OUR FLOTILLA OF CANOES ROUNDED A BEND, AND THERE ATOP A bluff stood Telemico, resplendent in the golden light of sunset.
Looking across, I could see Blood Thorn’s face, a mask of wonderment as he stared at the city. High gabled cane roofs rose above large houses, masking the approach to both the Cofitachequi mico’s elevated palace and the still higher mound beyond it. Upon that high eminence stood the temple. The structure jutted up above the houses; its shell-clad walls added to the illusion of height before the steeply pitched roof pierced the purple sky. Sculptures of Falcon and Rattlesnake adorned the ends of the soaring ridgepole, as if to threaten the Sky World itself. The mosaic of shells on the walls and roof burned pearlescent and fiery in the sunset.
“I’d forgotten how grand this place is,” I whispered.
Further thoughts on the matter were abandoned as the canoes put in at the landing. While the Tagaya mico’s boat was carried ashore, Pearl Hand and I scrambled out and helped Blood Thorn with the dogs and packs.
“Someone carry those,” the mico ordered, seeing that we were about to lace the packs onto the dogs. Apparently he was more inclined to order his subjects to do a dog’s work rather than endure the wait.
I got my belongings in order, slinging my alligator-hide quiver and carrying my trader’s staff before me; the white feathers danced in the breeze. Pearl Hand insisted on walking before me and Blood Thorn. I ordered the dogs to heel.
The mico’s chair was unloaded from a canoe, and he took his seat, burly paddlers hefting his weight onto their shoulders.
With the ynahaes in the lead, we began the march up from the landing, treading on charcoal-stained soil. The usual bits of pot sherds, stone flakes, and cooking stones winked underfoot as they caught the slanting light.
At the crest of the rise, we passed the first houses—large things with split-cane roofs, many of them decorated by clan totem sculptures. Guardian posts were set to either side of sealed doorways. Once-brightly-painted clay walls were cracking and faded. The tattered latrines behind lacked the simplest of repairs.
The great city was mostly abandoned. Weeds grew where they shouldn’t. The yards were unkempt, mud having washed into fire pits, the ramadas worse for wear. Even the upright log mortars were weather-grayed, with dirt blown into their hollow bowls.
“Mico? How long since the people left?” I called, remembering the last time I’d walked up from the landing. Then it was into a bustling community of several thousand. I remembered the colors, the diverse peoples speaking Mos’kogee, Catawba, Cherokee, and the incomprehensible tongues of the coast.
“Since the beginning of the Death,” one of the ynahaes replied. “It was worse here. Those few who didn’t become ill found their comfort among distant relatives. Most were gone by last spring.”
I nodded, thoughts stuck in the past: Local traders had lined the route, their wares displayed on blankets; hunters had game hung from racks; weavers hawked their latest fabrics; and potters sat before rows of freshly fired, stamped bowls, jars, and pots.
Their places now grew grass and goosefoot, the lonesome soil hardened and rain cracked.
Blood Thorn asked, “How many houses, Black Shell? I mean, just here, in the city itself?”
“Six, seven hundred,” I replied as we followed the main road into the center. “And just beyond, in every direction, are smaller towns, and beyond them, villages. This is just the capital. My guess is that had the pestilence not struck, Cofitachequi could have fielded ten thousand warriors against de Soto without even straining.”
“And now?” He gave me a dark look.
“I have no idea.” And I began to understand the crushing sense of defeat Pearl Hand was feeling.
As we passed beneath the first of the granaries perched atop its high posts, I could see the door hanging open. As was the case at the second, third, and fourth. In the distance, between gaps in the houses, I could see more of the raised storehouses. Some, however, were still tightly sealed. That gave me a bit of hope.
We passed one of the elaborate clan houses, this one festooned with magnificent raccoon carvings; one was seated atop the ridgepole over the doorway, his forepaws dangling. The weathering beast, his paint now faded, stared down at me as if in question.
From behind the clan house came the cloying reek of the associated charnel house. I could imagine what it looked like on the inside: every bench piled with the dead.
A flock of finches fluttered past. Before the Death, they would have made a living from dropped corn, knotweed, and maygrass seeds; now they had to be thriving on goosefoot and other invaders.
Passing the Raccoon Clan house, we entered the central plaza. The stickball field should have been a rectangle of well-trodden grass instead of a meadow crisscrossed by trails. Weeds spotted the closest chunkey court, to my dismay.
I glanced up at the high temple with its towering roof and imagined priests atop the long wooden stairs as they watched the games, wagering on the outcomes depending upon their particular Power. How long had it been since figures other than ghosts had perched there?
Blood Thorn gasped as he looked up. “I didn’t think men could build such things.”
The great building, with its inlaid shell walls, continued to reflect the reddish sunlight, as though possessed of a fire all its own. I could feel the ancestral souls inside, the weight of generations, all unaware of the scourge approaching from the south.
Across from the temple, the palace stood atop its own square—if not as high—mound. Unlike the rest of the town, the palace had suffered no neglect but radiated life and Power. The Cofitachequi mico’s edifice had been built with consummate skill, each timber perfectly fitted; the walls—first plastered with white and red clays—had been inlaid with crushed shell, the surfaces burnished with smooth round stones until they shone in the light.
Shells, too, had been laced to the split-cane roof to impart a brilliant luminescence. The high roof left us feeling dwarfed as we approached the steep stairway to the imposing veranda.
Two guardian posts—giant rattlesnakes rising from the earth—rose on either side of the stairs. I could almost believe the serpents were alive with their copper-inset eyes, forked tongues, and rainbow-scaled sides.
The wooden staircase leading up to the veranda was polished, oil stained, and perfectly set. At the base, the mico gave an order, and we waited.
Pearl Hand, however, strode up, demanding, “Do you expect us to enter the Cofitachequi mico’s presence dressed like this? We’re fresh out of the forest, hardly fit to appear before the Sun Ruler.”
He glanced at her, taking in her worn travel dress. Perhaps to prove his superiority, he took his time about it, then gave a wave of the hand. “You may use the house just behind there. Its occupants are long gone. Ynahae, take some men with you and show them where I mean. But have them ready to come at a moment’s notice.”
The man touched his chin, shot a disdainful look at Pearl Hand, and said, “This way.”
At Pearl Hand’s signal, Blood Thorn and I gestured to the porters carrying our packs. Then, slapping a hand to my thigh, I called the dogs to follow.
The ynahae led us around the side of the mound to a well-fit house. Its wooden door hung on dried-leather hinges. A dusting of leaves had blown up against the walls. Muttering a prayer to the Spirits who inhabited the house, he opened the wooden door and gestured to us.
Stepping in, we found a spacious main room with pole benches built into the walls. Dust lay over everything, and motes of it could be seen in the shafts of light penetrating around the eaves. Hangings covered two doorways in the back wall—storerooms, no doubt, or segregated sleeping quarters.
“Will this do?” the ynahae asked.
“It will.” Pearl Hand took her pack from one of the porters and retreated to the left-side doorway. Pulling back the hanging, she stepped inside.
“What do we do?” Blood Thorn asked in Timucua as he stared around the house. In his country, only a great holata would have such a place.
“We’re about to meet one of the most important women in the world. Perhaps we should look like more than just scruffy traders?”
He agreed. “Of course.”
So we took our packs, slipped off our travel clothing, and began making ourselves pretty. By the time Pearl Hand stepped out, decked as she’d been in the forest, I had my hair pinned with my copper turkey-tail pin, strands of shell around my neck, and a large copper breastplate hanging over my chest. I opted for one of the Toa blankets—this one dyed in a vivid scarlet—and placed it around my shoulders. Blood Thorn, his hair seen to, took a yellow one.
I retrieved what was left of our paints and used grease to mix it. Then Blood Thorn and I took turns dabbing it on according to our individual whims. He opted for a traditional Timucua design. I had him paint me to look like a Chicaza minko. The only thing lacking was a Kristiano mirror to see just how good we looked.
When we’d donned half the trade, we could have been minkos ourselves. With each step, our shell necklaces tinkled musically, and bracelets were stacked on our wrists. Finally, I lifted out the copper mace Back-from-the-Dead had presented to me. The mace in one hand, my trader’s staff in the other, I felt ready.
Pearl Hand, despite her other concerns, stopped short, seeing the red breechcloth I’d adopted and the iridescent spoonbill feathers we’d laced into our hair.
“You cut a dashing figure,” she said, a wistful smile on her lips. “One to keep forever in my memory.”
“As do you. But if I dare say, it’s not the same as that night at the fire.”
“At least this time you won’t have to find me a chair.”
Her attempt at humor did more to reassure me than anything else.
The ynahae stuck his head in the door, eyes widening at sight of us. “The Cofitachequi mico requests your presence.”
Calling the dogs, we walked out into the dusk, rounded the palace mound, and joined Tagaya Mico. He didn’t get the whole effect, given the poor light, but I saw his eyes widen.
Oh yes, you overstuffed fool, we’re just as rich as you are.
The yatika was waiting at the head of the stairs, and now he called out, “Come forth from the world below. It is the order of the Cofitachequi mico that you ascend to her world, leaving behind any pretension of guile, misdirection, and animosity. Come, and be pure of heart, gracious, and forthright in the presence of Cofitachequi.”
I translated the gist of it to Blood Thorn as we followed behind the mico’s litter bearers. They did an admirable job, keeping his chair level as they climbed. At the veranda, appropriately, they lowered the chair in a fluid motion. He rose and walked past two ranks of six warriors armed with copper-headed war clubs. They inspected us with interest as we proceded through great double doors carved in relief with clawing cougars.
A roaring fire filled the great room with yellow light. The usual pole benches lined plastered walls decorated with brightly dyed textiles, weapons, trophy skulls, and wooden reliefs of Rattlesnake, sun symbols, Piasa, and Falcon.
No piece of wood in the room had been spared the carver’s blade. Each was a masterpiece—right down to the supports for the pole benches.
The back wall was made of tawny cane woven into geometric patterns that defied the eye with their intricacy. What appeared to be a single mat covered the entire floor, for I could find no break in the weave. Below the benches, large wooden boxes of masterful construction depicted mythical creatures, heroes from the Beginning Times, images of Mother Spider, serpents, and stunningly rendered geometric designs.
Then I turned my attention to the people. Ten ynahaes stood in a solid rank to one side. I assumed the older men and women, maybe thirty in all, behind them to be various oretas and clan leaders. This was reinforced by their clothing, much of it bearing raccoons, cougars, falcons, and deer.
On the Cofitachequi mico’s right stood a couple of warriors, a well-dressed and obviously high-ranking young man, and two young women. The females wore fine white dresses, but they were nowhere as revealing as Pearl Hand’s form-fitting garment. Their long black hair was combed and fell over their shoulders. Each had a virgin’s belt knotted at her waist, and a wealth of pearls hung in heavy strands from their necks and wrists.
As we approached, the older one—perhaps seventeen summers—bent and whispered something to the younger, who might have been thirteen. The young nobleman—wearing a colorfully painted fawn-skin shirt, leggings, and supple moccasins—gave her a disapproving scowl.
She gave Pearl Hand a scathing look, as if she really didn’t care to have any woman more beautiful than herself in the room. And yes, she was gorgeous.
The Cofitachequi mico, however, dominated the room. She sat on a magnificent raised chair, its sides draped with cougar hides. From the back rose a large, carved eagle’s head, as if the fierce bird were staring out over the mico’s head at the room’s occupants. With polished pearl eyes, a gleaming yellow beak, and a white-feathered head, the thing might have been alive.
The Cofitachequi mico herself had once been an attractive woman; haggard lines ran from the corners of her nose down to the sides of her mouth. Sunken cheeks mimicked her mascara-darkened eyes. Her hair remained black and was gathered in a matronly bun at the back of her head; a polished copper pin, done in turkey-tail style, held it in place. She wore a beautiful purple-fabric dress, its front adorned with pearls and bits of mica that glistened in the light. Given the weight of the pearls around her neck, it was no wonder her back looked stooped.
She watched us through tired eyes, as if the fire had been long burned out of them. Both elbows rested on the chair arms and added to the image of someone pushed too hard, for too long. I guessed she’d seen close to forty winters and probably didn’t wish to see many more.
Tagaya Mico stopped just this side of the fire and lowered himself to one knee, head bowed, palms up. Blood Thorn and I followed suit along with everyone in our party.
And there we waited. Except that I had my trader’s staff in one hand, the ancient mace in the other, so I propped their butts on the matting to give the appearance of reverence.
Staring at the matting, I wished I could have seen what transpired, but I heard whispering. Finally the yatika called, “Arise, Tagaya Mico, and tell us why you have come.”
From under lowered brows, I watched the man reclaim his feet and listened as he related our arrival at his town.
“And who is this mysterious woman who claims to be in the Cofitachequi mico’s service?” the yatika called in a voice we were all supposed to hear.
Just ahead of me, Pearl Hand stood, stepping forward. Enough of this. I raised my head.
Pearl Hand stopped beside Tagaya Mico, drawing herself to her full height. “I am known as Pearl Hand of the Chicora, and I come from the south with news about the arrival of a new army of Kristianos under the leadership of a man calling himself Adelantado Hernando de Soto.”
“Wait!”
The room went silent, and I could see the old mico stiffen in her chair. She said, “I know you.”
Pearl Hand might have been a meadow vole, paralyzed as a hawk shot down from the sky. Her whole body tensed, her fists knotted.
The old woman rose from the chair, walking slowly forward until she stopped an arm’s length from Pearl Hand. For long moments the two stared at each other.
Then the old mico said, “To see you here, alive and before me, is to know that Power has really deserted me.”
Pearl Hand seemed to quiver.
“Who is she, Aunt?” The gorgeous young woman stepped forward, her virgin’s skirt swaying. A gleam of anticipation filled her eyes. “You know this woman?”
“Evening Breeze,” the old mico rasped, as if even the saying of it cost her.
A gasp sounded around the room, looks of horror on every face. The girl’s eyes went wide, and she walked up whispering, “It is! It’s her!”
The old mico continued, her voice almost a hiss. “You don’t know how much I offered, sacrificed, fasted, and prayed. With all my heart I pleaded that you would die a miserable and lingering death.”
That brought a cold chill to my spine, and I stared at Pearl Hand like a gaping idiot. Evening Breeze? That was her real name? And, by Piasa’s teeth, what had she done to earn such hatred?
Pearl Hand’s voice wavered. “Not all of your prayers were in vain, great Mico. I have lived my share of misery.”
“But obviously not enough.” She paused, firelight sparkling off the pearls in her dress. “After what you did to me, what prompts you to come before me now, at this of all times?”
Pearl Hand took a deep breath. “Great Sun Ruler, you can deal with me as you see fit. But first, hear my words: I come in the company of these traders to warn you that an army of Kristianos is approaching your southern borders.”
The girl—who’d been staring at Pearl Hand with rapt attention—blurted, “We’ve heard of no Kristianos. What was left of them fled years ago. The rest are long dead.”
“White Rose, be quiet,” the old mico growled.
Pearl Hand kept her eyes on the mico’s. “The Kristianos landed far to the south, in the peninsula, more than a year ago. Over a thousand of them, their war cabayos and dogs. Since then they have been working their way north, through the Uzachile, the Apalachee, and the Hichiti Nations. Now they are coming here.”
“Doing what?” White Rose demanded. Her aunt seemed to be overwhelmed for the moment.
I’d had my fill of kneeling. I rose, taking my place at Pearl Hand’s side, bracing my trader’s staff on the floor, mace in my right hand. “Killing, stealing, raping, and destroying,” I said with the arrogance that was my blood right. “They’ve marked their path by spirals of vultures wheeling over their victims.”
“And who are you?” the girl asked, turning her attention to me. I saw the pupils widen in her dark brown eyes as she took in my fine dress and Chicaza paint. Then they fixed on the copper mace, her interest growing. When her eyes met mine, they were dancing with invitation, matching the smile that now bent her full lips.
“I am Black Shell, of the Chief Clan, of the Hickory Moiety, of the Chicaza Nation. I come under the Power of trade and bind myself—and my companions, including Blood Thorn, iniha of the Uzachile Nation—under its Power.”
“A Chicaza?” The girl almost sighed. “A warrior from the other side of the world? Here?”
“You have my name; I do not have yours,” I replied as a high minko would to an equal.
I could see shifting around the room; the warriors behind the younger girl and the young noble were fingering their clubs.
“I am known as Blooming White Rose, niece of the Cofitachequi mico, of the Sun Clan.” That she left off her moiety and people amused me. She obviously didn’t think it necessary.
“Black Shell,” Pearl Hand said stiffly, “you do not need to meddle in this.”
“But I do.” I turned my attention to the mico. “Great Sun Ruler, we came with all haste. The monster de Soto is currently making his way through the forest, probably with Ocute guides. He will arrive at any moment.”
She pried her gaze from Pearl Hand, giving me a sober inspection from the top of my head all the way down to my feet. Her eyes, too, hesitated at the sight of the copper mace, long a symbol of rulers.
She shot a glance filled with loathing at Pearl Hand. “You come in surprising company, Chicaza. The sort to make your words suspect.”
I met her wary gaze. “Great Sun Ruler, I am tasked by Power with the destruction of the monster. For more than a year, I have fought him, killed his soldados and cabayeros, and watched thousands weep in the wake of his passage. So too has this woman, whom you know as Evening Breeze. Had she wished, she could have introduced herself as Evening Breeze Mankiller, or Nicoquadca, though I do not believe the term is used here.”
“What did she do,” the mico asked bitterly, “squeeze them to death, one by one, with her renowned sheath?”
“Actually,” I said coolly, “she prefers the Kristiano crossbow, though more than one died by her sword.”
That made an impact among the listeners.
“You have proof?” the old woman asked.
“Of her kills? No, great Mico. The ihola’ka were presented as tribute to Mikko Cafakke of the Apalachee. And trophy heads, you must agree, are a bit cumbersome on the trail.”
She gave me an irritated look. “I meant about the coming of these Kristianos.”
“We still carry some of their weapons.”
“You could have come by them anywhere,” White Rose added, her thoughtful eyes on mine. She kept glancing at Pearl Hand, then me, obviously trying to suss out our relationship.
The mico waved the brat down, still struggling to keep from glaring at Pearl Hand. “Why would they come here? Twice they have landed on our shores, and twice they left in ruin.”
She sounded so sure of herself. I felt that building frustration in my breast. “Among the Uzachile they captured a trader, White Mat by name. With him was a boy he was teaching the trade: Periko. When the Kristianos quizzed him about gold, Periko told them there was plenty of it here, in Cofitachequi.”
“What is this gold?” White Rose asked.
The mico gave her an irritated look, saying, “A worthless metal. Kristianos, however, are endlessly enamored of it.” Then she turned back to me. “Why would they believe some boy?”
Pearl Hand said, “Because they want to, great Sun Ruler.”
The old woman snorted. “And just what did you expect me to do, Evening Breeze? Thank you for coming with such information? Forgive you? Restore your status, perhaps offer you some other poor soul to ruin?”
Pearl Hand flinched. “The Kristianos will be in dire straits after crossing the forest. By means of a carefully laid ambush, you will be able to hit them while their cabayos are weak, their formations scattered. But if they manage to take a town, raid its granaries and resupply, nothing you can do will stop them.”
The old woman drew a deep breath, her eyes closed. “All right, I believe you. As far as that goes.”
Mico Tagaya asked, “Then what do we do?”
“What can we?” she demanded bitterly. “Half of our warriors lie dead in the charnel houses. The rest, but for a handful, are scattered throughout the forests, hunting, struggling to keep their families fed. My micos are on the verge of revolt, hoping to exploit our weakness for their own ends.” She shot another venomous look at Pearl Hand. “Oh yes, you picked a fine time to return.”
Pearl Hand wavered on her feet, eyes closed, and I almost reached out to steady her. She said, “There is another way, though what it will cost you, I can’t say.”
“Really?” the old woman asked. “What it will cost us? The last of my hope? What remains of my heart? This time, I’m fresh out of sons, you foul piece of filth.”
I shot a nervous glance at Pearl Hand, seeing her take a deep breath.
Pus and blood, wife! What did you do?