People of the Silence (55 page)

He gestured to the stairs, and followed her as she headed for the ladder that led to her fourth-story chamber.

*   *   *

Two hands of time later, they lay twined in each other’s arms atop her sleeping mats. The night’s chill slowly drained the heat from Ironwood’s body, and he tightened his hold on Night Sun.

What have I done?
Ironwood thought.
How did I let this happen?

Night Sun had her head tucked beneath his chin. He stroked her bare back slowly, letting the softness of her skin ease his inner ache. Starlight fell in a cool veil over their naked bodies.

Tell her. Do it now. If the world is coming unraveled as fast as you fear it is, you might never have another chance.

“Night Sun?”

“Hmm?” she answered sleepily.

“I never stopped loving you.”

She lifted her head and her long graying black hair tumbled around him. She’d never heard him say it before. Pain shimmered in her eyes; the intensity of it frightened him—as it had those long summers ago just before she’d told him she could never see him again. “Ironwood, I…”

When her voice faltered, he said, “You don’t have to tell me you love me, Night Sun. I didn’t expect that. I only wanted to tell you. I’ve said it so often in my dreams, I had to hear it aloud. Just once.”

She brushed hair behind her ears and let out a breath. “The day that I say it, Ironwood, is the day we will have to leave Talon Town and give up the entire Straight Path nation. You realize that, don’t you? We could never openly be together. Not here. Not anywhere among our people.”

“Yes, I realize that.”

“Are you willing to give up everything?”

He smiled. “I have nothing without you, Night Sun.”

Slowly, she lay her head down again, and ran slender fingers over his arm, tracing the swells of muscles. In a bare whisper, she said, “Forgive me, Ironwood.”

He stared at the starlight reflecting from the black creosote that coated the ceiling poles. It formed a weave of tiny shimmering diamonds.

He nodded against her hair. “I always have.”

Thirty-Three

Sunlight poured through the eastern window in Night Sun’s chamber, flashing from a cloud of iridescent flies that hummed in the warm spring air. She wandered the chamber aimlessly. She had been free for less than a day and had no notion of what to do first. Her gaze drifted over the room. It stretched two-by-three body-lengths. The Buffalo Thlatsina, with his curving horns and long black beard, stared at her from the south wall. On the floor below him stood a line of Green Mesa pots painted with exquisite black-and-white geometric designs. Herbs and roots for Healing filled the pots. As sunlight warmed the smallest one, the fragrance of dried mint rose. The Sun Thlatsina Danced on the north wall, his pink arms spread, one foot lifted. He wore a headdress of eagle feathers.

Everything lay exactly as she’d left it. Why did it feel unfamiliar? In her absence, had the chamber’s soul fled? Her blankets, where she had held Ironwood, rested beneath the Sun Thlatsina, her most precious possessions in the large blue-and-white basket in the northwestern corner. Six hands tall, and four wide, the basket held her whole life.

Night Sun walked over and removed its lid. She gently took out the yellow blanket her grandmother had woven, then the first pot Cloud Playing had made, small and red, with her tiny fingerprints pressed into the surface. Night Sun touched each indentation, and a dazed sensation filled her—like forgotten terror suddenly reawakened by a word or a look. Her hand shook as she drew it back.

Her daughter was dead. She had seen the body, touched it, and felt the cold flesh. But true belief, and with it acceptance, still eluded her. As though her soul insisted her eyes had played a trick on her, her memory saw Cloud Playing alive and smiling. What would happen when the truth finally sank in?

Night Sun peered inside the tiny pot, at the obsidian scraper Snake Head had given her in his seventh summer. He’d loved her then. Blessed gods, how had he come to hate her so? What could she have done differently?

Her hand hovered over the rare and precious turquoise knife from Ironwood. After they’d returned from that first trip together, he’d slipped it into her hands. They’d been in a crowd, at night, and no one had seen. He’d walked away without a word.

Night Sun picked it up and held it to her heart.

That trip had been joyous. For eight days, they had laughed and talked; every time he’d looked at Night Sun, her soul had soared. By the last night of their journey, she’d been desperately in love with him, and the knowledge had nearly broken her heart.

She lowered the turquoise knife and studied the polished surface, ground to shape by a master craftsman. The handle had been made from deer antler.

For seventeen summers, she’d kept Ironwood’s laugh, and the look in his eyes, locked in a secret chamber in her soul. When Crow Beard insulted and embarrassed her, when he beat the children, those precious memories had kept her sane.

She gazed through the window. The rocky crest of Propped Pillar shone in the slanting morning sunlight. Golden eagles had built a huge nest of old juniper branches on top. The female sat in its midst with her beak tucked beneath her wing, sleeping in the warm sun.

What Night Sun would give to …

A shadow fell across her room, and she looked over her shoulder to see Ironwood standing in the doorway. A hollow ache grew within her. He smiled, but it was an uneasy smile. After last night, she didn’t blame him. He wore a red shirt with black leggings and sandals. He’d pulled his graying hair away from his oval face and tied it back with a braided yucca cord.

He said. “I wanted to make sure you were all right.”

Night Sun clutched the knife to her heart and turned to him. When he saw it in her hands, he searched her face with warm eyes.

“I’m numb, Ironwood. I don’t know how to think or feel. It’s as if my wrists and ankles are tied, and I can’t move very far in any direction.”

“A lot has happened, Night Sun. You need time to sort it out.”

She carefully tucked the knife between the folds of her grandmother’s blanket in the blue-and-white basket and replaced the lid. “Even with time, I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to do that. My husband is gone. I hate my son. My beautiful daughter is dead. And I don’t know why someone would—would kill her.” She rubbed her tight throat. “I’ve been trying to determine what is left of my life.”

He took a deep breath, then apparently decided to say nothing.

Night Sun walked over and leaned her shoulder against the wall near him. “What is it?”

Ironwood’s slanting brows plunged down over his flat nose. His pale golden skin looked flaxen in the wash of light. “Young Swallowtail returned last night, saying that Dune’s apprentice, Poor Singer, is on his way with Dune’s burial bundle. It should take a day or two for Dune to prepare Crow Beard’s body.” He probed her eyes. “Sternlight wanted me to ask if you wished to accompany the body on the journey south. Snake Head will be leading the procession.”

Night Sun clenched her fists, as if the action alone could strangle her churning emotions long enough to see her way to the future. “And Sternlight thought I might not wish to spend four days on the sacred road with my son.”

“It isn’t necessary, Night Sun. Few Matrons ever go. And it might be dangerous. The procession will make a good target for raiders.”

She massaged her forehead.

“There’s … something else,” he said softly.

Night Sun looked up.

“Do you remember that I told you when things settled down here, I was going to Lanceleaf Village to hunt for Cornsilk?”

“Yes.”

As though he was struggling with himself, his lips parted, but no words came out. He folded his arms tightly across his chest. It took several moments before he said, “I wanted to ask … would you like to go with me?”

Night Sun took a deep breath. Last night had stirred feelings that terrified her. But long ago she had crossed a line that could not be recrossed, and she’d run so far past it last night that she couldn’t even see the line any longer. Go with him? Oh, if only she could. She wanted to go with him, desperately. Had she been thirty summers old, she would have packed her things now, this instant. But she just stood there, gazing at his tortured expression.

“Are you certain, Ironwood?”

With a weary smile, and wry crook of an eyebrow, he said, “No.”

“But you asked anyway?”

“Yes.”

“Because you feel sorry for me?”

“I think,” he said through a long exhalation, “that you know me better than that. I asked because I need time alone with you. To talk. I have … ideas. But I can’t discuss them with you in Talon Town.” He stopped. “No, that’s not right. The truth is, I don’t
wish
to speak about them here.”

Because he rightly fears that surrounded by First People I will feel obligated to say no?

“I understand.”

“I had hoped you would.”

Night Sun touched the sleeve of his red shirt. He watched her fingers intently as she bravely lowered them to rest on his forearm. “But I—I make no promises, Ironwood. I mean … about afterward.”

“I ask for none.”

In the long silence that followed, Night Sun heard the shrill cry of an eagle and the jingling of copper bells as someone walked by on the roof below.

“When did you wish to leave?”

“Four days. Maybe five. If that’s all right?”

“I’ll be ready.”

Ironwood lightly touched her hand where it rested on his arm. Conflicting emotions danced across his face. The longer he touched her, the more his expression tightened.

A commotion rose outside and both of them peered through the doorway. Two people entered the plaza and stood looking around awkwardly. The young man wore a long brown shirt and the woman a pale green dress. Dusty and tired, they appeared to have come a long way. Slaves gathered around them, asking questions, poking and prodding the packs they carried.

“I must go,” Ironwood said. “Dune asked me to keep a look out for Poor Singer.”

“Do you think that’s him?”

“It looks like him, but I can’t tell from up here.” He stepped out of her chamber onto the roof, and the wind caught his hem and sleeves and whipped them back and forth. He looked back and bowed respectfully to her. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to find out.”

“Until later, Ironwood.”

She watched his broad back until he rounded the curve in the wall.

Go with him?
She knotted her fists, sagging against the wall.
Oh, Night Sun, what are you doing?

*   *   *

Ironwood crossed the plaza and approached Poor Singer and the young woman. Slaves crowded around them, asking questions. Poor Singer answered, while the young woman carefully appraised her surroundings. Her large dark eyes took in everything, scanning each of the five stories of Talon Town, lingering for a moment on the magnificent images of the Great Warriors, then moving about the plaza, noting each person.

Ironwood studied her. She had a warrior’s gaze, though she carried her bow tied on top of her pack. Her broad cheekbones and pointed nose bore a sheen of sweat, and dirt streaked the front of her green dress. Black hip-length hair fluttered about her in the wind, shading blue when the light struck it just right. A pretty young woman. Ironwood doubted she could have seen more than sixteen summers.

As he neared, the slaves immediately stepped back and opened a path for him. The young woman eyed Ironwood with deadly intent, but Poor Singer just heaved a sigh and smiled. Tall and skinny, Poor Singer had a narrow face and a thin hooked nose. His braid hung over his left shoulder.

“Good day, Poor Singer,” Ironwood said in a friendly voice. “I hope your journey was safe and pleasant.”

“Yes, War Chief, thank you. We had no troubles.”

“I’m happy to hear that.” Ironwood turned to the young woman. She watched him as a lioness would a mouse. Ironwood smiled at her. “And who are you?”

“Spidersilk,” she said. “Silk for short. I’m from Turtle Village:”

Ironwood’s brows lowered. “Turtle Village? I heard that…”

An ache entered her large dark eyes. “My village is gone. My family is dead.”

Ironwood nodded sympathetically. “I pray the thlatsinas keep them well. You are both welcome here. Please, if you will follow me, I’ll take you to your chamber.”

Poor Singer wet his lips nervously. “I think I should see Dune first, War Chief. He—”

“Poor Singer, I am no longer War Chief,” Ironwood said with a forced smile. “You may call me Ironwood. Dune gave me strict instructions to show you to your room first, then, later, to bring you to the First People’s kiva. You don’t wish me to disobey the holy Derelict’s orders, do you?”

“No. I’d never … I mean … Very well, then, thank you. I’m too tired to argue.”

“Dune thought you would be. Tired, that is, and hungry.” Ironwood led the way across the plaza, scattering turkeys as he walked. Gobbling and squawks marked their passage. The slaves had regrouped in the doorway that separated the eastern and western halves of the plaza, whispering. Ironwood wondered why they appeared so concerned. Perhaps it was just that they knew Poor Singer to be one of Dune’s chosen Singers-in-the-making.

He stopped at the ladder to the first-floor roof. Silk was staring hard at Webworm, her jaw tight, fists knotted. The War Chief stood at his traditional post overlooking the entryway. Webworm, arms folded, had his eyes fixed on the roads and trails that traced the canyon bottom. Lanky and square-jawed, he wore a long red war shirt, a turquoise carving hung over his breast. Silk’s attention had a breathless quality. A curious … power.

Ironwood turned to her, “Do you know him?”

The sidelong glance she gave him reflected pure hatred. “No,” she answered in a voice that would have frozen a boiling hot spring.

Ironwood inclined his head agreeably and climbed the ladder. When he reached the rooftop, he waited for them to step off, then showed them to the ladder that led down into their chamber. “I hope this is adequate. If you need anything, please—”