been doing for his fever?”

Sternlight peered at her with clear brown eyes. “Nothing. He ordered us not to call any Healers. He said he hates them all, even—”

“That’s demented! Part of his fever! You believed him?”

“No, not—not really. But it was an order, Night Sun. I had no choice.”

She gripped the fabric of her cape near her throat and pulled to untie the bow. “Well,” she said through a taut exhalation, “my husband is unable to give you any more orders, great Sun-watcher. Now you take orders from me.”

“Of course.”

She removed her cape and spread it over Crow Beard. “Where is my son?”

“Snake Head stayed up all night. He only retired to his chambers to rest two hands of time ago.”

“Good. He won’t be around to bother me.”

Sternlight bowed his head obligingly. “What is it you wish me to do to help you?”

“Where are my slave women? Find them. Order them to bring bowls of hot coals and set them around Crow Beard. Tell them I want all the hides they can gather.”

“Yes, Night Sun. Is there anything else?”

She forced her exhausted mind to think. “Just one thing. I left Cloud Playing and my Healer’s pack at Deer Mother Village. A woman there took ill after her baby was born—born dead. Since I do not have my pack, I will need several things from my chambers. Tell my slave, Mourning Dove, that I need the pot of willow bark.…” She let out a breath. Weariness weighted her shoulders like a cape of stone. She had run almost all the way home. “Ask Mourning Dove to pour me a warm bath and bring my blankets here. I will sleep beside Crow Beard tonight.”

Both Ironwood and Sternlight gaped at her, as if they had not heard correctly. It had been many summers since she had slept in her husband’s chamber, or he in hers. Everyone knew it.

Night Sun glared at Sternlight. “Are you deaf? Or just defying me?”

“Neither, Aunt.” He rose to his feet. “I am on my way to deliver your orders.”

Sternlight crossed the room gracefully, his white ritual shirt swaying with each step. He exchanged a glance with Ironwood before he exited into the rusty gleam of late afternoon.

Night Sun glared at Ironwood, daring him to make a comment. As he approached, the light from the doorway threw his tall body into silhouette, highlighting the breadth of his shoulders and narrowness of his waist. He knelt beside her, searching her face. Night Sun longed to touch him, to ease the constant pain in his eyes—but she couldn’t. Not now. Not ever again.

We change what we love,
she thought.
We turned each other into lonely people.

Ironwood’s deep voice came softly. “What are your orders for me, Night Sun? I’ll do anything you ask.”

“Indeed? Is that why you wouldn’t let me in—”

“I
did
let you in, my friend.”

Their gazes held.

“Yes, you did. I thank you for that.”

He lowered his eyes to Crow Beard. “Is there anything you can do for him?”

She shook her head. “I honestly don’t know. If his fever has been this high for days—”

“It has.”

“Then I fear for his soul. It may have already begun the journey to the afterlife. Even if I can save him, he may never be the same.”

Night Sun’s eyes narrowed as she gazed upon Crow Beard. She never should have married him, never should have yielded to her family’s pleading. But there had been a catastrophe. Her older sister, Whitefly, then Matron of the First People, had been killed by raiders along with her husband, the Blessed Sun. Both of Whitefly’s daughters had vanished before they’d turned fifteen summers. The daughter left by their oldest sister, Lacewing, had been captured by the Fire Dogs, and no one knew if she lived or had been murdered. That left Night Sun, thirteen years her sister’s junior, to serve as Matron. But she could not do it, they told her, as a single woman. Though no clan laws forbade a single woman from ruling, the clan demanded that she marry. And she had, quickly, taking the man they’d selected for her.

She should have sent Crow Beard away and forced her family to search for another. If she had, she would not be torn in two now, terrified he might die—and yearning for the liberty his death would bring.

Liberty—but at such a price. Until she, or Cloud Playing, remarried, if ever, her only son Snake Head would rule as Blessed Sun, but his arrogant self-absorption would free Night Sun to do as she wished, to travel and to Heal. She could even have her fill of lovers. Despite her age, many men would gladly lie with her, just to be able to say they had bedded the great Matron of Talon Town, or to gain the Power it might bring.…
No, I don’t want lovers. That time is past.

An odd sensation, as if she tumbled through emptiness, dizzied her. She reached out, and Ironwood gripped her arm firmly.