People of the Silence (61 page)

“Five?” Creeper’s eyes narrowed in disbelief. “That will leave the party vulnerable.”

“I told him that. He informed me it was none of my concern. As the Blessed Sun, it was his decision to make, and he’d made it. Five warriors. No more.”

The order had ignited fury in Webworm. As War Chief, he would be responsible for the safety of the burial procession. How could he protect them with five warriors? The very idea was ludicrous.

Webworm looked over and found Creeper staring blindly into his soup bowl. He cocked his head. “That wasn’t really what was bothering you, was it, Creeper?”

Creeper waved a hand, as if to dismiss Webworm’s concern. “No, but … I mean, I
was
worried about Snake Head. He’s such an arrogant youth, and I know you’ve been—”

“Tell me, Creeper. Please.”

Creeper lowered his soup bowl to his lap. “I spoke with Mourning Dove earlier. She told me some things that distressed me.”

Webworm took another bite of his corncake and chewed it, waiting for Creeper to elaborate. For many summers Mourning Dove had been Creeper’s lover, though Creeper never spoke of the fact. Webworm knew because he had watched them together. The tender touches that passed between them could mean only one thing. The arrangement made perfect sense to Webworm. Most people, however, considered it shameful. A clan leader like Creeper could have had far more prestigious lovers. But he didn’t seem to wish them. Mourning Dove served Creeper’s physical needs, while Featherstone provided for his heart.

When Creeper said nothing else, Webworm asked, “What did Mourning Dove say?”

Creeper heaved a breath. “Did you see the young woman who came into town this morning?”

“Just for an instant. Why?”

“Mourning Dove said that she was from Turtle Village, that she had escaped the destruction and come here.”

“Why?”

Creeper turned his clay cup in his hands. “In search of relatives. Apparently the rest of her family were killed in the raid by the Tower Builders.”

Webworm ate his last bite of corncake, relishing the flavor before he swallowed it, and dusted the crumbs from his hands onto the hem of his red shirt. “Why does that worry you? It seems perfectly natural.”

“Ordinarily, I would agree, but the young woman said many things that made no sense.”

“Like what?”

Creeper took a final bite of his soup and put the bowl down on the hides at his side. “She told Yellowgirl her mother was a mason named Beeweed, who had married a Coyote Clan man named Watertoad. She—”

“That is strange.” Webworm extended his long legs across the warm deerhides. “I visited Turtle Village several times, but I never heard of any Ant Clan women living there.”

“Nor has anyone else, War Chief.”

Their gazes held, and Webworm frowned. “What else did this young woman say?”

Creeper picked up his teacup and swirled the liquid, as if stirring up the fragments of boiled petals. He took a long drink. “She said her mother had moved to Turtle Village from Lanceleaf Village, and that—”

“Lanceleaf?”
Memories flared … screams … the fire raging out of control … Beargrass’ frantic voice … young Fledgling’s terrified eyes.

“War Chief?” Creeper leaned forward and his thick black brows plunged down. “Are you well?”

Webworm closed his eyes, trying to banish the scenes. “She said her parents moved to Turtle Village. What else?” When Webworm opened his eyes, he found Creeper studying him worriedly. “I’m all right. Go on.”

Creeper nodded, and continued softly, “The young woman’s name is Silk.”

“Silk?”

An icy tingle ran up Webworm’s arms, as though his body had pieced the information together and was trying to force his stupid soul to understand. He shifted to sit cross-legged, peering intently at Creeper. “Silk. From Turtle Village. Originally from Lanceleaf Vill—” Understanding ran through his veins like fire. “Blessed Gods!”

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

“I—I thought she looked familiar. I only caught a glimpse of her face as she walked beneath my guard station with Sternlight, but—”

“You know her? Who is she?”

Webworm stared unblinking at Creeper. The man’s round face, framed with short black hair, had flushed.

“I think her name is really Cornsilk. She was the daughter of Beargrass and Thistle.”

Creeper sat back against the wall. He didn’t say anything for a time, then he murmured, “A girl. I
knew
it was a girl.”

Webworm felt as though his stomach had fallen through the floor. “You mean, you think Cornsilk is Night Sun’s daughter?”

Creeper’s gaze wandered the chamber, idly searching the masked faces of the thlatsinas. “If she is, may the gods help us all.”

Confused, filled with dread, Webworm said, “You mean because it will mean Night Sun’s death?”

Creeper lowered his face and massaged the deep wrinkles in his forehead. “No, much worse. Don’t you see? If this girl is Night Sun’s daughter, it means that the holy Derelict, the great Sunwatcher, and Night Sun, plotted to deceive the Blessed Elders of the First People. And
did
it. If the truth comes out…”

Creeper didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t have to.

Blood rushed so deafeningly in Webworm’s ears that he could barely hear himself say, “It will mean all of their deaths.”

Creeper got to his feet and paced nervously before the bowl of warming coals, his hands clenched at his sides. The folds of his green shirt shone orange in the gleam. “But this is bizarre. Sternlight and Night Sun might plot, but Dune? Why would the holy Derelict implicate himself in such a…?” Creeper stopped pacing. He whispered, “Could it be?”

Webworm lurched to his feet. “What? Tell me what’s wrong.”

“I-I’m not sure, but I think—”

Featherstone rolled to her side, and they both went silent. Gray hair straggled about her ears. Tears beaded her stubby lashes.

“Oh, Featherstone,” Creeper said gently. “Were we speaking too loudly? Forgive us. You should be sleeping. We didn’t mean to wake you.”

Creeper knelt and pulled the blanket over her shoulders again.

Jaw slack, eyes wide and vacant, Featherstone murmured,
“What’s the matter with the two of you? They’ve laid a trap! Can’t you see it?”

Webworm’s gut crawled. “A trap?… Mother? Are you awake? Here with us? Or is your soul flying?”

Drool spilled from the corner of her open mouth and trickled down her chin. She’d started to pant, as if running, running hard to get away from pursuers.

Creeper used the corner of the blanket to dab at the spittle. “Featherstone? Are you here with us?”

“Flying,” she whispered, barely audible, “flying with the Meteor People.”

Creeper gave Webworm a tender look and they both sank to the floor again.

Creeper’s hand shook as he combed hair away from his eyes. “We had better keep this to ourselves.” He ground his jaws, and added, “For now.”

“Yes,” Webworm agreed. “For now.” But wondered how he should act if he happened to meet Beargrass’ young daughter walking across the plaza? Should he pretend not to know her?

His belly soured. It would be very difficult. Now that he knew her identity, he longed to sit down with Cornsilk and talk. He
needed
to talk with her. If he explained why he’d killed her family, maybe she would tell him that it wasn’t his fault, that, of course, he had to obey orders. Perhaps she would give him that heart-rending little girl smile he remembered so well and tell him she held him blameless.

Webworm laced his fingers in his lap and squeezed them tight. Or perhaps she would leap on him and tear him to pieces with her bare hands.

He expelled a shuddering breath.
It will be the first time in my life that I won’t fight back.

As Webworm frowned at his twined hands, a terrifying thought occurred to him. He glanced up at Creeper and found the little man staring back.

“Snake Head was very interested in Cornsilk today,” he whispered. “You don’t think he suspects the same thing we do—do you?”

*   *   *

Poor Singer had moved his blankets to the opposite side of the chamber. Curled on his side, he’d been lying there—wide awake—for two hands of time. His sole occupation consisted of watching Silk in the dim red gleam of the warming bowl. She slept fitfully, thrashing in her blankets, her black hair tumbling about. The soft sounds deep in her throat made him ache. Was she back home again? Seeing her village burning and her family dying?

The story she’d told him that morning had left Poor Singer floundering. What if Night Sun and Sternlight
were
her parents? Though the First People married amongst themselves, surely they would consider an aunt-nephew relationship to be incest?… If so, they would kill Silk as an abomination.

Poor Singer tugged his blanket up around his throat. He hadn’t mentioned this possibility to Silk—but, smart as she was, she’d probably thought of it herself.

He frowned up through the roof entry at the Evening People. Against the indigo blanket of night, a few sparkled brilliantly, while others had the hazy quality of moonlit mist.

After mulling the details she’d told him, it made more sense that Silk’s birth resulted from adultery. A powerful clan matron might dare to betray her husband, but surely she would never be foolish enough to commit incest. Not when she knew that such a heinous crime would result in the deaths of all concerned, herself included.

Poor Singer yawned and his breath condensed into a sparkling white cloud. The night had turned cold. He wished he’d thought to pull his cape from his pack. He could have used it as an extra blanket.

Silk slept on her back with one arm curved over her head. Her long hair spilled across the floor around her. The sight filled Poor Singer with worry and joy.

He feared for her. Until today, he hadn’t realized the depth of his feelings. Dune had triggered the realization when he’d refused to say anything more about love. Poor Singer’s embarrassment had caused him to turn away from Silk—ashamed of his feelings. Because he loved her. And because he knew that Dune thought it wrong.

How selfish you are. Silk may be in grave danger, and all you can think about is your own guilt?

He glanced at her again, and a hollow sense of dread tormented him. What would he do if someone in Talon Town tried to hurt her?

As Sister Moon climbed into the sky, a silver sheen poured down through the roof entry and lit the chamber.

His thoughts drifted.

The words of the Keeper of the Tortoise Bundle whispered in his soul:
“Study the ways of the coyotes. They are quick and smarter than humans believe. They watch from a distance, in silence, until they know it is time to move. Always be smarter than people think. Never take action before you are certain of your aim.”

He whispered to himself, “I must be smart.”

Like Coyote in a cold den, he curled into a tight ball and breathed inside his blanket to keep warm.

Thirty-Seven

Night Sun stepped out onto the roof before sunrise. Her breath puffed white in the still, cold air. To the east, a turquoise band of light swelled over the dark canyon rim, but the arching dome of Brother Sky blazed with thousands of Evening People. The blocky silhouette of Kettle Town to the east was cast in deep blue, like a slumbering beast, where it crouched under the canyon wall.

A silver blanket of frost crystals covered Talon Town. Second moon weather could be very capricious, hot one day, freezing the next. Darkness usually brought deep cold.

Night Sun tugged her turkey-feather cape closed. The morning smelled of cedar fires. Slaves huddled around a bowl of glowing coals in the plaza, their hands extended for warmth. On the roof above the entry, Webworm stood guard, his black shape ghostly against the brightening sky.

Night Sun walked around the curving wall to the ladder that led up to the fifth story and Crow Beard’s chamber. As she climbed, her long braid flapped against her back. Pale blue light sheathed her triangular face and flashed from the coral-and-jet bracelet she wore on her right wrist.

When she stepped off onto the roof, and stood before the low T-shaped doorway that led into Crow Beard’s chamber, she took a deep breath. She hadn’t entered his chamber since his death.

A leather curtain draped the doorway, but around the edges, red light shone. Snake Head, she knew, had ordered the chamber sealed from all but Sternlight, who tended the ritual warming bowl that kept the chamber lit for her husband’s wandering ghost.

Night Sun ducked beneath the curtain and entered the chamber.

It seemed … benign.

For many summers she had entered that door with dread in her heart. How curious to feel no fear.

The thlatsinas Dancing around the walls filled her with awe, as they always had. The warming bowl sat in the middle of the floor and cast a crimson tint over fanged muzzles, huge open beaks, and bulging inhuman eyes. The gods watched her. Night Sun shivered. Was it her heart, or could she hear the eternal rhythmic thumping of their moccasined feet, as steady and faithful as the rising of Father Sun each morning?

She folded her arms beneath her cape and slowly walked about the room. Crow Beard’s sleeping mats lay in the same place, the gold-and-red blankets neatly spread, as though he might return at any moment to rest in them. On the wall over his mats, the Wolf Thlatsina stood, bent over, one foot lifted, long gray ears pricked, as if eager for the next beat of the pot drum and another step. The multitude of turquoise wolf figurines that surrounded the thlatsina glowed with a faint lavender sheen. As First Wolf had done, these figurines guided people through the underworlds to the blessings of the afterlife. Each was priceless. Some, among the Made People, would kill to own one.

Night Sun stood at the foot of Crow Beard’s mats and wondered what she should do with them. Though her son ruled Talon Town, she had the duty of distributing her dead husband’s belongings. Perhaps she would distribute the figurines between the matrons of the other towns in the canyon. Or, better yet, give them to the leaders of the Made People clans.