People of the Silence (73 page)

He walked back out into the plaza. As he reached the edge of the crowd that had gathered around Ironwood, he saw Snake Head.

The Blessed Sun stood on the fourth-story roof, peering down, a torch held high in his right hand. It threw a wavering orange gleam over his handsome face, and Webworm could see the smile that twisted Snake Head’s lips.

Confused rage surged through his veins. How could he smile? Did he have no heart?

Snake Head stood for several moments, then turned his back and ducked inside his chamber again. His door curtain swung closed behind him.

Gnat trotted across the plaza toward Webworm, his breech-clout flapping. Cold bumps covered his muscular body. “I’ve wakened the warriors,” he panted. “They’re coming. In the meantime, I’ll dress.”

“I’ll be waiting outside the entry.”

Gnat nodded, said, “I’ll join you shortly,” and sprinted for his chamber.

Ironwood shoved through the whispering crowd, carrying Cornsilk toward the First People’s kiva. Night Sun followed, her face pale, graying black braid patting her back. The youth, Poor Singer, brought up the rear. Sternlight ran the opposite direction, toward Dune’s chamber.

Webworm shouldered through the people toward the entry.

*   *   *

Dazed and numb, Poor Singer followed Night Sun and Ironwood across the kiva, past the red masonry pillars and the bodies resting atop their burial ladders on the foot drums. The empty eye sockets of the thlatsina masks above the wall crypts seemed to watch him as he passed, winking in the flickering firelight, as if alive.

Poor Singer wrung his hands as Ironwood strode to the rear of the dimly lit kiva, knelt, and gently placed Cornsilk’s limp body on the yellow bench near the fire. The sight of Ironwood—shaking, his buckskin shirt covered with blood—unnerved Poor Singer even more.

“What happened?” Poor Singer begged as Ironwood got to his feet. The big man’s oval face bore streaks of blood and dirt. “Will someone tell me now?”

“We were out talking, and I—”

“Ironwood, please,” Night Sun said as she edged between him and Cornsilk, her Healing pack over her left shoulder, her blue dress swaying, “move back.”

But at sight of Cornsilk, Night Sun faltered. A hand went to her throat. For a long moment, she just stared, her face growing pale.

“What is it?” Ironwood asked sharply. “What are you waiting for?”

Night Sun glanced at him, read the desperation in his eyes, and bent down beside Cornsilk. A touch as gentle as Night Sun’s might have been reserved for the petals of a beautiful flower. She prodded the swollen flesh. “It’s just that … she looks so much like Cloud Playing. I hadn’t expected that.”

Ironwood stepped away, and the expression of barely contained fury on his face made Poor Singer long to sit down, but he braced his legs and stood facing the big man. “You were out talking, and…”

Ironwood glared at him. “It happened so quickly, I never even saw the arrow. Cornsilk jerked and cried out. I felt her fall.” He lifted his bloody hand and stared at the palm, then clenched it into a tight fist and shook it. “She was
holding
my hand! I don’t even know what direction the arrow came from!”

Night Sun studied Cornsilk, eyes wide, mouth working silently. Her blue dress spread around her sandaled feet as she marshaled herself and placed her Healing pack on the floor. Perspiration already coated her triangular face and pointed nose, matting her hair to her temples. The four black spirals on her chin had a blue tint in the firelight. Carefully, she pulled bloody hair away from Cornsilk’s face and examined the broken arrow shaft protruding from the cheekbone.

Poor Singer felt sick. The arrow had struck at a downward angle, as if Cornsilk had glimpsed the deadly missile and tried to duck out of its path at the last instant.

Quietly, Night Sun asked, “How did the shaft break?”

The muscles in Ironwood’s shoulders bunched. “It must have happened when she fell. I looked around her for the other half of the shaft, hoping to see some identifying marks or distinctive painting, but I couldn’t find it.”

Poor Singer folded his arms and tried to get a full breath into his starved lungs.
Cornsilk, you can’t die. Don’t die!

Ironwood paced back and forth before the foot drum where Cloud Playing’s body rested.

“Poor Singer?” Night Sun pulled several folded lengths of cloth from her Healing pack and placed them on the yellow bench beside Cornsilk. “Could you put on a pot of water to heat?”

“Yes, I—I can.” He rushed to the masonry fire box, grateful to have something to do, hastily searched through the ceremonial pots and cups that sat around the rectangular base, and set out a large pot. He grabbed for one of the water jugs to fill it, and the jug slipped from his fumbling fingers and shattered on the floor. Water splashed the fire and steam burst up in a sizzling white gush.

Ironwood spun on cat feet, his hand going to the stiletto at his belt.

“Sorry, I … I’m sorry.”

“Easy, Poor Singer,” Night Sun said. “It’ll be all right. It will.”

He took a deep breath and tried to still his trembling hands, then reached for the other water jug. He couldn’t help it; he kept shooting glances at Cornsilk’s bloody face, and every time he did, he grew more light-headed.

Already the left side of her head had begun to swell and turn a purplish blue. Blood ran from her nose and mouth. It also seemed to be filtering underneath the skin, filling up the space beneath her eye, turning it a horrid black. Poor Singer managed to get the pot filled and set the water jug down before he dropped it. Then he pulled a stick from the wood pile and rearranged the coals. Scooping a pile toward him, he created a small indentation in the middle, where he set the boiling pot.

Ironwood turned to Night Sun. “Why Cornsilk? What’s the
purpose?
Did he want to kill her because she’s our daughter?”

Night Sun didn’t look up, but her shoulders hunched. “You mean as a way to punish you and me where the First People elders failed?”

“I mean exactly that.”

Night Sun rose, picked up one of the cloths, and went to dip it into the water.

“It’s not hot yet,” Poor Singer said.

Night Sun shook her head. “Doesn’t matter. These are consecrated bowls. Their souls will seep into the water and chase away evil Spirits.” As she squeezed the tan cloth out, she turned to Ironwood. “I can think of only one person bitter enough to want to kill our daughter.”

A murderous glint entered Ironwood’s eyes. In a quiet, deadly voice, he said, “So can I.”

Poor Singer sank down on the bench near Cornsilk’s head. “Who? Who would want to hurt her?”

Ironwood just turned away.

Poor Singer looked at Night Sun as she knelt in front of Cornsilk again. “Who?” he repeated.

“My son,” Night Sun answered as she gently began washing Cornsilk’s face. Blood soaked the cloth. “But he’s too much of a coward to have done it himself. He must have hired someone.”

“Or threatened someone.” Ironwood paced slowly now, deliberately, as if tracking dangerous prey through a dense forest.

Poor Singer placed a hand over his aching belly. The Blessed Sun had tried to murder his own half-sister? What sort of man…?

Night Sun touched Poor Singer’s knee. “She’s going to be all right, Poor Singer. I’ve treated wounds like this before. Warriors returning from raids frequently—”

“I—I’m all right.”

Night Sun nodded and began digging around in her pack, removing small bags—red, blue, yellow—placing them on the bench. Fragrances wafted up—sage, mint, and something pungent that Poor Singer couldn’t identify.

He soothed himself by stroking Cornsilk’s hair. “It’s all right, Cornsilk,” he whispered. “You’re going to be all right.” The blue vein in her temple throbbed as swiftly as a bird’s, but she barely breathed.

Leaning down, close to her ear, Poor Singer murmured, “I love you, Cornsilk. Don’t leave me. Please, don’t leave me.”

Night Sun gave him a measuring sidelong glance, then cleaned around the broken shaft. Bright red blood oozed.

“Why would someone wish to hurt her?” Poor Singer pleaded. “You two seem to know, but I can’t understand—”

“I can,”
Dune said. He descended the staircase, his sparse white hair shimmering orange, and hobbled across the kiva. Sternlight followed behind him, carrying an armload of blankets.

“Why?” Poor Singer asked as the panic rose again.

Dune walked past Crow Beard’s shrouded body and braced a hand against the southeastern pillar to steady himself. His white shirt gleamed faintly coral. As he examined Cornsilk, his deeply wrinkled face turned grim. “The same reason Cloud Playing was killed.”

Poor Singer glanced at the body encased in the gorgeous burial shroud. “I don’t understand.”

Sternlight lowered his armload of blankets to the yellow bench at Cornsilk’s feet and sat down beside them. When he gazed at Cornsilk, his face slackened.
As though one of the Earth Spirits had leaped up and grabbed his soul.

Only Poor Singer seemed to notice.

Ironwood propped his hands on his hips. “Well, we drew the murderer out, Dune. Our plan worked. But he’s apparently smarter than we are. He’s still free.”

“Drew him out?” Night Sun asked.

Dune leaned his shoulder against the red pillar. Firelight shadowed his deep wrinkles, making him look a thousand summers old. “Yes, that’s why Ironwood has been staying so close to you the past two days. We suspected the murderer might target you. But he targeted Cornsilk, instead, and now we know
why
he’s been killing.”

Night Sun asked, “Why?”

“Someone did not wish Cornsilk to become the next Matron of Talon Town. Nor did they wish Cloud Playing to.”

Night Sun stared at Dune. “Are you saying—”

“Of course that’s what I’m saying. That is the only thing that Cloud Playing and Cornsilk had in common. But who would be hurting so much—”

“I don’t believe it.” Ironwood shook his head and walked toward Dune. As he passed the fire, his gray braid shimmered. “I think they were killed for different reasons, Dune. Cloud Playing because she was going to return and deny Snake Head his inheritance. And Cornsilk … he wished to kill Cornsilk to punish Night Sun and me. He couldn’t do it at the trial, so he tried tonight.” He gestured at Cornsilk with his fist. “Why, he threatened her only this morning!”

Dune hitched his way over to the bench and sat down beside Sternlight. He pinned Ironwood with his gaze. “Well, I’ll grant you that it’s possible you’re right. But why, then, didn’t he try for Night Sun? And how do you explain Young Fawn? Snake Head was just a boy at the time.”

Ironwood waved a hand. “Young Fawn … that was so long ago, I’m not sure they’re connected.”

“Young Fawn?” Night Sun looked up, her cloth hovering above the broken arrow shaft. The carefully polished wood reflected the fire like a mirror, spattering Cornsilk’s bloody face with wavering orange light. “Snake Head mentioned something about her. When he—he threatened me.”

“He
threatened
you?” Dune asked.

Night Sun nodded. “Yesterday. At the very end, when I was leaving, he said…” She lifted her eyes to Sternlight and a swallow went down her throat.

Poor Singer watched in fascination. What kind of spiderweb had he and Cornsilk walked into? If only he could take Cornsilk and flee back to Dune’s little house! Anything to be away from Talon Town with its plots.

It seemed to take an act of will for Sternlight to pull his gaze away from Cornsilk. “It’s all right, Night Sun. What did he say?”

Her fist tightened on the bloody rag until crimson ran in a stream between her fingers. “It horrified me so much, I even hate to speak of it. He—he told me that he used to follow us, Ironwood and me, Webworm and Cloud Playing. Sternlight, he said I had no idea what sort of crimes … you had committed … and he asked if I remembered Young Fawn. Then he said that Mourning Dove could verify his words, because she’d followed him that day and had seen everything. I didn’t know what he meant by that.”

Sternlight tucked his hands beneath his arms, but not before Poor Singer saw them shaking. Who was Young Fawn and what had happened to her that would so frighten the great priest?

“What’s the matter with you, Sternlight?” Ironwood demanded. “Didn’t you hear Night Sun? Snake Head accused you of murder—”

“I … I’ve seen her.” He used his chin to point at Cornsilk. Ironwood glanced at Cornsilk, but swiftly returned his gaze to Sternlight, silently questioning. Sternlight did not look at his friend. He said, “I’ve seen her
here.
Lying on this very bench, just as she is now. With all of us around her. The gods…”

The fire leaped suddenly, splashing the kiva’s white walls and illuminating the mouths and eye sockets of the thlatsina masks. Poor Singer’s stomach muscles tightened. He could feel their gazes drilling into his soul, could almost hear those frozen mouths crying out. As if in warning.

“In a Spirit Dream?” Dune asked. “You saw her here in a Dream?”

Sternlight nodded. “Yes. I—I saw Cornsilk here, in the kiva. And Cloud Playing was Dancing with the Badger Thlatsina … and there was a fiery blue cave filled with black water. And I think the answer to all this madness lies there.”

Poor Singer’s flesh crawled. He glanced from Dune to Sternlight and back. “You mean … the turquoise cave? I
know
that cave.”

“What cave?” Dune asked with his bushy brows lowered.

“The turquoise cave! The Keeper of the Tortoise Bundle lives there. It’s beautiful. I traveled there with my father—”

“Your father?” Sternlight said. “Who—”

“Wait!” Dune said and held up a hand. “We’ll discuss all of this later. Let’s pry that arrow out of Cornsilk first.” He pointed to the pot on the coals. “Ironwood? Is that pot of water boiling yet?”

Ironwood peered over the edge of the steaming pot. “Almost. A little longer.”

“Good.” Dune slapped his knees and rose to his feet. “What do you wish me to do, Night Sun?”

She reached for the blue bag she’d placed on the bench and handed it to Dune. “Add some sage and some phlox.” She dug around in her pack, pulled it out and handed it to him. “Thank you, Dune.”