The shout from the chunkey grounds barely registered as Blue Heron sat on a stool in the shade of her veranda. Later she would remember that something about it was unusual, but for the moment she was much more interested in the report Splinter Branch, one of her spies in Bear Clan, was giving her.
Blue Heron was fanning herself in the heat, which despite the shade had coaxed a thick sheen of perspiration from her aging skin.
Smooth Pebble hovered in the doorway, a pitcher of water at the ready should Blue Heron’s cup run empty. Two older, gnarly-looking warriors stood to either side, their wary eyes on the individuals she waved forward to give their reports.
Everyone seemed to be nervous, as if feeling the fraying threads that had once made up Cahokia. And indeed, the city was starting to fall apart.
She should have been half-frantic, her keen souls plotting which steps to take, how to counter the seeping poison Horn Lance had let flow into the blood and bone of Cahokia’s complex hierarchy.
Instead, her thoughts and worries kept turning to Seven Skull Shield. She refused to believe the thief had abandoned her like the rumors—circulated by Horn Lance, no doubt—implied.
Seven Skull Shield? Cut and run? That wasn’t the man she’d seen battling Tula warriors, saving her skinny neck, and risking his life to pull children from a burning temple. Nor was that the man who’d dared to risk her ire, seating himself brazenly beside her, demanding a puff from her pipe. She missed the twinkle in his eye, his irreverent quips, and complete disregard for her status and rank. It was bad enough that he might be dead, but the notion that Horn Lance might even now be torturing him in some dark hole left her feeling distraught.
“… are worried. High Chief Eight Scars continues to counsel patience, but some of the local chiefs have been extending invitations to the Itza to come and tell people about his new gods,” Splinter Branch droned on, as if the world teetered on his report. “In short, Keeper, if he and Matron Red Temple do not receive some sort of guidance from the Morning Star, High Chief Eight Scars fears Bear Clan will split right down the middle over which gods should be worshipped.”
She took another sip of her water. “You say the lesser chiefs are sending invitations to the Itza?”
“He has married Lady Night Shadow Star. He lives in the second-largest palace in Cahokia. That implies that either the Itza has the Morning Star’s blessing, or the living god is helpless to stop it.”
Splinter Branch glanced around uneasily. “And, Lady, the Morning Star hasn’t been seen at the chunkey courts. If people are starting to believe in this Waxaklahun Kan, and we hear nothing to dissuade us, what can we expect but that the Morning Star and Four Winds also agree with this teaching?”
“And what are the ordinary people saying?”
“Some are committing themselves to the Itza; others are adamant that the Morning Star is still the resurrected Spirit Being. Others are confused, waiting for the Morning Star to explain things.”
She rubbed her brow, remembering the Morning Star’s lack of concern. Pus and blood! Why? Surely he knows Cahokia is about to shatter like a dropped pot?
A headache was coming on.
“Give me your personal thoughts on this, Splinter Branch. Where is the city, given what you’ve seen and heard?”
He pressed his palms together like a supplicant. “Keeper, if you ask me, given everything that has transpired, it wouldn’t take much to convince the majority that a new god, more Powerful than the Morning Star, has come to Cahokia for good.”
He paused, meeting her eyes. “After all, the kukul, the Itza, and his followers seem invincible.”
She sighed, nodding. “So it seems. Thank you my friend. Now, go. Keep your ear to the ground. Anything that seems—”
“Keeper!” one of her informants, a bald-headed fellow named Knotweed, came pounding up her steps. He ducked and slapped a hand to his forehead as he passed the Eagle guardian posts, slid to a stop, and dropped to his knees. So quickly did he prostrate himself, he nearly bashed his head into the ground. “Forgive me, Keeper, but you said to inform you! It’s the Red Wing! He’s playing the Natchez at chunkey. And he’s wagered his life on the match!”
She heard another shout carry from the direction of the Grand Plaza, and couldn’t miss the gasps uttered by Dancing Sky, White Rain, and Soft Moon as they worked at repairing a section of netting on the other end of the veranda.
“Fire Cat? Is Night Shadow Star with him? Did she put him up to this?”
“No, Lady. I mean, she’s not with him. Just some old woman I’ve never seen before.” Knotweed looked up with wide eyes. “When he took the Red Wing’s challenge, the Natchez Little Sun said they were playing for the future of Cahokia. Lady”—he swallowed hard—“from the mood of the crowd today, I believe it!”
Blue Heron rose wearily to her feet, eyes drawn to where Dancing Sky and her daughters sat bolt upright and anxious.
“Oh, blood and piss, he’s your son, and I’m a fool. But whatever happens, wait for my orders before you do or say anything I might regret.”
The three women scrambled for her door.
“Guards! Get my porters. Best that you be armed and prepared for anything. We might be breaking heads to get away from a mob when this is all over.”
“Will it be that bad?” Smooth Pebble asked from the door.
“Might be the end of our world,” Blue Heron replied as the implications sank in. “I need you to get a message to my sister. Tell her that we’re all teetering on the brink.”