Nine

Blue Dove

Impatient, I stand on the roof of the council pithouse, watching people climb out and wander away across the village. The meeting ended over one half-hand of time ago. Where is Crane? Neither he nor the man known as Tocho has appeared, which I find infuriating. They must be talking or perhaps just listening to the final tidbits of council discussion, but Crane is keeping me waiting. Doesn’t he realize that?

For me, with the exception of the curious clown, it has been an entirely loathsome day. Lots of tears were shed and promises given to hunt down the murderer, but Chief Seff explained to the gathering that the killer was probably a witch, and had likely turned himself into a great horned owl or nighthawk and flown away never to be seen again.

These people are such simpletons.

Expelling an annoyed breath, I search the towering canyon walls. High up on the cliff, four granaries—small structures made of stacked stones, sealed with mud, and filled with corn or seed—perch on seemingly unreachable ledges. Must have taken a great deal of effort to haul up the stones and clay, the water for mortar, and then baskets of food. Reaching them to retrieve the food will be equally as difficult.

When the Straight Path nation split into two factions thirty summers ago, most of the old nobles, the First People, escaped southward along the Solstice Meridian: an arrow-straight trail that leads to the barren deserts beyond the distant Big River. The handful of First People who remained behind in Flowing Waters Town are the last holdouts of a once great kingdom. Though a few of the larger towns are still ruled by lesser nobles, and defer to the Blessed Sun, they are few and far between. Each noble has carved out his own small kingdom and maintains a fragile hold on existence against the inferior Made People, the commoners, who outnumber the First People ten to one. This instant, vast numbers of Made People are out there fighting over the best abandoned towns, farms, and stone quarries. Refugees fill the trails. Even here among the Canyon People I see several former slaves with tattoos that mark them as the property of long-gone masters from the white palaces of Talon Town, or from Flowing Waters Town along the Spirit River, currently inhabited by the last true king—and one of the First People—Blessed Sun Leather Hand. My father.

But even he admits that the First People are losing this war. The end is near.

If that doesn’t change, when he’s gone, I will rule over ruins. But at least I will rule.

People in grubby hides walk by. They stare for too long at my expensive jewelry and clothing. Back home, I’d order them flayed alive for their ogling.

But, after all, these are Canyon People. They probably don’t know any better. They’re a curious lot. They welcome anyone. Former slaves are just one example. As I look out across the OwlClaw Village plaza, I see barbaric Sheep Eaters from the west talking with shabby Buffalo People from the far north. What an unnatural conglomeration. Because they take in all sorts of human flotsam, the Canyon People seem to have no distinct culture. They speak a dozen different languages. Their houses are so varied they have no identity. Some live in pithouses, others in above-ground masonry structures, or in houses made of mud bricks, even in caves and rockshelters. Sometimes they farm, but in the case of drought, they will abandon their fields and villages altogether and become wandering hunter-gatherers. The only thing that seems to distinguish them is their ugly gray pots, and the fact that they don’t wear beautifully woven yucca sandals like people in the Straight Path nation do. Instead, Canyon People construct tawdry moccasins made from the hock of a deer or a bighorn sheep. Yes, that’s what distinguishes them. Ugly gray pots and tawdry moccasins. What a morose legacy.

I long to go home to the luxurious painted chambers of Flowing Waters Town where I was born and raised. But there are things I must do first. Things that will establish my legacy.

When I glimpse Crane climbing out of the pithouse, I walk to meet him.

We do not speak, but stand gazing down into the large crowd that mills around the council pithouse, talking and arguing.

“Where’s Tocho?”

“The council is asking his advice. He’ll be a while, I suspect.”

“Shall we wait for him? Capture him when he appears?”

Crane may have shaken his head, but it was such a slight gesture, I’m not sure.

“No,” he replies softly. “There are too many people here. We need to find him when he’s alone, or nearly alone. I heard him tell the chief that he and his granddaughter will spend the night in the village. He’ll be around.”

Crane starts to walk away, but I grab his sleeve. “The old man wears a leather bag tied to his belt. Is that where he keeps Nightshade’s soul pot?”

“I didn’t say he owned the pot. I said he might know where it’s buried. Even if he does, you’re not going to just walk up and take it from him.”

“Why not? He looks as brittle as an old stick.”

For a moment, I study Crane’s emaciated profile and the silver at his temples. The bones of his face are covered with the thinnest layer of age-spotted skin.

“He’s a master shaman. That bag is a Spirit bundle and it’s wreathed in protective spells. I’m surprised you didn’t see them. Red and white images dance in the air just above the hide.”

I make a deep-throated sound of disbelief. “You’re lying. I saw an old worn-out leather bag. Nothing more.”

Crane pulls his sleeve from my grip and steps away from me. “Your father is supposed to be the greatest witch alive. Didn’t he teach his only daughter to recognize such things? It would seem prudent, given that half the world probably wants to kill you to get back at him. A thought that has crossed my mind more than once.”

“Has it?” I ask sweetly.

His black eyes are depthless. The longer I gaze at him, the more I feel like I am falling, tumbling into that vast well where he truly lives. These are the moments I yearn for. My pulse speeds up. If I can just find him in there, I …

As though he knows exactly what I’m thinking, he softly says, “I’ve heard that your father once tried to capture Maicoh’s soul. In the process, he killed Maicoh’s family and burned down his home. Do you know the stories of how Maicoh repaid him?”

“Oh, yes,” I reply, delighted. “Maicoh trotted twelve of Father’s best warriors like a dog pack through the hills, and when he reached the gate of Flowing Waters Town, he drew a black feather from his cape and used it to cut them apart. Then he cast the pieces over the walls into the plaza beyond. Well, except for the one man you left alive to tell the tale.”

He watches me for ten or fifteen heartbeats, patiently as if this noisy rooftop is his private domain, and everything up here occurs at his convenience.

“Where are the guards you claim to have?” His voice is silken. “I’d think your father would have assigned at least a dozen to defend you while you pursued your mission.”

“Why? A dozen clearly wouldn’t stop Maicoh.”

Crane smiles, but like every other facial expression, it’s an odd barely there brushstroke across his lips that hints of long-vanished amusement, a mere shadow of what had once been. “Or perhaps your father couldn’t care less if you’re killed. All he wants is the pot. Does he hate you so much?”

His question cuts like a knife. Very astute. Trying to whittle me down to find out who and what I truly am.

I cock my head. “You really are fascinating.”