In preparation for the Morning Star’s summons to council, Fire Cat had donned armor over his red war shirt. The chest piece consisted of hardwood slats sewn front and rear onto a cured leather cuirass. He had then strapped a thick leather helmet to his head and painted his face white with red wings on the cheeks. White, the sacred color denoting peace, harmony, and wisdom, the red wings in denotation of his clan.
As he had followed Night Shadow Star out of her palace, he’d slung a bow and quiver over his shoulder and plucked up a copper-bitted war club.
He’d caught the barest smile of amusement on Night Shadow Star’s full lips. They were going into the Morning Star’s lair. His appearance was a subtle reminder that while this was only a council, she remained a force unto herself. Someone to be reckoned with.
And why do I care?
These were not his people, but enemies. Less than a year ago the Morning Star had dispatched High War Chief Spotted Wrist in a fourth, and finally successful, attempt to destroy Red Wing Town. The greatest humiliation was that the canny Spotted Wrist had done through deceit and guile what no previous Cahokian army had been able to by force of arms: He had taken the town in the middle of the night and in complete surprise.
The first Fire Cat had known of the attack was when Cahokian warriors had ripped him from his second wife’s side as he slept. Her name was False Dawn—named for the soft light of the coming day. His first wife, Fall New Moon, had been sleeping with their infant children that night. He’d never heard what befell either of his wives. Nor had he sought such knowledge. The fate of a conquered chief’s wives was to be taken as trophies, made slaves, and perhaps passed from man to man.
And his children?
That he knew: Their mutilated corpses had been tossed into the cool green depths of the Father Water—an offering to the Spirits of the Underworld.
Sometimes he wondered if that act of insult hadn’t backfired on the Four Winds. Had Piasa taken the souls of his children as offerings? Was that why the underwater panther had ordered Night Shadow Star to bind Fire Cat to her through oath?
Serve Night Shadow Star he might, but at the same time the world would be reminded that a Red Wing war chief—slave though he might be—still lived and walked fearlessly among them.
“Your thoughts?” Night Shadow Star asked as they passed through the Council Terrace courtyard and began the long climb up the stairway that led to the high palisade and the Morning Star’s soaring palace.
“On my family, Lady.”
She nodded slightly as she preceded him. A gust of wind fluttered the fine white fabric of her skirt and molded it to her toned legs. He tried not to notice.
“Power has been unkind to the two of us.” Her head bowed; the breeze teased her glossy black hair. “Difficult as the past has been, what’s coming will be no easier.”
“And what is that, Lady?”
“A desperate trial.” She stopped a step short from the head of the stairs where two warriors stood guard. Turning, she fixed him with her dark eyes and said, “We will do what we must. You understand that, don’t you?”
“I gave you my oath.”
She nodded, sadness behind her gaze. Then, taking a breath, she hurried up the last step. At the top the two warriors touched their foreheads in respect as she passed. For Fire Cat, however, they had only hard glares and smirks of disdain.
He marched proudly past them as only a blooded and tested chief could. In the recent fighting against Walking Smoke’s Tula warriors, he’d killed five. Were he still a war chief, his name would have been changed to Fire Cat Seventeenkiller—an honor without peer among his once-unconquered people.
Take that, maggots.
Passing through the gates and into the courtyard, he narrowed an eye at the stunning Eagle guardian posts. Night Shadow Star passed them without so much as a gesture. They were Sky Power, after all.
At the soaring World Tree pole, however, Night Shadow Star paused, glancing up at it. Carved from a giant bald cypress towed upriver from the south, it rose into the sky like a mighty lance. Lightning scars had nearly obliterated the intricately carved reliefs that told Morning Star’s story: his birth, life, and his mighty battles with the monsters and giants, from the Beginning Times.
Night Shadow Star laid a delicate hand on the wood, then hurried toward the palace. The steeply pitched roof seemed to cleave the pale blue sky; carved effigies of Hunga Ahuito rose from the high ridge pole. The thatch—freshly repaired for the Busk—had a yellow-and-gray mottled appearance. High as it was, wind and weather took their toll.
More warriors stood before the palace door, bowing and touching their foreheads as Night Shadow Star passed. Fire Cat kept his expression blank, fighting the urge to smile wickedly as they fretted over an armed warrior setting foot in the sacred space.
Once past the beautifully carved doors, murmurs arose as he followed Night Shadow Star past Tonka’tzi Wind, Blue Heron, and the great central fire and into the Morning Star’s forbidden personal space. Gasps arose when she did so.
Night Shadow Star stopped short, slightly to the left of the imposter’s raised dais. Fire Cat took his place at her back, drawing himself to attention, fully aware of the gravity of Night Shadow Star’s violation.
The grizzled war chief called Five Fists, a man in his forties, took a half step in their direction, a war club in his scarred right hand. His face, arms, and entire torso were tattooed in honor of his many victories. Some mishap, either from battle or a stickball injury, had left his jaw crooked on his face. His graying hair had been pulled back in a bun, and he wore the Morning Star’s Bird Man insignia on the front flap of the apron that hung from his belt.
Five Fists served as the Morning Star’s trusted personal war chief. Piasa take him, he surely wasn’t about to challenge Night Shadow Star’s transgression, was he?
After a moment’s self-debate, Five Fists stepped forward, addressing Night Shadow Star. “Lady, with respect, might I suggest that the Red Wing wait outside with the rest of the servants?”
Very well, he wasn’t going to challenge Night Shadow Star’s impudence, only her servant’s. Fire Cat couldn’t help but swell with rising satisfaction.
Come on, Lady. Tell him I’m staying. Let him push it. I’ll gleefully knock his jaw crooked in the other direction.
“You may suggest, Five Fists.” She fixed the old warrior with her eerie stare. He swallowed hard, taking an involuntary step back. “But that is all you may do.”
“Lady, it is customary for the Morning Star’s safety—”
“My understanding was that we have been summoned here to discuss the murder of the Natchez Little Sun. And nothing more.”
“But, he’s a Red Wing!”
“He is my Red Wing,” she almost hissed. “He serves me, and I serve Piasa.”
Five Fists wet his lips, nodded. It seemed a heroic act of will to take a step back.
Fire Cat remained expressionless, letting his eyes adjust after the midday sun. The great room’s opulence never ceased to amaze him. The newly replaced floor matting had been woven in intricate designs. Select women labored on the project for an entire year. The wall benches, serving double duty as seats for audiences and beds for the Morning Star’s household, were covered with fine furs and blankets. The frames had been carved by the finest woodworkers in the world. The upright posts had been finished to represent Spirit Beasts: sinuous tie snakes, snarling panthers, graceful swans, leaping fish, elegant ducks, fierce screaming eagles, and keen-eyed falcons.
Above the benches the plastered walls were hung with carved and brightly painted wooden reliefs of the Thunderbirds, the Bird Man image of the Morning Star, the Cahokian sun symbol, and scenes depicting the Morning Star’s exploits in the Beginning Times. Inlaid with various woods, shell, stone, and copper, they dazzled the eye. Fine fabrics, dyed every color, were hung between trophy skulls that stared down at the room through empty sockets. Shields taken from defeated enemies, occasional leg and arm bones, and copper plate added to the wealth.
Around the peripheries sat the recorders with their assorted boxes of colored and shaped beads. If asked, they would create a record of the proceedings. Along with Blue Heron and Tonka’tzi Wind, who sat behind and to the right of the fire, a half dozen warriors, a bevy of servants, and a collection of the Earth Clan chiefs waited in the rear.
Fire Cat shot the Keeper a curious look. She’d given Fire Cat’s mother and sister—also captives—sanctuary in her house. For that, he owed the woman. The few times he’d caught glimpses of them, his only remaining family had seemed well treated.
If only there were a way …
At that moment the Morning Star emerged from his private quarters in the rear. His face was painted red on the left, white on the right, with black forked-eye patterns surrounding his eyes and running down his cheeks. A beautiful copper headpiece in the shape of the bi-lobed arrow rose above a small wooden Bundle box at the top of his head. An eagle-feather cloak draped about his shoulders; his waist sported an immaculate white apron that dropped to a point between his knees. Thick strands of white shell beads hung at his throat.
Fire Cat barely kept his lips from twitching. Chunkey Boy, playing the living god. He always dressed the part.
The room rustled as the people dropped to their knees, touching their heads to the floor.
All but he and Night Shadow Star.
Chunkey Boy carefully seated himself on the litter chair atop the raised clay dais behind the fire. The thing had been covered with cougar furs. A steaming bowl of black drink had been placed easily at hand.
Arranging himself, Chunkey Boy turned piercing black eyes on Night Shadow Star where she and Fire Cat stood no more than three paces from the dais. Only the insane would venture so close were he or she not invited by the Morning Star. For anyone but Night Shadow Star it would have been considered an affront worthy of a quick death.
That knowledge sent a warm spear through Fire Cat’s heart.
Chunkey Boy had always given his sister too much latitude, even before he adopted the sham of playing god. The relationship between them was complicated, no matter at which level of assumed authority it was played.
“Rise,” Chunkey Boy said to the rest of the room.
People lifted their heads warily.
Fire Cat could feel the tension as wary glances were cast their direction.
“I would hear the Keeper’s report,” Chunkey Boy began. “Has the Little Sun’s murderer been apprehended? Do we know the reason behind such a foul deed?”
Clan Keeper Blue Heron spread her hands wide. “We do not, Great Lord. I have personally inspected the scene. Last night, after the Little Sun returned to his quarters, someone thrust a spear through his body. He still wore his Dance costume. I have spoken with his servants, and they report hearing nothing. One of them discovered the body only this morning. Our inspection of the lance used to kill him has determined that it was one of his own.”
Blue Heron lifted a black feather. “This was thrust into the dead man’s mouth. The Natchez attributed it to some woman they call the black witch. My inquiries suggest that the killer was someone from outside the household. This feather? Perhaps a distraction to mislead our investigation and lure us down a false path.”
“Did the Natchez offer any motive for the Little Sun’s murder?”
“They did not, Great Lord. They claim that he was beloved by all. Worse, you know how the Natchez will take this. They consider it a terrible calamity when a member of the Sun Born dies violently.” She paused, narrowing an eye. “Unless handled very carefully, and with the greatest discretion, the Little Sun’s murder could seriously complicate our relations with the entire Natchez Nation and our Trade and travel on the lower river.”
Chunkey Boy, with a serene glance at the recorders waiting off to the side, asked, “Master recorder, could you refresh our memories of the Natchez?”
The old white-haired man bowed, touching his forehead. “Yes, Great Lord. The Natchez live on the eastern bank of the Father Water and dominate the lower river. They are ruled by the influential Quigualtam alliance of closely related Sun Born, all descended from the first Great Sun. Lowered to earth from the sun itself, the first Great Sun instructed the Natchez on rules of behavior and how to order their society. Upon his death, he turned to stone in order that his body might never suffer the indignities of decay.
“Their society is divided into an elite composed of Sun Clan and a class of commoners sometimes unkindly referred to as ‘stinkards.’ Oddly, perhaps, Sun Born can only marry stinkards, never their own kind, which would be considered incest. Their lineages, like so many, run through the female. Thus, though a woman of the Sun Clan must marry a stinkard man, her children will be Sun Clan and automatically eligible to all benefits of status and position. The Great Sun’s children, through his stinkard wife, have no more standing than any other commoner and essentially blend into the community.”
Tonka’tzi Wind asked, “Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t the White Woman the Little Sun’s aunt?”
“Tonka’tzi, she is.” The recorder turned his attention back to his beaded mat, running his fingers over the patterns and colors of beads to discern their meaning. “The White Woman is so called because, as is common in so many societies, white is the holy color of wisdom and knowledge. She is believed to be the most direct living descendant of the original White Woman in what serves as the Natchez Beginning Times. Her eldest sister’s son is the current sitting Great Sun. Our murdered Little Sun was the sister’s second-eldest boy, the last of his particular Quigualtam lineage. He would become Great Sun should his older brother pass.”
Tonka’tzi Wind was frowning. “Sent here as a measure of the Great Sun’s high regard and respect for the Morning Star, as I recall.”
“And with an ulterior motive,” Blue Heron added. “The Natchez are ambitious and through the Quigualtam alliance, have the military might to back it up. Their high bluffs above the river give them a defensive advantage as well as a good view of who is traveling past. One of the Little Sun’s purposes here was to evaluate and learn our strengths before returning to advise his brother.”
“Learn our strengths? To what purpose?” the tonka’tzi wondered.
Blue Heron shrugged. “We are the greatest Nation in the world. The Morning Star has guaranteed free Trade on the river. The river runs past the Natchez. In addition, our colonies worry a great many foreign Nations. We have moved east, west, and north. Do we have designs on the south? What are the chances of a Cahokian colony being established in lands claimed by the Natchez?”
Fire Cat tensed, a sour taste in his mouth. His beloved Red Wing Town, once a bastion of freedom in the north, now suffered under the Cahokian blasphemy.
“We have no aspirations to move on the south,” Chunkey Boy said as he listened. “We are better served through Trade with those Nations.”
And, Fire Cat thought to himself, they’d be a much tougher military nut to crack, let alone hold. As Red Wing Town had proven until taken by stealth. Cahokian colonies tended to be placed in the lands of poorly organized chiefdoms that could only rally hunters and part-time warriors. The kind who had no chance against trained Cahokian formations.
Tonka’tzi Wind took a deep breath. “Be that as it may, a murdered Little Sun is going to complicate things with the Natchez.” She glanced at Blue Heron. “What steps do you recommend?”
The Keeper replied, “The body is being given special treatment in the Earth Clans charnel house. The Healer Rides-the-Lightning is caring for it. I suggest that we send a special embassy downriver with the bones. It will cost us. We’ll need to send sufficient gifts and offerings to ensure—”
“You won’t have the chance,” Night Shadow Star interrupted.
“How’s that, Niece?” the tonka’tzi asked.
Night Shadow Star smiled as if at some internal thought. “The storm comes from the south like a midsummer torrent. Tremors run though the Underworld. A new Power is sending its first tendrils into our world. Like a newly germinated seed, only the finest filament of root is extended at first. If nurtured it will slowly thicken and twist into a mighty root capable of sundering the stone upon which our world is built.”
“Pus and blood, girl,” Blue Heron muttered. “Can’t you talk in plain words?”
Night Shadow Star turned to fix Chunkey Boy with her knowing gaze. “Once again we play a deep game, don’t we, Great Lord? The filament is already here. Its fine thread has found the first crack in the stone that is Cahokia. The problem with a root is that once it gains a foothold, pulling it out can be a difficult and troublesome task.”
Chunkey Boy’s eyes flashed behind his painted face. “It is far easier to kill a noxious tree, Lady, when it begins to grow in one’s own garden. The task is much more difficult when it flourishes in a distant neighbor’s plot, and a thousand seeds are cast onto the wind.”
“I hope the few fruits you seek to harvest don’t turn out to be poison, Great Lord.”
With that, she turned on her heel, stalking past Fire Cat in a languid stride.
Fire Cat allowed himself one last hard look at the imposter before wheeling, his war club held purposefully. Matching Night Shadow Star’s long-legged stride he stalked along behind. Confusion and worry reflected in the Keeper’s and tonka’tzi’s eyes.