People of the Silence (34 page)

Mourning Dove flinched when Creeper suddenly rubbed too hard. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry, Mourning Dove.” He patted her shoulder.

She hung her head and sighed. “It’s all right. Thank you.”

Creeper concentrated on gentleness, covering each blister, each open wound.

The faces around him had gone dour, hopeless. These were slaves. They knew the futility of objecting to brutality. As did Creeper, as one of the lowly Made People. Creeper would bring this incident up at the next council with the First People elders, but it would do no good. Someone might chastise Snake Head, or mention in passing that he shouldn’t have hurt Mourning Dove. Snake Head would just laugh—Creeper had seen it before. Many times.

Swallowtail leaned back against the white wall and serenely closed his eyes, appearing to have gained control of himself. His face was slack. Then Creeper saw his arms. The knotted muscles bulged and twitched beneath the fabric of his brown shirt—as if he were dreaming of beating someone to death with his bare hands.

As his own indignation built, Creeper nodded. He smoothed more salve on a particularly bad burn where the blister had burst and left raw meat beneath.

Mourning Dove moaned through gritted teeth.

“I’m sorry,” Creeper repeated. “Did I hurt you again?”

“Oh, Creeper,” she whispered hoarsely, “why would he do this to me? I know he was upset about something, but I did nothing wrong! I swear it! I obeyed his every order, I—”

“He did this,” Creeper said in a shaking voice, and clenched his fist to still it, “because he’s one of the First People,
and he could.
”

*   *   *

When the flames died and the cloak of night wrapped the hills, Thistle crawled out of the sage thicket and stood, trembling, looking up toward Lanceleaf Village.

Black smoke curled into the air. Wind Baby dragged it over the desert, stretching and tangling the smoke like slender lengths of rope. The stench of burned pitch stung her nose.

As silent as Hawk’s shadow, she took three steps up the hill, then stopped to look and listen before taking another three. She dared not watch her feet. She kept her eyes on the dark shapes that surrounded her: brush, rocks, juniper trees. Prickly pear punctured her moccasins and stabbed her feet. Blood warmed her cold toes.

And all the while, her heart thundered with fear.
Beargrass?

Occasionally smoldering wood cracked and hissed. Other than that, deathly quiet had settled on the hills like a smothering embrace.

Thistle climbed up to the scorched shell of her house and her throat constricted. “Blessed gods…” she whispered.

Movement caught her attention in the blackened remains of the village below. Faint whimpers carried.

Cautiously, she edged down the slope, trying not to lose sight of the person moving in the plaza. She found she could see him better if she didn’t look directly at him, but slightly to the right. Squat and short, the individual walked as if hurt, favoring the left foot. The cries grew clearer.

Thistle entered the plaza through the ruined gate, stepping around fallen roof timbers and stone rubble. A live turkey huddled in the shadows, but when Thistle stepped near it, the bird let out a squawk and darted away in a flurry of wings.

“Who’s there?” a girl called frantically.

“It’s Thistle.”

“Oh, Thistle…”

“Leafhopper?”

“Yes. I found my aunt.” The whimpers became suffocating sobs. “She’s dead.”

Thistle stopped. All across the dirt, bodies lay sprawled. The coppery scent of blood clung to the back of her throat. She steeled herself and walked toward Leafhopper, but her eyes searched every corpse. Her terror mounted as she whispered their names,
“Clover. Birdtail. Old man Blackruff…”

Leafhopper gathered her aunt’s body into her arms and rocked pathetically, crying, “She’s gone. My aunt’s gone.”

Thistle knelt and stroked Leafhopper’s short hair. “I’ll help you bury her. We’ll make certain she finds the way to the underworlds.… Leafhopper, have you seen—”

“Yes,” she answered, and nodded. “Over there.” Leafhopper pointed with her chin and her voice grew shrill.
“Both of them.”

Thistle gazed into her round face uncomprehending. As though moving in a nightmare, Thistle slowly rose to her feet and turned.

She saw Beargrass’ red shirt …

And the entire world went cold and gray around her. Leafhopper’s cries no longer shrilled in her ears. The reek of scorched wood vanished. She saw Beargrass’ wide dead eyes, shining with starlight.

Her legs moved with cold efficiency. They lay so close she only had to take seven small terrible steps. She stood over them, staring down. A bloody puncture wound ripped her husband’s shirt over his heart. They’d carved off most of his scalp, and an arrow, the feathers broken off, transfixed his blood-caked thigh.

For an eternity, she tried to fit what she saw on the ground with an image of Beargrass, but the pieces, like sherds from two different pots, didn’t fit.

Then it occurred to her that the headless body sprawled across Beargrass’ stomach was that of a youth.…

Her ears heard the insane scream that split the night, but she did not realize it had come from her own throat.

From an incredible distance, Thistle heard running feet, then vaguely felt arms go tight around her waist. Some detached part of her soul saw Leafhopper staring at her and talking—the young woman’s mouth moved—but Thistle couldn’t understand the words. Had she taken a sharp blow to the head?

Leafhopper led her a short distance away and sat her down gently. Then she vanished for a time and returned with a blanket, which she draped over Thistle’s cold shoulders.

Leafhopper sat beside her, put an arm around her, and leaned her head against Thistle’s shoulder. As if from another world, tears dropped onto Thistle’s hand. Cool, so very cool on her skin.

The trembling began in Thistle’s jaw and spread to her whole body.

“Oh, no,” Leafhopper whispered.

She got to her feet and ran. Thistle saw her go down the ladder into the kiva. She emerged carrying some blankets. She draped another two around Thistle’s shoulders and sank to the ground again. Hunching forward, Leafhopper Sang softly. The Death Song.…

Thistle watched unmoving: a woman in a Spirit trance. After several moments, she pulled Leafhopper against her.

Thistle rocked the young woman in her arms.

… Rocked and rocked.

Twenty

A clatter on the roof woke Night Sun. She slitted her eyes, preparing for an onslaught of light. Every time one of the slaves entered, the sudden brightness blinded her. She sat up—and stiffness shot pain through her muscles. The cold had eaten into the very marrow of her bones. As the pine-pole roof cover slid back, stars blazed. The ladder descended. It struck the ground with a dull thump.

“Night Sun?”

“Ironwood?” she blurted.

He climbed down, carrying a pack. “I mustn’t stay long. Too many people know I’m here.”

“I understand.” She swallowed to ease the ache in her throat. “How did you get past the guard?”

“I still have the loyalty of many of our warriors. In the case of Blue Corn, who’s guarding you tonight, I rescued him from a Fire Dog raiding party once.”

The gleam of starlight after pitch blackness made the room seem as bright as daylight. Ironwood had braided his hair and coiled it into a bun at the back of his head. The silver sheen highlighted the planes of his oval face, falling across his high cheekbones and flat nose, playing in his slanting brows. His bright red shirt, turquoise pendant, and blue leggings glowed dully in the starlight. She noticed grimly that he had a bow and quiver over his shoulder and that his war club hung at his waist.

“I brought you two blankets,” he said as he knelt beside her and opened the pack. “And food and water.”

“Snake Head
let
you?”

“No. He’s gone. I don’t know where.”

She grabbed for the first blanket and snugged it around her shoulders. “Oh, this feels good. Did you warm it before you brought it?”

“Yes, I knew you’d be cold,” he said as he draped the second blanket around her shoulders. “I hung them beside my fire while I spoke with Dune and Sternlight, then I folded them and came straight over.”

Night Sun clutched them closed at her throat and delighted in the prickly sensation of heat seeping into her body. “Dune is here? In Talon Town?”

“He came with me.” Ironwood sank to the floor beside her and sighed. He looked very tired. Deep lines grooved the skin around his eyes.

“I know you’re not all right,” he said, “but are you well enough to talk?”

Night Sun ran her slim fingers through her long hair. “Do you believe him, that the child is alive?”

Ironwood bowed his head. “I knew the child was alive, Night Sun.”

“You…?”

“Yes.”

A dull thudding began in her chest, followed by a hollow sickness in her gut. All these years, her child had been alive. “Sternlight … he helped you hide the child?”

He nodded. “He’s the best friend I’ve ever had. He knew how frightened you were, what Crow Beard would do to you if he found out. Sternlight made certain he was the only one present at the birth so that he could sneak the child away and see that no one—not even you—knew that it lived.”

She propped her elbows on her knees and gripped handfuls of her thick graying black hair. Thoughts tumbled over each other in her head.

“I have been paying for the child’s rearing,” Ironwood said softly. “The family has taken very good care of her.”

Night Sun stared dumbly at him. It took several moments for his meaning to dawn.
“Her?”
She scrambled to her knees facing him. “But Sternlight told me—”

“I know he did. But it was a girl.”

Hallowed Spirits, have I seen her? My eyes passing over her as if she were a stranger?

“Is she here, Ironwood? In the—”

“No. I sent her away. It was the best way to keep her safe.”

She fumbled for words as the horror became clear. “Then … oh, no. Blessed gods, no! Then an innocent boy is going to die! Is that what you’re telling me? Sternlight lied to protect our daughter, and condemned—”

“That’s what I’m telling you.” He met her probing gaze. “Give me a few moments to explain. You don’t understand, I—”

“I do understand! You and Sternlight—”

“No.” He held up his hand and slowly curled the fingers into a fist. “Please!” Anguish twisted his handsome face. “This is hard, Night Sun, after all these summers.”

“Yes, it is, Ironwood. For you … and me.” She sank back against the wall, lowered her head and tugged at her blankets.

Ironwood shifted to sit cross-legged before her, his knees less than a handsbreadth from her sandals. They had not been this close in many summers. “Night Sun, you were all I ever wanted—and were worth everything to me. But I knew you well, my friend. Long before you told me, I realized I had lost you. That little girl was the one thing I had left of ‘us.’ I couldn’t take the chance that Crow Beard might kill our daughter.”

He frowned at the moisture running down the wall to his left. His shoulder muscles contracted from the strain, swelling beneath the thin red fabric of his shirt.

Night Sun stared at him.

Their gazes held, his pleading, hers stunned.

Night Sun tried to swallow, and it hurt. “Ironwood, would you hand me the water jug?”

He drew it from his pack, removed the wooden stopper, and handed it to her. The black-and-white lightning spirals decorating the base blazed in the stargleam.

Night Sun took a long drink, and then another. The liquid tasted earthy and cold. She sank back against the wall and drank more.
She’s alive. After all these summers of mourning.

“Does … does she know about me? I mean, that I’m her mother?”

“It was better that she knew nothing about either of us. As far as I know, she thinks the people she grew up with are her parents.”

“Will you…?” Night Sun set the water on the floor. “Ironwood, I have something I wish to ask of you.”

“What?”

“In my personal chamber there is a blue-and-white basket. It is filled with things that I cherish. Please, speak to Cloud Playing. Explain to her that I wish all of those things to be divided equally between her and…” She blinked. “What is our daughter’s name?”

“Cornsilk.”

“Cornsilk.” She tried it on her tongue.
My daughter
.… “Between her and Cornsilk. And of course the lands must be divided. I will leave the rest to Cloud Playing. She’s generous and kind. She will know what to do.”

Ironwood’s jaw hardened at her defeated tone. “Have you given up already? Without even a fight? I have a plan, Night Sun. We must think of how to—”

“Wait,” she interrupted. Reluctantly, he closed his mouth and sat back, listening. “You know as well as I that the child will be proof that I betrayed the Blessed Sun.”

“Yes, but—” Ironwood reached out to touch her shoulder.

“No, don’t touch me! Don’t make it harder for me than it already is! I—I don’t need … hope … from you. I need your promise!”

His hand hovered a moment, then drew back. “I will speak with Cloud Playing.”

Night Sun saw the hurt in his eyes. “I’m sorry, Ironwood. I’m frightened and confused. I don’t know what I’m saying.”

“I know.”

“Thank you for agreeing to speak with Cloud Playing. And now … you should go. You’ve been here far too long. Even your loyal Blue Corn may grow suspicious.”

Ironwood rose and looked down at her, arms hanging limply at his sides. Starlight flowed into the wrinkles of his face. “Before I leave, I have something to ask of you, Night Sun.”

She looked up. “What is it?”

His turquoise pendant flashed as he took a breath. “Promise me…” He paused as though uncertain how to say it. “Promise me that you won’t take her away from me. You have had so much, Night Sun, and I have had so little. I
need
my daughter.”

He stood poised between silver walls and shining stars, his graying hair glinting; it occurred to her how much he must have suffered for nearly sixteen summers, knowing he had a child, longing to hold her and never able to. That little girl must have grown up in his heart and imagination—while she’d been dead to Night Sun.