Horn Lance had dressed impeccably. He’d darkened his graying hair with charcoal-laden grease and wound it into a tight bun over which he placed a leather helmet onto which scarlet macaw feathers had been fixed to stand straight up in a vertical cylinder. On his waist he wore a fine red Itza war kilt embroidered with an attacking eagle. His forearms were wrapped with thick leather guards to which bands of eagle down had been glued. An Itza breastplate covered his chest: a butterfly-shaped piece that protected his heart and lungs. He’d painted his face carefully with a white foundation and drawn black spirals over his age-faded Four Winds tattoos.
I am ready. He took up a war club and shield, then walked out of the Four Winds Clan House where he’d been staying. His feet almost skipped down the stairs and into the crowded plaza.
As he’d expected, people stopped short, gaping, having never seen the likes of his dress and ornamentation. The scarlet macaw feathers rising from his head had no match, not even compared to spoonbill feathers from the south. Nor could the finest of Cahokia’s weavers duplicate the intricate Itza cotton fabrics.
He lifted the round Itzan shield with its red ring around a black circle, and despite the light weight, arthritis burned in his shoulder and elbow.
Hearing calls of amazement, he made his way to the Avenue of the Sun, where a larger-than-usual crowd had gathered. He immediately noted that Lady Night Shadow Star stood at the southeastern corner of her great mound. She seemed oblivious to the crowd that slowed on the road below her, some pointing in awe, others calling greetings up to her.
Her long black hair glistened in the sunlight, and she’d dressed in a stunning green skirt, her shoulders covered with a matching hemp-fiber cape.
As if she’d been waiting in anticipation, she fixed her dark eyes on him. He met her gaze, and an odd prickling sensation ran along his nerves. No change of expression crossed her face, but he could sense her hostile interest, as though she was taking the measure of a despised adversary.
Horn Lance shook off the eerie premonition and forced his way through the crowd, winding around vendors’ booths with their little clay statues of Old-Woman-Who-Never-Dies and wooden cutouts of Morning Star bowling a chunkey stone. The smells of grilled food, hominy, and cooked fish alternated with the stink of unwashed bodies sweating in the hot sun.
“I see you received my message.” Swirling Cloud appeared at Horn Lance’s elbow. He had his hair in the stylistic twin buns on either side of his head. The part down the middle was painted a bright red. He, too, had dressed in his finest as befitted a Little Sun of the Natchez confederacy. The characteristic tattoos that ran across his nose and over his cheeks had been carefully outlined in black.
Horn Lance thought Swirling Cloud would have been a handsome young man had he not had that crazy burning anger behind his eyes. Sometimes the young Natchez gave way to his darker moods, unleashing them on women, children, or should none of the former be available, upon the occasional unlucky dog. What was it about the noble classes that soul sickness just seemed to leak out of so many lineages?
He glanced back through the crowd, catching a glimpse of Night Shadow Star’s great palace atop its mound. She’d vanished from her point of vantage on the southeastern corner.
She couldn’t know what we have planned. The thought seemed to insert itself in Horn Lance’s souls.
“Ah, well, the mighty will take what they will.” He smiled at that. He’d never really cared for Morning Star House. Let alone for Red Warrior Mankiller. Nor had it turned out that the dead tonka’tzi’s children were particularly tasteful, either. That vicious little Chunkey Boy might claim to be the living god these days and inhabit the Morning Star’s palace, but word was that Lady Night Shadow Star herself was possessed. That it was by Underworld Power either added spice to the story, or proved that the young woman was insane. Maybe the latter since one person’s insanity was another’s miracle.
Whatever claim to Power she might have, in the end it wouldn’t save her. Not when Thirteen Sacred Jaguar arrived.
You will learn the real meaning of “possession,” Cousin.
“Here they come,” Swirling Cloud said, nudging Horn Lance’s elbow.
He turned, seeing the crowd part as if it were water pushed aside by the prow of a mighty Trade canoe. Then the lead Natchez warriors appeared, the forefront holding shields bearing the Quigualtam insignia that marked them as “Honored Men” in service of the Great Sun.
“Ready?” Swirling Cloud asked with a smile. As the entourage passed, he slipped between two of the warriors and took a position behind the four staff bearers and ahead of the warriors carrying engraved and polished wooden trunks filled with gifts for the Morning Star.
Horn Lance was a skip and step behind him, falling into the ranks.
“Glad to see you made it,” called Wet Bobcat the squadron first, where he marched in the rear. “Thought you might be hanging from a square, and we’d have to tear a hole through Cahokia to get you out.”
Horn Lance shot Wet Bobcat a victorious smile. “All is unfolding according to plan.”
He turned forward as the formation marched up to a line of Cahokian warriors in full regalia, adding under his breath, “They haven’t the first notion of what’s about to be unleashed on them.”
As Wet Bobcat bellowed, “Squadron, halt!” Horn Lance stepped forward, and called, “Warriors of Cahokia! Messengers of the Great Sun, born of the White Woman, of the Sun Born lineage of the Quigualtam, descended from the First Sun and rulers of the Natchez confederacy, seek council with the Morning Star House and the representatives of the reincarnated miracle. We come, our souls white with peace and wisdom, order and harmony, bearing gifts and offerings as a measure of the Great Sun’s high regard for the Morning Star, and submit them in order that he be pleased and accept this delegation.”
An older war chief stepped out in advance of the Cahokian guard. He was dressed in fine armor. Beads of sweat were trickling from under his leather helmet and falcon feathers. His age-gnarled face looked off balance from a dislocated jaw. “The Morning Star House welcomes the Great Sun’s delegation and sends greetings to the representatives of the Sun Born, of the Quigualtam, and the Natchez confederacy. We receive you under the white color of peace and wisdom, and offer you safe passage. Food and refreshment have been prepared.”
The war chief pointed with his own staff, adding, “The valiant warriors who accompany you are asked to find refreshment and food at the Morning Star’s Men’s House.” He indicated the building on the eastern side of the Great Plaza. “Come and be welcome!”
Horn Lance touched his forehead respectfully, his heart beginning to hammer in his chest. The arrow of destiny had been shot. There was no calling it back now.
Even as the four staff bearers started forward through the ranks, he glanced at Swirling Cloud. “You notice anything odd about this?”
“They were ready for us.”
“I told you not to underestimate Blue Heron.”
“But … how?”
“Doesn’t matter. Oh, and remember, we’ve a few surprises of our own remaining to be sprung.” He smiled in anticipation.