Twelve

The scent of death permeated the air, coiling through Crow Beard’s room as if alive.

Bone weary, Ironwood leaned his shoulder against the clay-washed wall of the Chief’s chamber and closed his eyes. Just the illusion of sleep helped. His taut muscles relaxed, and he could finally pull a deep breath into his lungs. His buffalo cape warmed his torso, but his long black shirt and leggings couldn’t block the cold.

Sandals creaked on the plastered floor. Ironwood turned to his left and saw Sternlight standing over the sleeping Night Sun. Rolled in a single black blanket with white diamonds woven around the edges, she looked frail and thin, her beautiful face serene in the red light cast by the bowls of glowing coals.

Sternlight adjusted her blanket so it covered her exposed right arm, then rose and went to his mats in the southwestern corner. His white ritual shirt swayed about his legs as he picked up his red blanket and swung it around his shoulders. He gave Ironwood a sympathetic glance before he sat down, propped his forehead on his knees, and tried to rest. Waist-length hair draped around him.

The great priest could sleep, but the great warrior had to remain on guard.

Ironwood’s gaze drifted over the magnificent thlatsinas painted on the walls. Larger than life, they wore bright feathered masks and carried rattles in their hands. Four terraces of black thunder clouds adorned their chests, and red streaks of falling rain striped their kirtles. As heat rose from the bowls of coals brought in to warm the dying Chief, the gods blurred and wavered.… Dancing. Subtly, but Ironwood could see it. The thlatsinas seemed to spin, kirtles billowing, their hallowed feet pounding out the rhythm that had created the universe. If he concentrated, he could hear their voices.…

Ironwood shook himself. Sleep taunted him at the edges of his soul, beckoning like a lover’s arms.

He pushed away from the wall and walked toward the low doorway in the corner. Before he’d fallen asleep, Crow Beard had ordered the curtain lifted, so that his soul might wander about the canyon, saying good-bye. Ironwood crouched in the entry, shivering in the icy breeze.

A light dusting of snow had fallen. The roofs and plaza of the huge town shone silver. Talon Town contained eight hundred rooms, but most of them served as storage. Crow Beard and Night Sun always strove to have a three-cycle supply of food stored, in case of crop failure.

Many other rooms became guest quarters during solstice ceremonials, when the population of Straight Path Canyon swelled to tens of thousands. A few rooms had been built for ghosts. Talon Town—like the other great towns in the canyon—was holy ground, and clan elders and priests from distant places occasionally wished to be buried here, so that they might be close to the gods.

The practice provided a third kind of afterlife. Made People followed the north road to the blessed sipapu and traveled to the underworlds to live with their ancestors, while the First People became thlatsinas, but elders of the Made People who could afford to be buried in Talon Town continued to live in this world. Their souls walked about, mingling with other ghosts, speaking to all of the gods who regularly visited here.

Ironwood shook his head. He could imagine no more dismal an afterlife. What would a man talk to a god about? He would run out of topics in a matter of days and be stuck in the company of divine beings for eternity. A horrifying thought.

What had rich Made People with such aspirations done before Talon Town became sacred ground?

Legends said that many cycles ago the fourteen towns in the canyon had been occupied only seasonally. People came and went for ceremonials, but they didn’t stay—alive or dead—except perhaps by accident. Only in the past few generations had a constant small population of chiefs, priests, clan elders, and slaves lived here, caring for the ghosts, maintaining the sacred shrines and producing the magnificent turquoise figurines used for trade with outlying villages.

Because the First People had emerged from the underworlds, they possessed secret knowledge of those worlds that the Made People did not. Stories had been passed down from generation to generation, describing the trip through the underworlds, the traps laid by wicked monsters, the landmarks which guided traveling souls on the right path. For a price, the First People shared their stories, and might even provide the seeker with a turquoise wolf Spirit Helper to guide him on the journey.

The First People at Talon Town traded their knowledge for almost everything. Their beautiful black-on-white pottery came from the Green Mesa villages in the north, their hides and meat from plains hunters, their turquoise from Fourth Night House to the east. They grew some of their own crops through extensive water control projects—canals, reservoirs, dams, and the careful maintenance of farming terraces—but most food came to Talon Town as gifts from the faithful villages of Made People.

Each Made People clan had a specific role. Ironwood’s clan, the Bear Clan, provided warriors to manage the labor force, guard food reserves, and conduct offensive and defensive warfare when necessary. Buffalo Clan controlled agricultural activities. They were responsible for planting, harvesting, designing irrigation projects, and preparing food for storage. Ant Clan did all of the building. They cut trees, quarried stone, built the irrigation projects designed by Buffalo Clan, and constructed the multistoried towns. The majestic stonework of Ant Clan masons was esteemed even by the Fire Dogs. Coyote Clan provided hunters and Traders.

Almost unconsciously Ironwood’s hand lifted to the turquoise wolf pendant that Night Sun had given him. The first time they’d consummated their love, she’d told him how to get to the underworlds. They’d been lying on a hilltop under a blanket, staring up at a wealth of spring stars …

Ironwood rubbed his eyes and stared out at the night. Sound carried to this highest row of rooms. He could hear Singing from the kivas, the voices weaving a soft background for the night. In the distance, dogs barked, and a child shrilled angrily.

Many lesser clans of Made People existed: the Red Bird, the Buffalobeard, the Canyon Wren. But each allied itself with one of the four great clans, and so was considered part of it. Clans came and went, depending upon the strength of their hands, the productivity of their lands, and the faith in their hearts. Ironwood had witnessed the death of six clans: The Blue Bead had been hunted down and slaughtered by the Hohokam; the Mogollon had wiped out the Butterfly Shield Clan; Two Stone Clan had been destroyed by Ironwood’s warriors—their village burned, their bodies crushed with stones—when it was discovered they were witches.

And then there was the Hollow Hoof Clan, which had lost its sacred bundle to strange tattooed warriors who had come out of nowhere, stolen their Tortoise Bundle, and kidnapped a little girl … what had her name been? Yarrow and Red Cane’s daughter. Three or four summers old. Nightshade? He couldn’t recall for certain, though he had been in the plaza watching the sacred Dances that night. When the attack came, he’d dashed inside for his weapons and missed all but the last moments of the battle. He’d shot two arrows at the backs of fleeing men.

Over the years, Talon Town had lost many children to raiders. They stole them for slaves, then beat them half to death. Sometimes, an enemy warrior took children to make them part of his family. Perhaps his wife had not been able to give him a daughter, or his son had died from a childhood illness.

The Straight Path nation did the same.

Slaves moved about in the dark plaza below. Ironwood’s eyes followed them as they built fires, carried water and food, and prepared for the feast to be held later in the day. He could hear them talking in their strange Fire Dog tongue. Two women delivered wood to the Buffalo Clan’s kiva, carefully placing their armloads near the ladders that thrust up from the roofs.

From Ironwood’s fifth-story perspective, the kivas resembled huge rings on the white plaza. Inside, the Buffalo Dancers Sang, their voices rising like smoke into the frosty darkness.

He leaned out the doorway to check the stars.

Spider Woman had one spindly leg extended over the eastern horizon. When she had climbed fully into the sky, the Dancers would emerge from the kivas, to try once more to save the Blessed Sun’s life.

Behind him, Night Sun sighed. He turned. After a long yawn, she shoved back her blanket and got to her feet. Her bright blue dress clung to her slender body. She smoothed her mussed hair away from her face. When she twisted it into a bun on top of her head, as she did now, and secured it with turquoise-inlaid bone pins, she looked breathtaking.

Sternlight wakened at her movements, and called, “Night Sun?”

Without answering, she lit one of the torches from the glowing coals in the warming bowl. Made from shredded juniper bound together with cotton cord, the torch end gleamed with smoking red eyes. She blew them to life, creating a gold bubble of light in the room. Then she stepped over to her husband.

The Blessed Sun lay in the middle of the floor, covered with deerhides. The blood seemed to have drained from his wrinkled face, leaving it curiously pale in the wavering light. His eyes rested in bruised wells of flesh.

Sternlight rose. The copper bells on his white sleeves tinkled when he put a hand on Night Sun’s arm. “Why don’t you try to eat one of the blue corncakes the slaves brought? You’ve taken nothing in two days.”

Night Sun knelt at the Chief’s side, her blue dress spreading around her. Torchlight made the gray in her dark hair shimmer.

Ironwood glanced away and concentrated on the chamber. He couldn’t stand to think about her, about the freedom Crow Beard’s death would give her. Dared not.

Prayer feathers hung from the roof, and he watched them twist and flutter in the breeze. Every day clan leaders brought more. After Crow Beard’s death, each Made People clan would assign a representative to escort the Chief’s corpse down the south road to the sacred Humpback Butte, where his soul would climb into the skyworlds and become one of the thlatsinas. There, in the sky, he would bring rain and happiness to the people.

Ironwood’s mouth hardened. How strange that after death the Chief would bring happiness, when he had brought nothing but misery during his life.

For three days, memories had haunted Ironwood … voices of children begging him not to kill their parents … men and women screaming as they ran from burning villages. He had served Crow Beard for eighteen summers, faithfully and efficiently carrying out each insane order.

Because of that loyalty, hollow eyes crowded Ironwood’s soul, staring at him, cursing him—sparing Crow Beard the anguish.

“Night Sun?” Sternlight tried again. “May I bring you something? A cup of hot tea, perhaps?”

“No,” she murmured.

The frail sound of her voice struck Ironwood like a physical blow. He walked outside, hoping to lessen the pain.

The interplay of light mesmerized him. A yellow blur of reflected firelight tinted the smoke that hung over Talon Town. While starlight illuminated the barren fields in the canyon bottom, the snow that frosted the rimrock outlined every ledge.

Night chilled his skin as he raised his eyes to the sky.

Spider Woman had almost cleared the horizon.

“Sternlight,” he called. “It is almost time.”

“Is she up?”

“Soon.”

“I’m coming.”

The Sunwatcher picked up his conch shell horn. Conch shells came from the faraway ocean, a place Ironwood could barely imagine. Traders said the water went on forever. Ironwood had spent his entire life in the desert. Could such a place truly exist?

Sternlight swept by Ironwood. Just outside the doorway, the ladder to the roof leaned against the wall. He climbed it and stood on the highest point in Talon Town. The priest’s weight made the roof creak. A dark shadow against the starry sky, Sternlight lifted the shell to his lips. A shrill high-pitched blast split the darkness. Then another. Four in all.

At the call, people emerged from their chambers. Some filtered into the plaza. Others perched on rooftops. The elderly gathered to his left, along the eastern wall, sitting with blankets over their white heads for warmth. To his right, along the western wall, children huddled in their parents’ laps, eyes wide.

Sternlight descended the ladder. He stood beside Ironwood, his conch shell tucked beneath his arm.

Neither said anything for a time, then Sternlight whispered, “Have the runners returned from Lanceleaf Village yet?”

“Soon. I expected them today. Perhaps tomorrow.”

“You posted warriors at the signal towers, so we would know in advance—”

“Of course, Sternlight.” He exhaled wearily. “But with the snow, Blue Corn may not have seen the fires. He…”

Ironwood’s voice faded as, one by one, the Buffalo Dancers climbed from the kiva’s subterranean warmth and ghosted out into the cold plaza. They moved in the loose-limbed gait of dominant bulls, tossing their shaggy heads. Wisps of eagle down fluttered from the tips of their horns.

A buffalo’s skull was hollowed out to fit over the Dancer’s head, leaving the long bushy beard to warm his naked chest. Below that, the men wore kirtles and moccasins. As they trotted in front of the fires, their shadows bounced over the white walls like dark giants, and their feet kicked up puffs of snow.

When they reached the center of the plaza, the Dancers split into four groups and marched to the places marking the cardinal directions. They stood in silence, shaking their horns, their bodies swaying gently as if blown by the wind. The great Power of the buffalo banished illness and brought snowstorms to the mountains. In the spring, the snow melted, flooded the ephemeral creeks, and Brother Desert opened his eternal eyes. Buffalo gave life to the world, as they had since the emergence into this Fifth World.

“Sternlight!” Night Sun shouted.

Ironwood spun and saw Crow Beard lift a hand, as though to summon one of them.

Sternlight did not turn. Ironwood said, “He’s awake.”

Sternlight bowed his head. “I know.”

The Buffalo Dancers began the sacred Songs, cleansing, pleading with the Spirits for help. As though he had just enough strength to do it, Sternlight tugged his gaze away and plodded inside to kneel beside the Chief.

Night Sun smoothed a hand down Crow Beard’s wrinkled jaw. “Hello, my husband,” she said softly. “Are you—”

“Go … away,” the Blessed Sun ordered, and feebly glared at his wife. “Sternlight? I wish … only Sternlight.”

“I am here, my chief.”

Crow Beard’s head lolled sideways. He squinted as if having trouble discerning the Sunwatcher’s features in the pale glow. “Find Dune … bring him.” He coughed weakly. “He must be … here … before I die.”

“Yes, my chief. I will see to it.” Sternlight drew one of the deerhides up to Crow Beard’s chin. “Night Sun is here, too.”

“No,” Crow Beard hissed, and closed his eyes.

Night Sun’s jaw trembled. She reached out and gently placed her fingertips on her husband’s hair. “Crow Beard, I have been waiting for—”

“Go away!”

She sat so still she might have been carved from wood. Ironwood’s fists clenched. He longed to say something to comfort her, but speaking would make matters worse.

Sternlight reached across the dying Chief, lightly touched Night Sun’s cheek, and rose. He walked to Ironwood. When he passed the bowl of warming coals, his white ritual shirt took on a bloody hue. “Do you know where old Dune the Derelict lives?”

“Yes.”

“Dispatch a runner immediately, and tell him…” Sternlight gestured awkwardly. “Warn him that Dune is odd. The old hermit may refuse to come.”

“Even if Dune knows the Chief is dying?”

“Oh, yes. Dune will know instantly why he has been summoned. Make sure the runner tells Dune this is not a request; it is a command from the Blessed Sun.”

“If you foresee such problems, perhaps I should go myself?” I would do almost anything to be away from this chamber. “Dune knows me. My presence might make the chore easier.”

Sternlight glanced at Night Sun. She fussed with the Chief’s blankets and hides, making certain every portion of Crow Beard’s body stayed warm. “While Crow Beard no longer needs you, I fear that Night Sun might.”

They exchanged a knowing glance, and Ironwood lowered his eyes. “She doesn’t need me, Sunwatcher. She is a remarkably strong woman.”

Ironwood turned to go, but Sternlight gripped his shoulder, stopping him, his expression serious. “My words were not an accusation. I meant them sincerely.”

“I know that.”

Sternlight murmured, “I will prepare a mixture of ground turquoise and blue corn for you to take to Dune. But if he shows any reluctance to come back with you, Ironwood, don’t give it to him.”

“You mean that you wish me to deceive one of the most Powerful shamans in our people’s history?”

Sternlight’s dark eyes seemed to expand. “Exactly. And hurry. I will expect you in two or three days.”

“Three. Dune is old and frail. He will need the time. Keep a lookout for my runners.”

“Of course.”

Ironwood ducked through the doorway and strode out into the cold. He glimpsed Sternlight leaving after him, heading in the opposite direction, probably to prepare the turquoise and blue corn.

Ironwood climbed down four ladders, set foot on the snowy plaza, and veered wide around the shuffling Dancers. He made his way through the spectators. His own chamber lay to his left, on the southeastern end of the U-shaped structure.

Adults dipped their heads respectfully as he passed, and a few children reached out to touch the hem of his long shirt. Just a touch, nothing disturbing. When they brought their hands back, they stared at their fingers, young eyes worshipful. Two women smiled. Ironwood nodded politely in return, but the effort made his heart pound.

Silently, he cursed himself. How could memories sixteen summers old still be so vivid?

Night Sun had asked him once “to forget.” As if it were as simple as walling up …

A man’s hoarse scream split the darkness.

Ironwood whirled and pulled his bone dagger from his belt in one smooth movement.

Stunned silence fell over Talon Town, then chaos erupted. People ran in every direction, shouting orders, hurrying children inside. Infants wailed shrilly. Several old people stood up to get a better look at the commotion.

Five warriors dashed through the gate that connected the halves of the plaza.

“What’s happened?” Ironwood demanded.

“Come quickly!” the lanky, square-jawed man in front replied. In the ruddy glow of the plaza fires, Webworm looked as though he’d just witnessed the rebirth of the Monster Children. “Creeper found a dead man.”

Ironwood sprinted past his warriors.

People flooded toward the gate and the western plaza entry, shoving and shouting at each other. Frightened gasps carried on the wind. Ironwood had to force his way through, yelling, “Move. Move!”

When he made it through the gate, he turned left and raced for the entry. He found Creeper, leader of the Buffalo Clan, kneeling over a body, dressed in his magnificent ritual costume. His headdress lay on the ground beside him, the long buffalo beard shining in the amber gleam cast by the town. The body lay sprawled between the two mounds. The fourteen-summers-old slave boy, Swallowtail, crouched behind Creeper, a horrified expression on his face.

“Who is it?” Ironwood asked. “Is it—”

“It’s Wraps-His-Tail,” Creeper answered, and used the back of his hand to wipe sweat from his eyes. Short and fat, Creeper resembled a bear. Thick black hair covered his bare chest and arms. His white kirtle and moccasins shone eerily in the dim glow. “I sent Swallowtail out to fetch more wood for the fire. Swallowtail almost tripped over him, and came running to tell me. When I saw the blood, I yelled for Webworm.”

Ironwood’s closest friend lay curled on his side, his face turned northward toward the road that led to the sacred sipapu. The Evening People’s radiance glinted in his blood-speckled eyes.

A hollow ache spread through Ironwood’s gut. My friend, gone.…

Brains showed through the crack in Wraps-His-Tail’s skull. Clearly, he’d been taken by surprise. His bow and his quiver of arrows were missing, but the slip knot securing his hafted stone knife to his belt remained intact. An eerie smile had frozen on his face—as if he’d seen his attacker and thought him a friend.

Who would kill him? And why? What purpose would his death serve? People killed out of hatred, fear, self-preservation—but behind all of those lay desperation. What could have driven a man to be desperate enough to kill Wraps-His-Tail?

The murderer knew what news he carried.

But what part? The child? No. Not even Wraps-His-Tail knew the truth about that. He had instructed Wraps-His-Tail to ask if Beargrass would return to be his deputy if open warfare broke out. Did the murderer fear what Ironwood would do when he heard Beargrass’ answer?

He raised his eyes to Webworm. The man’s square jaw tightened in response. I would have demoted you and put Beargrass in your place.

But Webworm and Beargrass had been great friends. Webworm simply didn’t have it in him to murder a friend over a question of status. Did he?

Ironwood returned his gaze to Wraps-His-Tail.

“What’s that in his hand?” Ironwood pointed.

“What?” Creeper asked. “His hand?”

Creeper reached out and tenderly uncurled Wraps-His-Tail’s cold fingers to pick up the object. A moment after he did, he let out a small cry and threw it on the ground. Furiously, he scrubbed his hand in the dirt.

The crowd surged forward, murmuring and craning their necks to see better.

“Blessed gods,” Creeper whispered. “It’s a badger’s paw. But … what’s it sprinkled with?”

“Corpse powder,” Ironwood answered, and shivered involuntarily. Powdered corpse flesh had a distinctive silver sheen that clung to the skin. In the light cast by the town, it glowed with a bizarre brilliance.

Harshly, Ironwood ordered, “Webworm, find Sternlight!”

*   *   *

Night Sun lay wrapped in two blankets at Crow Beard’s side. Through the pinned-back doorflap, she could see Ironwood and Sternlight standing outside the chamber, their tall bodies dark against a canvas of glittering stars. Ironwood had his arms folded across his broad chest. Sternlight stood against the wall. She only caught a few of their words, but Sternlight spoke calmly, patiently, while Ironwood’s deep voice had a bite to it.

“… why Wraps-His-Tail?” Ironwood asked. “… murder has reasons … who could possibly have known…”

Sternlight replied softly, and Night Sun did not hear his answer.

Her thoughts drifted. Thinking about Ironwood. About the first time they’d been alone together.

Blessed Spirits, what a long time ago … it seemed another life.

It had happened late in the Moon of Greening Grass.

Night Sun had spent all day supervising a difficult slave birth and had felt weary beyond exhaustion. As she’d crossed Talon Town’s moonlit plaza, desperate for sleep, she’d looked up and seen Crow Beard standing in the doorway to their chamber, silhouetted blackly against the golden glow of torchlight. He had his fists clenched at his sides and his legs spread as if bracing for a fight.

He’d been acting strangely for moons, growing more and more frightening with his sudden emotional outbursts, punishing the children for no reason at all—especially their two-summers-old daughter, Cloud Playing, which enraged Night Sun. And worried her.

Night Sun had climbed the ladders to the fifth story, and when she stepped off onto the roof, called, “Crow Beard? Is something wrong?”

Night Sun hurried forward, her Healing pack in her hands. As she neared the door, Crow Beard turned and walked inside. Night Sun followed, dropping her pack by the door, untying her turkey-feather cape and hanging it on a wall peg.

“What’s wrong this time?” she demanded.

Crow Beard slowly crossed the chamber and stood over their bed, staring at the rumpled red-and-black blankets. He wore a thin sleeping shirt. “You were out with one of my warriors, weren’t you?” he said in a tight voice. “While I slept, you—”

“What?” Night Sun blurted. “I was down helping with the birth of Running Doe’s daughter! You knew that. I told you!”

“You told me,” he mocked. “Yes, you did. But I know better. You were with one of my warriors!”

She stalked across the room, eyes blazing. “Crow Beard, what is wrong with you? You’ve been acting like a madman for moons! Accusing me of betraying you, slapping your daughter for no reason—”

“When I ought to have slapped you!” he shouted, and shook both fists in her face.

Night Sun took a step back. He wouldn’t dare. As Matron of Talon Town, she could divorce him and leave him with nothing. “You have no right, my husband, to disgrace me by making such charges. You are the only man I’ve ever been with. The only man I ever wish to—”

“Don’t lie to me!” Crow Beard grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her until she thought her neck might snap.

“Stop! Crow Beard, stop! Stop it!” she yelled. When he didn’t, Night Sun drew back and slapped him with all the strength she could muster.

He gasped, startled, and gazed down at her—eyes wild with struggle and despair. “I’ll kill you before I’ll let someone else have you! Do you understand me? I’ll kill you!”

Frightened, exasperated, Night Sun had run from the chamber, hurrying down the ladders, then across the western plaza and out into the moonlit desert. She followed the curve of the towering canyon wall eastward toward Kettle Town. Sister Moon hung directly overhead, wavering through wispy clouds like an oblate silver shell. Her gleam tarnished the massive cliffs, glittered off the corn plants lifting their first leaves, and lit Night Sun’s way as she strode down the road.

Despite the time, dozens of fires sprinkled the canyon bottom, twinkling and flashing as the wind blew.

Night Sun hugged herself. She should have grabbed her cape. The spring chill ate at her flesh.

This nonsense had begun last summer. Crow Beard had suddenly started following her, showing up unexpectedly at Healings, or birthings, staying just long enough to assure himself she was indeed where she’d told him she would be. When she returned to their chamber later, he’d be lying with his back to her, and no matter how she tried to soothe him, he refused to discuss it.

And she’d noticed other things. His hair had started to thin. Every time she cleaned his juniper-bark hairbrush, black strands came out in handfuls. Worse, he’d told her he could no longer “be” with her beneath the blankets. Night Sun assumed he must be going through the Calming that men experienced at his age; he might wobble for a time, but would soon find his footing again, and everything would be all right. If she just pampered and petted him, all would be well.

But he seemed to be getting worse.

She’d seen him trifling with the slave girls, touching them intimately … and said nothing.

Night Sun broke into a run, her yucca sandals padding down the moonlit trail as breath tore in and out of her lungs. Windblown gravel grated beneath her feet. “Blessed sky gods,” she called in a choking voice, “tell me how to make it better! There must be a way to fix this!”

She thought she heard faint footfalls behind her, but saw only wind in the new corn. A coyote howled on the canyon rim high above her, and she looked up. Twinkling Evening People peered down at her.

Night Sun ran faster, trying to drive the misery from her soul. When she reached Kettle Town, the colonnade—like huge teeth—seemed to be leering at her. She veered right, taking the trail that led down to Straight Path Wash. Rain had fallen two days ago, and a silver ribbon of water flowed in the bottom of the ravine.

She ran headlong for it. Nothing she did pleased Crow Beard. There had actually been a time last moon when Crow Beard had looked at her with hatred in his eyes. Since that moment, her loneliness had been growing, eating holes in her soul.

A stone thrust up in the middle of the road, but Night Sun didn’t see it until too late. She tripped and toppled into the fresh green grass that lined the way.

“Ah!” she grunted as pain lanced her ankle.

Moccasins sounded on the path, and she saw a tall man running toward her. “Blessed Night Sun,” he said in a deep voice, “did you harm yourself?”

He knelt in front of her, his eyes looking over her face and body, in concern. It was the new War Chief, Ironwood. She had barely noticed him at the ritual installation a summer ago, but she knew his reputation. He’d led a strange life. He’d married at the age of fourteen summers, but his wife and son had both died in childbirth less than a sun cycle after the ceremony. In his grief, he’d vowed never to touch a woman again. And he’d kept that vow, dedicating himself to the arts of war. He’d become a legendary warrior. People in small villages whispered that Ironwood was really one of the Great Warriors in disguise, come to save the Straight Path people from destruction.

Night Sun smiled. God or not, he was a handsome man. He wore his long hair in a braid, and the style accented the oval shape of his face, the high arch of cheekbones, and the strong line of his jaw.

“It’s my ankle.” She leaned forward to touch it, and groaned. “I twisted it badly, I’m afraid.”

“I’ll carry you home—” He reached for her.

“No, just … please … I wish to sit here for a time. You may return to your duties. I’ll be along as soon as I’m able.”

“But”—his brows slanted down—“Blessed Night Sun, it is not safe for someone of your status to be out alone at night. The Mogollon dogs are raiding. They might be anywhere.”

“Yes, well,” she said in exasperation, “if they kill me tonight, at least I won’t have to go home.”

Ironwood peered at her a moment, then looked away. “May I escort you to another town? A—a more pleasant place?”

He must have overheard her argument with Crow Beard. But then, who hadn’t? As War Chief, Ironwood would have been standing guard on the roof near the entry. Not only must he have heard the argument, he’d doubtless seen her run away … and followed, staying far enough away to grant her privacy, and close enough to help if she unwittingly found danger.

She rubbed her ankle. “No, thank you.”

He sat down in the grass beside her. Apparently, try as she might, he wasn’t going to leave.

Ironwood stared off into the distance, examining the flickering fires and the uneven line of the dark cliffs, gazing anywhere but at her. She saw him wet his lips nervously. He looked a little frightened.

“Scared?” she asked.

“Hmm?” He turned to frown at her.

“I’d be scared if I were you.”

“Would you?”

“Why, yes. You’re in a bad position out here. My husband accuses me of dallying with one of his warriors, and then you wind up in the middle of nowhere with me—alone.”

“But I can’t just leave you out here, Blessed Night Sun. Much better that I stay to protect you than run the risk of having you killed by our enemies.”

“That would reflect badly on you, wouldn’t it?”

A wry eyebrow lifted. “I believe there are some who might hold it against me.”

“But if my husband finds out—”

“People will be Singing about my courage long after I’m dead.”

Night Sun blinked, then she laughed. Ironwood grinned in response, his white teeth shining in the darkness. How good it felt to laugh. She hadn’t really laughed in a long time, not since before this insanity with Crow Beard began. She felt deeply grateful to this young man for a few instants of relief.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Your servant, Matron.”

Night Sun’s smile dwindled. She expelled a worried breath. Though she wished to stay, she knew she’d better not. For his sake.

“Well, if you will help me up, I’ll try to walk home.” She struggled to get her feet under her.

Ironwood rose, slipped his hands beneath her arms, and pulled her to her feet. Her injured ankle gave way the moment she put weight on it, and she fell against him with a small cry. He clutched her tightly, holding her up.

Perhaps it was the comforting strength of his arms, or just the feel of another human body against hers, but all of the weariness from the long birthing, mixed with the worry about Crow Beard, flooded to the surface, and she started to cry. She buried her face against his shoulder to hide her embarrassment.

He said nothing, just stroked her back until her weeping subsided. Then he stepped away and laid a gentle hand against her hair, anxiously studying her face. “Are you all right?”

“Of course not,” she said sharply. “I can’t walk!”

“Here,” he said, and turned sideways. “I think if you’ll slip your left arm over my shoulders, I can get you home without too much trouble.”

Night Sun did. He gripped her left hand with his and slowly started forward. On the way, they’d laughed …

“No, Ironwood,” Sternlight whispered harshly, the sound of his voice cleaving her from those sweet memories. “Don’t you … witches fly about spying on people! Perhaps … saw something…”

Night Sun drew her warm blankets up around her throat and shivered, struggling to return to seventeen summers before, concentrating on the feel of Ironwood’s body against hers.

Sleep lurked just beyond the edges of her awareness. She let it creep into her thoughts, twining itself around her soul, drowning out the external voices.

Across a gulf of time, Ironwood smiled at her. Happy. Laughing …