People of the Silence (74 page)

As he headed for the pot, he stopped beside Ironwood and looked up seriously. “Regardless of which of us is right, my friend, there’s still someone out there who wishes Cornsilk dead. We must be vigilant.”

“Yes, we must.” Ironwood strode the length of the kiva and propped one foot on the bottom step of the staircase, keeping guard.

Night Sun was staring at Cornsilk again, a terrible longing in her eyes as her gaze traced Cornsilk’s features. That wounded expression touched Poor Singer.

The killer is still out there. Waiting.
It chilled Poor Singer’s very bones. Had Cornsilk heard any of this, or did her soul walk in the underworlds? Blood still oozed around the embedded arrow, trickling down her throat and onto the yellow bench. There it formed a glistening pool, before spilling onto the dirt floor.

“It’s all right, Cornsilk,” he whispered. “Everything is all right.”

“It’s boiling,” Dune announced.

Night Sun nodded. “Let it steep. The tea must be strong. Cornsilk will need to drink all of it when we’re done. Sage and phlox heal.”

Dune walked back to Night Sun. “Where’s your knife? Let’s pry that point out before the evil Spirits smell the blood and decide to make a home in her marrow.”

“And,” Sternlight added softly, as he leaned forward to brace his elbows on his knees, “before she wakes.”

Dune and Night Sun both gazed at Poor Singer. He swallowed down a dry throat, seeing the question in their eyes. So, this was the awesome responsibility that went along with being a Healer.

What a silly fool I’ve been.
He’d only seen the glory, the adulation of his people for his skill and Power. He glanced at Cornsilk, more frightened then he’d ever been in his life. What if he failed? What if this woman he loved with all his heart died? How could he bear that?

He rose on trembling legs. As he wiped his sweaty palms on his green shirt, he heard himself ask, “Just tell me what you need me to do.”

*   *   *

Night Sun picked up her slim obsidian knife.
This is my daughter.… I’m about to cut open my daughter.
The haunting cries of the infant she’d thought dead came back to her now.
My only daughter.…
Fear built inside her like a tempest in a black storm cloud.

When she glanced at Poor Singer, she hesitated. The boy’s eyes had gone glassy.
Is he ready for this?

“Poor Singer,” she said, “I’m going to cut next to the shaft. You’ll need to pull the skin apart. It will be slippery. Can you do that?”

“Yes, I—I can.” The youth bent over and wrapped his hands around Cornsilk’s face in preparation.

Dune walked closer to stare over Night Sun’s shoulder. With his back to the fire, shadows flowed into his wrinkles, making them appear cavernous.

“Keep the cut as small as possible,” Dune advised.

“I know.”

Night Sun worked the sliver of obsidian through the skin and muscle under the cheek bone. A new rush of blood, streaked with clear liquid, welled from the incision. By feel, she followed the shaft down, encountered the binding sinew, and then the point where it was embedded in bone.

Poor Singer dutifully pulled the wound open with blood-reddened fingers. He had his jaw clamped, and perspiration formed a sheen on his narrow face.

Night Sun glanced up at Dune. “The point is embedded in the upper jaw, just above the teeth. It’s obsidian.”

Dune nodded thoughtfully. “Better to just snap it off.”

Night Sun took a deep breath to ease the suffocating band that had tightened around her chest. “We won’t leave a hole in the bone that way. Evil won’t be able to slip inside. We can always lance the cheek and drain infection, but if it enters the bone…”

“I know many warriors who are alive today because we left the point in their bones,” Ironwood said as he came over to study the wound. “Do you want me to snap it off?”

Night Sun shook her head. “No, I’ll do it. But I’ll need both you and Poor Singer to hold her head still.”

“I’m going to come around behind you, Poor Singer,” Ironwood said, and wrapped his muscular arms around the young man’s. His hands tightened on Cornsilk’s skull, while Poor Singer held her jaw firmly.

Night Sun slid her fingers down the shaft, compressing Cornsilk’s cheek in the process. She needed to snap it off sideways, to break the tip of the point off flush with the bone.

I’m sorry, my daughter.
Night Sun swiftly jerked the shaft sideways and felt the brittle obsidian snap. With care, she eased the shaft from the wound, using her incision to keep the sharp stone from doing even more damage.

Poor Singer fumbled for a rag to wipe up the blood, and Night Sun ordered, “Let it bleed.”

He put the rag down and sank back against the bench. “Why?” he asked feebly.

“We want it to drain as much evil out as it can.”

“Then she’ll be all right?”

“The point snapped even with the bone, but we must wait to see, Poor Singer,” Night Sun said as she studied the shaft.

Cornsilk groaned softly, coughed, then went still again.

Ironwood said, “Let me see the shaft.”

Night Sun handed it to him, and stared at her daughter’s face again, trying to memorize every feature. If infection didn’t set in and corrupt her flesh, she’d live.

Oh, my daughter, why did you have to come to me now?

Night Sun rose and went to stand beside Ironwood. He kept turning the short length of shaft in his hands, over and over. His handsome face looked haunted.

“Any markings?” she asked.

“No,” he murmured. “It’s
exactly
like the one that killed Cloud Playing.”

Forty-Three

Steps padded in the altar room above the kiva. Moccasins on dirt, soft. Ironwood straightened, studying the pale blue gleam of dawn that filtered down the stairs. Webworm came into view. He bowed to the thlatsinas on the walls. His red-and-black cape hung in dirty folds about his lanky body, and dust streaked his broad face and black braid. He started down the stairs, but when he saw Ironwood his steps faltered. Awkwardly, he asked, “Is Cornsilk all right?”

“For now. I take it you didn’t catch—”

“No,” Webworm answered shortly. He finished climbing down, his movements shaky, and braced a hand against the wall beside Ironwood to steady himself, his gaze going around the kiva.

Night Sun, Dune, and Sternlight slept fitfully on the benches to the left, while Poor Singer sat by Cornsilk in the rear, just beyond the fire box. He’d been up most of the night, feeding the low flames, speaking softly to Cornsilk.

Ironwood frowned at Webworm’s bloodshot eyes. “How long has it been since you’ve slept?”

Webworm sank down on the yellow bench. He smelled of sweat and juniper smoke. “Two days.”

“Blessed Spirits, Webworm,” Ironwood whispered harshly, not wanting any of the sleepers to hear. “You can’t lead a war party on an extended march—”

“I haven’t any choice. Snake Head has risen. The burial procession and accompanying war party are assembling in the plaza. I’ll rest tonight.”

Had Ironwood known last night that Webworm had been up for so long, he’d have led the search party himself. “Forgive me for putting you in that position last night. I didn’t know—”

Webworm waved a hand dismissively. “You were right. I am War Chief. I have responsibilities. I shouldn’t have needed you to tell me to post a guard and organize a search party.”

“You were exhausted.”

Webworm gave him a grateful look and peered around the red pillars to where Cornsilk lay beneath her blankets in the back. Her beautiful face had swollen and blackened. Poor Singer sat with his hand on her shoulder.

“You got the arrow point out?” Webworm asked.

“Yes. It hadn’t embedded very deeply. Either the person who shot wasn’t very strong, or he shot too quickly, before he’d pulled the bow all the way back. We might have surprised him.”

Webworm nodded and braced his chin on his hand. “I noticed you didn’t take the trail. You walked through the shadows near the rocks, staying out of the light cast by Talon Town and Streambed Town.”

“And the attacker? What was he doing?”

Webworm’s eyes narrowed. “He must have used the rocks, Ironwood. Walked across them and shot down at you from the top. We found no tracks at all, except in the drainage bottom. He ran through the water to hide his trail when he fled. Only a few sandal prints marked the mud.”

“A big man? Heavy?”

Webworm nodded, and reached inside his cape to pull something from his belt. “I found this near where Cornsilk fell.” He handed the broken arrow shaft to Ironwood. “It’s like the one that killed Cloud Playing.” Webworm’s eyes softened as he glanced at her shrouded body.

Ironwood turned the shaft in his hand. “No markings. Nothing to tell us who the man might have been or where he came from.”

Gaze still on Cloud Playing, Webworm said, “This killer is very smart, Ironwood. He knows every stone, every patch of grass, every place to hide in Straight Path Canyon. I think, my friend, that he has lived here for a very long time.”

Ironwood’s soul perched on the verge of understanding, but couldn’t seize it. He walked over and sat on the bench beside Webworm. The hem of his gore-encrusted shirt draped over the yellow bench. “What are you thinking?”

Webworm lifted a shoulder. “Cloud Playing and Cornsilk were both Night Sun’s daughters. It may mean nothing. But I wonder.”

Ironwood lowered his head and massaged his temples. “On the march … watch Snake Head.”

“Oh, I don’t trust him, either. Especially not after the strange orders he’s been giving me, and this business with Cone—”

“Cone?” Ironwood blurted. His gaze searched Webworm’s. “What are you talking about? Cone is
alive?
”

Webworm’s mouth pressed into a bloodless line. “So … you didn’t know anything about it, either. I had thought, since you were War Chief before me—”

“About what?”

Webworm leaned back against the wall and stared at the pine poles criss-crossing the ceiling. “It’s a long story. Before dawn, yesterday morning, I saw Mourning Dove going back and forth between Snake Head’s chamber and the wash. It looked suspicious, so I followed her. She was delivering messages between Cone and Snake Head.”

The weariness in Ironwood’s muscles vanished in the painful rush that washed his veins. “Did you speak with Cone?”

“Yes. He said he was working for the Blessed Sun and that his work was very important to the survival of the Straight Path nation.”

Ironwood gripped the arrow shaft. “This doesn’t make sense. If he’s working for Snake Head, why doesn’t he—”

“Just walk in and out of town? Yes, I asked him the same thing. Cone told me that Snake Head does not wish people to know he’s alive. That such knowledge would spoil Snake Head’s plans. Cone said he was just following orders.” Webworm let out a frustrated breath. “I was hoping that you knew about this secret task and had just forgotten to tell me. With everything else going—”

“What secret task?”

Webworm’s head fell forward so that his chin rested on his chest. “Only Snake Head would send a warrior out without advising the War Chief.”

“The man is a fool. He’ll be the death of us all. If he—”

Feet pounded in the altar room, and soft voices echoed. Ironwood placed the shaft on the bench.

Night Sun woke, sitting up in her blanket, her graying black hair loose about her shoulders. Her blue dress was splotched with Cornsilk’s blood. Sternlight and Dune sat up next.

“They’re coming,” Night Sun said. She threw off her blanket and stepped down from the bench, going to stand over Cloud Playing. “I will see you soon, my daughter,” she whispered, and bent to kiss Cloud Playing’s blanketed face. “I love you.”

Dune sighed as he slipped from the bench and marched over to Crow Beard. He fumbled with something, then Ironwood saw him sprinkling Crow Beard’s shroud with the mixture of blue cornmeal and ground turquoise, to purify him for the journey. Next, he went to Cloud Playing.

Webworm remained sitting, but Ironwood rose as the burial procession descended the stairs: four warriors, specially dressed in red shirts with green sashes around their waists, then Badgerbow, Creeper, Yellowgirl, and finally, Snake Head.

The Green Sash Men split, two walking down each side of the foot drums. Night Sun and Dune moved out of the way, giving the burly men room. They stationed themselves at the head and foot of each burial ladder, then lifted the ladders onto their muscular shoulders and stood waiting.

Snake Head wore a magnificent blue shirt covered with red and yellow macaw feathers. A huge turquoise wolf pendant dangled around his neck, and a wooden headdress adorned his head. Consisting of three terraces, all painted white, the headdress symbolized rain clouds. Tall and handsome, he gazed over the ceremonial chamber as though he found everything distasteful. He had not yet deigned to look at Ironwood.

“Blessed Sun,” Ironwood said, provoking the confrontation, “I understand you have been meeting secretly with Cone. Would you tell me for what purpose?”

Snake Head slowly turned, but his gaze glanced off Ironwood and landed on Webworm. Webworm shivered, as if with a sudden chill. “Get up, War Chief,” Snake Head ordered. “We have a long walk today.”

“Yes, my chief.” Webworm rose.

“Are you afraid to answer me, Snake Head?” Ironwood pressed. “Why? What are you—”

“Hurry it up!”
Snake Head motioned for the slaves to carry the ladders out.

They marched by and headed up the stairs. Snake Head glared at Ironwood before following in a whirl of blue shirt. Badgerbow and Yellowgirl walked behind him, and lastly Creeper.

The short pudgy leader of the Buffalo Clan halted and scanned Webworm’s bleary face. “Are you all right?”

Webworm forced a ragged smile. “Fine. Is Mourning Dove with Mother?”

“Yes, she’ll be watching over her while we’re gone.”

“Come, then, we have duties to perform.” Webworm gestured to the stairs. Creeper reluctantly started up.

But Webworm did not follow. He stood beside Ironwood with his head bowed. After a moment, he gripped Ironwood’s forearm and pulled him close. “Please. Be gone when I return.”