People of the Silence (14 page)

Blood drained from Thistle’s face. A lie? Was he saving this news for the last?

For two summers Beargrass had served as one of the Chief’s most loyal guards. On the last night of his service, Sternlight had come to Beargrass with the newborn child in his arms, a tiny mewling creature wrapped in a magnificent turquoise-studded blanket. The Sunwatcher had explained Crow Beard’s shame:
“The Blessed Sun mated with one of his wife’s slaves. An error in judgment to be sure—more so since this child came from the union. Crow Beard does not wish the child dead, but you know how Night Sun is. She will have the infant skinned alive before the entire town. Beargrass, Chief Crow Beard knows your wife recently bore a child. He values your loyalty and wishes to ask a great favor of you. Would you and your wife claim the child as your own? Compensation will be given, of course. You must only vow never to tell anyone.…”

Beargrass had not even hesitated. The bargain struck, he and Thistle had taken the child and come here, to the northern frontier where Thistle had Ant Clan relatives. She had told people the babies were twins and struggled to suckle both. When her milk ran out, she’d found another woman to nurse Fledgling.

Fledgling squinted his right eye suspiciously, then looked back and forth between Thistle and Beargrass, as if judging their faces. “Then what news did the runners bring, Father? I heard Matron Clover when she came to announce their arrival. She said it was urgent.”

Beargrass smoothed tangled hair away from Fledgling’s face. “Always so many questions, my son. Well, the most important news was that the barbaric Tower Builders raided Turtle Village again. They took several women, burned a few houses. Turtle Village has promised revenge. The runners wanted to warn us that our village sits right in the middle of the squabble.”

“But why did they wish to speak with you
and mother,
Father?” Fledgling turned to Thistle.

“Because,” she answered, thinking quickly, “I am a master mason, my son. If we decide to buttress Lanceleaf Village’s defenses, I will design and build the new walls.”

His face fell in disappointment. “That was all?”

Beargrass shrugged and smiled. “I told you it was nothing. Now, I think it’s time you dreamed your soul back to the afterworld, my son. There must be many Spirits there who want to run and hunt with you.”

Through a wide yawn, Fledgling said, “Ruddy Boy and I were in the middle of killing Fire Dog warriors. He needs my help more than he’ll admit.”

Ruddy Boy had died from a broken arm three summers ago He’d been Fledgling’s best friend—and still was, it seemed.

“Sleep, son.” Beargrass pulled the blankets up over Fledgling’s chest and he closed his eyes. “Tell Ruddy Boy I miss him.”

“I will, Father.”

Beargrass waited until Fledgling’s breath grew deep before returning to the fire to sit at Thistle’s side. They stared at each other. Beargrass gently ran his fingers down the curve of her jaw. “I am very tired,” he whispered. “Let us speak no more of this tonight.”

Thistle breathed the question: “Did the runners ask you to be a warrior for the Blessed Sun again?”

Beargrass’ mouth tightened. “No, not … not precisely. Wraps-His-Tail said that War Chief Ironwood wished me to know that hostility was increasing between the clans and their allied villages. Ironwood asked if I would be willing to return as his deputy if warfare broke out.”

“And what did you answer?”

Beargrass hesitated. “You mustn’t be upset—”

“You told him ‘yes!’”

“I said I would do whatever the Blessed Sun wished, and I put it that way for a reason. While Ironwood may want me to return to Talon Town, I do not believe Chief Crow Beard does.”

Thistle clenched her fists. “And you think that the War Chief will understand this? That you do not really wish to return and will only out of loyalty to Crow Beard?”

Beargrass nodded. “I do. Despite what you think, my wife, Ironwood is a man of honor.”

Thistle studied her hands. In all the summers they had known each other, she had never criticized men he respected—even if she knew far more about them than he did. “Go to bed, my husband. You may need the rest more than either of us knows.”

“Are you angry?”

“No. No, just … weary.” She reached out and gave his hand a squeeze.

“Please come to bed with me. You must be as exhausted as I am.”

“Soon. I promise. I want to think for a time longer.”

He stroked her back. “As you wish.”

He pulled his long shirt over his head and draped it on the pot at the foot of the sleeping mats. The hard muscles of his naked body gleamed. “You must not worry. Not yet. Wait until we know for certain if Crow Beard—”

“I’ll try, my husband. I love you. Rest now. I’ll be there before you realize it,”

He stretched out on his back on the bedding. “I hope so. I don’t sleep well without you close.” Pulling up the cotton blanket woven with strips of rabbit fur, he slipped an arm beneath his head and closed his eyes.

Thistle turned away. The fire had burned down to a bed of glimmering coals ringed by white ash. The house seemed to breathe and sway in the crimson radiance, like an amorphous Spirit animal going about its nightly duties, oblivious to the petty lives of humans. She pulled a piece of juniper from the woodpile and laid it on the coals. Flames spluttered, sending wisps of blue smoke upward.

For many summers cold fear had lain like a slumbering rattlesnake beneath her heart. Tonight, the serpent had raised its head and looked her in the eye, issuing a Spirit challenge. Would she ever face the truth about the child?

She had never believed Sternlight’s story. How could she? She, Thistle, had worked as a mason in Talon Town, helping to construct the multistoried buildings. She had seen the Blessed Sun daily. Even now, so many summers later, she could recall every detail of his face, and in no way did the child resemble him. The arching brows and broad cheekbones were not Chief Crow Beard’s, nor were the thin bones and pale golden skin. As well, at the time of the child’s birth, the Chief had been gone for ten moons on a trading mission to the Hohokam. The child might have been a late birth, but she doubted it. She distinctly recalled the winter night when Beargrass had placed the child in her arms—she had remarked that it looked to be an
early
birth.

Thistle hugged her knees to her chest. Less than a moon after they’d left Talon Town, terrible rumors had reached them. Young Fawn, one of Night Sun’s slaves, missing for over a moon, had been found dead in a trash mound, her corpse buried beneath a winter’s worth of debris. She had been stabbed twice in the breast, then her belly had been slit open, and the child she’d carried stolen from her womb—no one knew why, or what had happened to the baby.

Curiously, the rumors said that the great Matron of the First People hadn’t made a single inquiry about the murder of a valued slave. But the runners hastened to add that Night Sun had been deathly ill, locked in her chamber with a fever. She had thrashed about like a madwoman they said, refusing to see any healer. Old Dune the Derelict, the great seer, said that she yearned so for her absent husband that the Spirit had left her heart. And, indeed, just after Crow Beard returned, she recovered.

Thistle studied the faint movements of the deerhide curtain. Wind Baby had roused. It would not be safe to say anything aloud now, but the fabric of her soul remembered the day Young Fawn missed her first bleeding. It had been a gorgeous spring day. The blooming desert plants had scented the air with sweetness. The young woman had been proud and excited. For nine moons she had been secretly loving a very powerful man, a man whispered to be close to War Chief Ironwood. Young Fawn claimed he was a warrior, but dared not mention his name for fear both of them would be punished. She had not been bold enough to ask Night Sun’s permission for the coupling, as was proper for a slave. Owners naturally wished to supervise mate selection, hoping for stronger, better slaves. Young Fawn had vowed she would tell Night Sun as soon as she mustered the courage.

The child would have been eight, or eight and a half, moons at the time Young Fawn disappeared. Even if Young Fawn had never asked permission, clearly Night Sun had seen her pregnancy and allowed it to continue. Unless … had she banned even her servant women from her chamber during her fever? Had Night Sun finally risen, seen her pregnant slave, and heard the rumors of the Chief’s indiscretion? Had she ordered Young Fawn killed in vengeance?

The small sounds of the dawn became incredibly vivid. The log in the fire cracked and hissed, flooding the white walls with ruby light. An owl hooted as it sailed over the bluffs. Somewhere up in the pines a pack of wolves serenaded the dying darkness, their mournful cries echoing with haunting clarity in the desert silence.

She lifted her gaze to her children.

No, not Crow Beard’s child. Those probing eyes, that skin the color of winter-brown cottonwood leaves … the father could only be one man. War Chief Ironwood.

Terror took hold of Thistle. She tiptoed to her tool basket and pulled out a hafted chert knife, then silently went to her children. Slumping down against the wall between them, she propped the knife on her knees.

Orders were given and carried out with painstaking accuracy at Talon Town. Lives often depended upon it. Perhaps Night Sun had discovered Ironwood’s dalliance with her slave and ordered Sternlight to kill Young Fawn. But why would the Sunwatcher have taken it upon himself to rescue the infant from the young woman’s womb? Had he owed a favor to Ironwood?

Cornsilk stirred. She reached for her mother’s skirt, and when she touched the yellow hem, she exhaled contentedly. Thistle tenderly held her daughter’s hand.

“Sleep, my daughter. You must get well.”

“Love you, Mother,” Cornsilk murmured. Weakly, she opened her eyes.

Wonder prickled the edges of Thistle’s soul. The young woman had eyes like thunder, powerful, promising a storm. Some of the village children had accused her of having “witch eyes.” Their parents had scolded them for saying such a terrible thing, but Thistle could see the fear on the adults’ faces. Half of them believed it. And the raven that kept returning just made it worse.

The older Cornsilk grew, the less she fit in. How long would it be before she became a stranger to her own clan?

Wind Baby flipped the door curtain and crept inside to listen to them. The fire hissed and popped, sending out a wreath of sparks. Thistle waited until Wind Baby left before she even allowed herself to think about the subject again.

Ironwood had many enemies. Did any of them suspect he had a child?

She sank back against the wall. They had but one choice: to run, to take the children far away.

Tomorrow she would tell Beargrass her suspicions about Ironwood, try to convince him that Sternlight had lied, and show him the danger they faced.

Would he believe her?

She gripped her knife hard.

She had to make him.

*   *   *

A furious gust of wind whistled around Talon Town and flapped the leather curtain over Snake Head’s doorway. He leaned back against the white wall of his personal chamber and snugged his tan-and-yellow blanket more tightly about his shoulders. Around the curtain, he could see Evening People sparkling like crushed quartz crystals tossed upon a soft black mink hide. The fragrance of burning sage drifted on the night. In the middle of his floor, his warming bowl sizzled and flared redly, the coals casting a crimson gleam over the gloriously painted walls.

The chamber spread four by five body-lengths across. On the northern wall, the Badger Thlatsina Danced, his black body encircled by a ring of enemy scalps. Snake Head had cut them from the heads of eight Fire Dogs himself, trophies of the battles he’d fought and won. He smiled at them. His people performed a Scalp Dance to transform the hairy prizes into water and seed beings, so that they might bestow long life and great spiritual Power upon the owner—but he’d never felt any. To Snake Head, scalps were dead human hides, nothing more.

In the southwestern corner of the room, a red macaw fidgeted in its large willow-stick cage. It slid back and forth on its foot pole, squawking softly. A bowl of piñon nuts and sunflower seeds sat on the floor of the cage, surrounded by cracked hulls. The big bird stretched six hands from beak to tail and had a magnificent white face with blue, yellow, and red feathers. The macaw watched him intently.

Snake Head kept his sleeping mats on the far side of the room, because the malevolent bird took any opportunity to bite him. Once, just after Snake Head had obtained the bird from a Trader, he’d slept near the cage and accidentally rolled into the bars in his sleep. He’d awakened when a taloned foot nearly clawed his ear off.

Bowls clattered behind Snake Head, and he turned to see Mourning Dove bend to collect his dirty supper dishes.

Tiny, delicate, she had a face like a chipmunk, with plump cheeks, wide eyes, and a pointed nose. When Snake Head stood, the top of her head barely reached the middle of his chest. She wore a beautiful red dress tonight—one he’d given her. Olivella shells from the western ocean decorated the fringes on her sleeves, clicking pleasantly as she went about her nightly duties.

She glanced up, saw him watching, and asked, “May I go now, Blessed Snake Head?” She returned her gaze to the coals in the warming bowl, but her voice shook.

Snake Head sipped the cup of tea she’d made him. It tasted sweetly of dried phlox petals. “No, let’s talk for a time.”

“But I—I promised Creeper I would—”

“Creeper is one of the Made People,” Snake Head reminded. “I am one of the First People. My needs come before his.”

“Yes, of course, forgive me.” Mourning Dove set the pile of dishes on the white plastered floor and stood. “What is it you require, Blessed Snake Head?”

“Look at me.”

She lifted her gaze, and Snake Head smiled. Her eyes fascinated him, drawing him as a wounded rabbit draws a mountain lion. Fear and hatred shone in those soft brown depths: for him, and him alone. The fire of her emotions stirred his passions. Though she had always been his mother’s slave, she’d been assigned to take care of Snake Head since he’d been a boy. And he’d
used
her. At the age of ten summers, he’d first ordered her to lie with him. During the insanity of adolescence, he’d called her to his chambers as often as four times a day. She had serviced him without a word, speaking only when spoken to.