Ten
Six body-lengths wide, the road shimmered with crushed potsherds. Not all roads had such a surface, but many did, particularly those near sacred sites, or towns. Night Sun hurried, her black-and-white cape flapping around her like bat wings as she trotted past Kettle Town. Just to the east of Talon Town, it rose in stepped layers, its famous colonnade shining in the sun. Behind its north wall with its hanging porch, the rounded tower rose to the ladders and hand-holds that led to the stairway and the road north to Center Place.
Night Sun’s cousin, Moon Bright, was Matron of Kettle Town. When the people, who perched on the roofs of the multistoried building, yelled questions at Night Sun, she just waved and continued on. She could see Talon Town ahead, shining whitely in the afternoon sun. A nearly perfect half-circle, the flat east–west wall of the giant structure faced south, gleaning the winter sun’s warming rays. Slaves clustered around the single entrance in the western half of the flat wall, grinding corn in the mealing bins, carrying out the refuse, weaving brightly colored fabric on large looms. Two deerhides were being stretched on wooden frames. Women labored over them, scraping them with stone tools.
Young Swallowtail—fourteen summers old, muscular, and very tall for his age—knelt beside them, butchering a deer with a long obsidian blade. He took short, expert strokes, separating out each muscle, laying it on a flat stone to the side. The pile of rich red meat stood four hands tall. Each slave had specific duties. Swallowtail tended to cutting up animals and dusting the ceremonial masks in Talon Town. Both he and his mother, Mourning Dove, were extremely talented and loyal slaves. As Night Sun trotted up, Swallowtail smiled and greeted, “It is good to have you home, Blessed Matron.”
“Thank you, Swallowtail. I hope you are well.”
He beamed. “Oh, yes, better now.” The boy glanced at the bandage on his arm. “The poultice you placed on my cut is working. No evil Spirits have entered the wound yet.”
Night Sun smiled. He’d slipped and fallen down a hillside while carrying a large pot of water. One of the jagged sherds had slashed his upper arm. “I’m glad. I will look at it again tomorrow, just to make sure.”
“Thank you, Blessed Matron. I…” He looked up suddenly and pointed. “I think you are being hailed.”
Night Sun turned to the mounds that thrust up in front of Talon Town. Long, square, and flat-topped, they’d been built over old trash mounds, squared off, and heightened to allow the commoners to see above the south wall and into the plaza. During the ceremonial dances, those mounds were packed with spectators. But they served as more than viewing platforms. An enemy would have to sneak through a narrow defile about five body-lengths wide—between the mounds and the south wall—to rush the entry. Anyone so foolish would find Talon Town’s warriors raining arrows down upon him.
The burly slave master, Gray Wood, stood atop the eastern mound, his red shirt billowing in the wind. He was waving his bow to catch Night Sun’s attention. He called, “Welcome back, Blessed Night Sun!”
“Good day, Gray Wood!” she shouted. “How is my husband?”
Gray Wood lifted a hand uncertainly. His shadow stretched long and straight, pointing eastward. His loose hair glinted blue-black. “Only the gods know. But surely he will get better now that you are home.”
Night Sun smiled weakly and hurried on into the narrow portal. Through the entry, she could see the Yamuhakto, the Great Warriors of East and West, who stood painted on the curving rear wall of Talon Town, thirty hands tall, magnificent. The rich blues, reds, and yellows of their terrifying masks took on an unearthly light in the afternoon sun. The lightning bolts in their upraised hands were aimed down at the plaza, at anyone or anything that might dare disrupt the sacred harmony of the Straight Path people.
Over the past twenty summers, Sternlight had often Dreamed that Power was abandoning the canyon, disowning the Straight Path people. He’d warned that if they didn’t do something soon, they would see their world crumble to dust. Last summer, Sternlight had gone out into the desert to fast and pray, then had returned at a run, shouting at Talon Town’s artists to paint everything—interior and exterior walls, pots, clothing, jewelry—anything that would hold an image, a shred of the vanishing Power.
Then he had broken down and wept for four days and four nights, until he’d had no more tears to give.
Suddenly frightened, Night Sun ran through the entry, passing, to her left, the slave chambers and the Cage where they kept prisoners locked up. Three large kivas dotted the plaza in front of her. Ladders thrust up from their roofs, allowing entry and exit. A long strip of rooms cut through the middle of the plaza to her right, dividing it in half. Ahead, five stories of rooms rose, each story stepped back, resembling a huge staircase. Ladders led from roof to roof.
She bowed briefly to the Great Warriors, then began climbing, gripping the pine poles, her feet working, scaling the next ladder, and the next, until she reached the fifth story. Though most chambers in Talon Town were entered by ladders through holes in roofs, this block of rooms had T-shaped doorways. The shape helped cool the rooms in the summer. The cool air near the floor was hindered from escaping by the narrow base of the “T,” while the hot air vented through the wide top. Ironwood stood beside the doorway she sought.
Night Sun stopped, breathing hard, and peered into his eyes. Tall, sun-bronzed, he leaned against the white-plastered wall with his muscular arms folded. He’d braided his graying black hair into a single plait that draped over his right shoulder. Muscles bulged under the fabric of his long red shirt. He wore black leggings and sandals. At the age of almost forty-six summers, the War Chief’s violent life showed in his face. Deep lines etched his forehead and curved around his wide mouth, accentuating the flatness of his nose. Even when he smiled these days, he looked sad, though deep inside her, he would always be the handsome laughing youth she had loved so desperately.
But that was a long time ago, wasn’t it, Ironwood? Back when we were both young and outrageously foolish.
As she walked toward him, he straightened, and tenderness softened his dark eyes. “Forgive me,” he said as he extended an arm to block the door. “Crow Beard left orders not to let you enter his chamber.”
“That doesn’t surprise me, Ironwood. He’s never known what was good for him—or for anyone else, for that matter. Is he alive?”
“Yes. Barely.”
“Then he needs me. Get out of my way.” She gripped his arm and tried to force it down.
He held fast. “Blessed Night Sun, would you have me disobey—”
Night Sun swiftly ducked beneath his arm and stalked across the elaborately painted room toward her husband’s bedside, where Sternlight knelt. Dressed in white, his long hair shone as blackly as it had twenty summers ago. He gazed at her solemnly.
“Aunt,” Sternlight said, “you know that I am honor-bound to tell you—”
“I do know it, nephew,” she cut him off. “Which means there is no need for you to say it. Besides, Crow Beard is asleep. He cannot punish you for something he does not witness.”
Sternlight raised an eyebrow. “True.”
Night Sun knelt opposite him and gazed upon her husband. What she saw frightened her. Thin gray hair clung to his freckled scalp in damp wisps, and his wrinkled face was flushed. His chest moved rapidly beneath the blankets.
She bent forward to touch his gaunt cheeks. “Hallowed gods,” she whispered. “What have you been doing for his fever?”
Sternlight peered at her with clear brown eyes. “Nothing. He ordered us not to call any Healers. He said he hates them all, even—”
“That’s demented! Part of his fever! You believed him?”
“No, not—not really. But it was an order, Night Sun. I had no choice.”
She gripped the fabric of her cape near her throat and pulled to untie the bow. “Well,” she said through a taut exhalation, “my husband is unable to give you any more orders, great Sun-watcher. Now you take orders from me.”
“Of course.”
She removed her cape and spread it over Crow Beard. “Where is my son?”
“Snake Head stayed up all night. He only retired to his chambers to rest two hands of time ago.”
“Good. He won’t be around to bother me.”
Sternlight bowed his head obligingly. “What is it you wish me to do to help you?”
“Where are my slave women? Find them. Order them to bring bowls of hot coals and set them around Crow Beard. Tell them I want all the hides they can gather.”
“Yes, Night Sun. Is there anything else?”
She forced her exhausted mind to think. “Just one thing. I left Cloud Playing and my Healer’s pack at Deer Mother Village. A woman there took ill after her baby was born—born dead. Since I do not have my pack, I will need several things from my chambers. Tell my slave, Mourning Dove, that I need the pot of willow bark.…” She let out a breath. Weariness weighted her shoulders like a cape of stone. She had run almost all the way home. “Ask Mourning Dove to pour me a warm bath and bring my blankets here. I will sleep beside Crow Beard tonight.”
Both Ironwood and Sternlight gaped at her, as if they had not heard correctly. It had been many summers since she had slept in her husband’s chamber, or he in hers. Everyone knew it.
Night Sun glared at Sternlight. “Are you deaf? Or just defying me?”
“Neither, Aunt.” He rose to his feet. “I am on my way to deliver your orders.”
Sternlight crossed the room gracefully, his white ritual shirt swaying with each step. He exchanged a glance with Ironwood before he exited into the rusty gleam of late afternoon.
Night Sun glared at Ironwood, daring him to make a comment. As he approached, the light from the doorway threw his tall body into silhouette, highlighting the breadth of his shoulders and narrowness of his waist. He knelt beside her, searching her face. Night Sun longed to touch him, to ease the constant pain in his eyes—but she couldn’t. Not now. Not ever again.
We change what we love, she thought. We turned each other into lonely people.
Ironwood’s deep voice came softly. “What are your orders for me, Night Sun? I’ll do anything you ask.”
“Indeed? Is that why you wouldn’t let me in—”
“I did let you in, my friend.”
Their gazes held.
“Yes, you did. I thank you for that.”
He lowered his eyes to Crow Beard. “Is there anything you can do for him?”
She shook her head. “I honestly don’t know. If his fever has been this high for days—”
“It has.”
“Then I fear for his soul. It may have already begun the journey to the afterlife. Even if I can save him, he may never be the same.”
Night Sun’s eyes narrowed as she gazed upon Crow Beard. She never should have married him, never should have yielded to her family’s pleading. But there had been a catastrophe. Her older sister, Whitefly, then Matron of the First People, had been killed by raiders along with her husband, the Blessed Sun. Both of Whitefly’s daughters had vanished before they’d turned fifteen summers. The daughter left by their oldest sister, Lacewing, had been captured by the Fire Dogs, and no one knew if she lived or had been murdered. That left Night Sun, thirteen years her sister’s junior, to serve as Matron. But she could not do it, they told her, as a single woman. Though no clan laws forbade a single woman from ruling, the clan demanded that she marry. And she had, quickly, taking the man they’d selected for her.
She should have sent Crow Beard away and forced her family to search for another. If she had, she would not be torn in two now, terrified he might die—and yearning for the liberty his death would bring.
Liberty—but at such a price. Until she, or Cloud Playing, remarried, if ever, her only son Snake Head would rule as Blessed Sun, but his arrogant self-absorption would free Night Sun to do as she wished, to travel and to Heal. She could even have her fill of lovers. Despite her age, many men would gladly lie with her, just to be able to say they had bedded the great Matron of Talon Town, or to gain the Power it might bring.… No, I don’t want lovers. That time is past.
An odd sensation, as if she tumbled through emptiness, dizzied her. She reached out, and Ironwood gripped her arm firmly.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“I was just … thinking.”
“Feeling guilty? You’ve always blamed yourself for far too much. His illness is not your—”
“No, no.” She swallowed. “I was thinking that my heart is dead, Ironwood. I don’t love anymore.” She paused. “But, I don’t cry either.”
He squeezed her arm, then let it go, and rose to his feet. Looking down, he said, “You’ve made a resolution, eh? Like giving up squash for the Summer Dances? All you have to do is say, ‘I don’t love anymore’ and the need is gone? You are Powerful, indeed, Blessed Night Sun.”
She gazed up at him. A faint smile tugged at the corners of his wide mouth.
I gave you up “like squash,” didn’t I?
She had made the decision in an instant. The day their baby died … she had known what she had to do, and she’d done it. For six moons afterward she couldn’t see him without longing to weep.
“I’m tired,” she said. “Will you stay with Crow Beard while I bathe and eat? I will return as soon as I—”
“Sleep, too,” he commanded gently. “I will be here.”
“If anything happens you’ll—”
“Let you know instantly. Of course.”
Night Sun brushed hair behind her ears and got to her feet. “I will be back soon.”
“As you wish.”
She started to walk past him, but halted. Lightly, she placed a hand on his arm and met his concerned gaze. “Thank you.”
“Your servant, as always.”
She left swiftly.
* * *
Snake Head leaned against the doorway of his chamber, watching the eastern plaza far below him.
“Which one of you slave brats stole my pack?” the Hohokam Trader, Blunt Face, yelled. “I know one of you did it!”
Five slave children, dressed in brown rags, gathered in a circle around the burly giant, most looking horrified by the accusation. They stared up with wide eyes.
Blunt Face propped his hands on his hips. He stood fourteen hands tall and wore a doehide shirt covered with copper bells. His black hair hung level with his chin. “If you won’t tell me, I’ll call for the War Chief. You don’t wish me oto do that, do you? He’ll punish you far worse than—”
“What’s wrong?” Gray Wood, the slave master, stalked across the plaza, a yucca whip in his hand, and a bow and quiver of arrows over his left shoulder. He wore a red shirt and sandals. “What’s all the yelling?”
Blunt Face gestured to the pack of slave children. “One of these brats is a thief! I stowed my packs by the wall over there, just as I always do, and one of them is missing. It’s filled with rare Hohokam Trade goods! And very dangerous things! Power amulets and fetishes and—”
“All right.” Gray Wood bent forward and scowled at the children, ranging in age from three to fourteen summers. “Who took the pack?” he asked. “Tell me now, or all of you will feel my whip!” He shook it at them.
The three-summers-old girl put a finger in her mouth and started crying. She shrieked, “I didn’t do it! I swear it!”
“Well, who did? Tell me now or…”
Snake Head’s attention was drawn away when his mother emerged from his father’s fifth-floor chamber and started down the ladder to the fourth story. Weariness seemed to weight the tall and willowy woman like a cape of granite; her movements were sluggish. Snake Head lifted a brow. His mother’s eyes glowed.
But, then, she had just spent a finger of time alone with Ironwood.
Snake Head’s lip curled with disgust. As a boy, he had followed her, tracked her like a wolf on a blood trail, so he knew a great deal about her “secret” life.
The macaw behind him churred softly and cracked another pine nut. The fragments of hull tapped the floor.
Snake Head’s gaze went to the south side of the plaza, where the War Chief always stood watch on the roof beside the entry. Seventeen summers ago, just after his father had left on a trading mission to the Hohokam, Snake Head used to see his mother there often. She would wait until the town slept, then sneak from her chambers and go to sit beside Ironwood, just to talk to him, to touch him.
“At least, that’s how it started,” Snake Head murmured to himself.
Their meetings had gradually grown more intimate. As War Chief, Ironwood had to inform Night Sun the day before he left Talon Town, telling her where he would be and for how long, in case a crisis arose. No matter where Ironwood went—to the signal towers to send messages to neighboring villages, to check on distant antelope traps—he always found Night Sun waiting for him.
At the age of eight summers, Snake Head had been fascinated by this strange behavior. His mother would dress beautifully and leave before dawn, carrying a basket of food and a jug of tea. She never returned until after nightfall—and she seemed to think no one noticed her absences, or connected them with Ironwood’s.
“You were such a fool, Mother,” he whispered to himself. “About that and so many other things. I came to hate you for betraying my father. I only wish I—”
The birds suddenly went silent. The dogs in the plaza yipped and ran off with their tails between their legs.… Then, with a low growl, the shaking began. Snake Head braced himself in his door frame to keep from stumbling and listened to the roof timbers groan and crack. Stones shook loose from the canyon wall and crashed down to roll across the ground. Sharp cries and shouts rang out. The tremor lasted only a few moments, but by the time it subsided, Snake Head was breathing as if he’d run across the canyon and back. His knees had gone suddenly weak.
Night Sun rushed to her chamber and disappeared inside. Snake Head stared after her.
“Did you feel the rage of our ancestors, Mother?” he whispered. “They’re giving you just a taste of what will happen if I ever tell anyone about the things I witnessed as a boy.”
He rose and, as he walked by the macaw’s cage, thumped the bars until the bird squawked and flapped. Snake Head smiled and proceeded to his bedding. He stretched out on his back, trying to get some rest.
He would need it. The moment his father died, Snake Head would take over as the new Blessed Sun of the Straight Path nation.
Then, his life would truly begin.