Twenty-Three

Cornsilk trotted south on the hard-packed dirt road, her heart racing, breath tearing in and out of her lungs. Webworm and his bloody warriors had run down this very road, bearing their grisly trophy. Her feet touched the same soil theirs had. Her eyes gazed at the same wind-sculpted buttes and ridges, the same endless expanse of stumps that poked up from the waving amber grass. Ax marks were still visible on the desiccated wood.

Over and over, she kept reliving the last moments of her father’s and Fledgling’s lives, seeing their faces. The firelit darkness, the stench of pine pitch and smoldering bedding, Little Snail’s wrenching cries, all had been carved into her heart.

“Why didn’t I stay to search for my mother’s body? To bury father and Fledgling?”

Tears blurred her eyes. She kept hearing her mother’s voice: “If you are ever in trouble, and need help…”

She ran harder.

The road took her to the top of a scrubby saltbush-covered hill. Ahead, Wind Baby and Thunderbird’s gigantic claws had ripped the surface of the land. Bands of red-and-white sandstone twisted through the basin like ribbons of finely dyed cloth. Groves of junipers and pines outlined the drainages with green.

She had been running, sleeping, running for a night and a day. Her lungs burned from gasping for breath, and fear ate at her empty belly. Exhaustion weighted her shoulders like a pack of stones. She had to get to Talon Town.

Cornsilk forced herself to think. She had been too dazed to do anything but flee, but as her wits slowly returned, she realized she couldn’t just walk up and present herself and the blanket to Sternlight. First, she had to figure out what had happened.

Sternlight may have been my mother’s friend over fifteen summers ago, but he may be my enemy today.

Someone had ordered those warriors to kill Fledgling. Probably the new Chief, but Sternlight was Talon Town’s greatest priest—he must have known! And done nothing to stop it.

On the night of Lanceleaf’s destruction, the warrior, Webworm, had said many frightening things. He had come hunting a boy—the Blessed Night Sun’s boy—and he’d called Night Sun a “whore.” He’d demanded to know the name of Fledgling’s real father and seemed convinced it was Sternlight. The only thing Cornsilk knew for certain was that Webworm had replaced Ironwood as War Chief of Talon Town, and no one—not even Chief Snake Head—knew the true identity of the hidden child’s father.

All of the arguments her parents had had, all the whispers late at night, made sense now. Night Sun had birthed a child in secret and given it away. She must have paid Cornsilk’s parents to raise Fledgling … or Cornsilk. She was so confused, she couldn’t think straight. Who did she believe? Her mother? Or the War Chief of Talon Town?

Her father had said, “I believe it is our duty to stay with Fledgling at all times.” Because they were being paid to protect him? Or because he was truly their only child?

Who had revealed the location of the hidden child? And why?

Someone must have divulged the secret when Crow Beard died, perhaps thinking it safe to, or perhaps out of malice, but why had Snake Head, the new Chief, wanted Fledgling dead? By lineage, Fledgling posed no threat to Snake Head—at least not so far as the rulership of the Straight Path nation went.

“Oh, Fledgling.” She pounded down the hill to drive the ache away, forcing one foot in front of the other, lungs aching, legs trembling. “Father? Mother? Was I really your daughter? Or did you just raise me?”

In the distance Turquoise Maiden Mountain glistened as the midday sun struck its snow-shrouded peak. Drainages cut the slopes and crept out across the arid flatlands like tree roots searching for water.

Ironwood might be Fledgling’s real father, as Cornsilk’s mother had suspected. But it meant nothing now. Ironwood had no obligation to offer Cornsilk aid just because she had been raised with his son.

I’m alone. I can’t depend on anyone except myself.

Except, perhaps, the great priest, Sternlight. The tone in her mother’s voice, the worry on her face, everything she had done and said that last day had convinced Cornsilk that Sternlight had given the magnificent turquoise-studded blanket to her mother.

Perhaps he had been the one sending the payments, not Night Sun? Had the blanket been another moon’s worth of care for his son? As Webworm suspected?

I can’t know for sure. It’s impossible.

Despite her mother’s confidence in Sternlight, Cornsilk would trust no one. Not after what had happened to Lanceleaf Village.

The road came to an abrupt end on the lip of a cliff. Cornsilk slowed, panting for breath.

From the cliff’s vantage, she could see a vast expanse of folded ridges speckled by juniper and piñon, and sage-mottled flats. Green lines of trees marked the drainages. Here and there sharp pillars of stone thrust up, like dozens of cactus needles straining to poke holes through a rumpled red, yellow, and white blanket.

Cornsilk walked carefully to the cliff’s edge and peered over. Stairs had been cut into the stone. Two hundred hands below, a young man stood stark naked in the brilliant sunlight. Tall and skinny, he had waist-length black hair that fluttered as he spun and flapped his arms. He seemed to be Singing, but it sounded more like a zizzing hum.

Was he dangerous? Cornsilk scanned the canyon for signs of a village, people, or even a campsite, but saw nothing. What could he be doing out here?

The young man laughed, threw back his head, and flapped his arms quickly.

Bone-weary, Cornsilk pulled her bow from her back and got down on her belly to watch him. Wind Baby breathed softly across the rim, cooling the sweat on her face. The scent of dust curled up around her. He looked harmless enough. Cornsilk guessed his age at about her own: fifteen or sixteen summers.

The youth started spinning around, stumbling through the sage as if he’d drunk a potful of juniper berry wine. He laughed. The sound echoed off the canyon walls. He didn’t really look dangerous, though he might be slightly deranged.

Hunger gnawed at her belly. She’d eaten everything out of her pack and hadn’t stopped long enough to hunt or collect more food. Even as she watched, her stomach gurgled and growled its displeasure. He might share a meal with her—but not if she greeted him with a nocked bow.

With the caution of a hunting cat, she stood, slipped her bow over her shoulder, and climbed over the edge, using the stairs like a ladder.

The youth didn’t seem to notice. He just stumbled through the sage, grinning.

She stepped silently to the ground and saw the little white house with the cracked plaster nestled in the tall sage. His home? He lived way out here alone? With all the raiding going on, he must be deranged.

She stepped closer. Blessed Spirits! He was nothing but skin and bone. And his skin! It glowed an angry red. The sunburn covered his entire body, including his penis and testicles. Blisters bubbled over his shoulders and the hooked arch of his nose. Had he stood naked in the sun for days?

Crossing her arms, she asked, “Are you a hummingbird, or a bumblebee?”

His body came to a sudden stop, but his eyes kept spinning, and he crashed face down in a tangle of sagebrush. “Who are you!” He rolled over and struggled to prop himself up. His head wobbled. “Are you … don’t I know you?”

“Lie flat until your balance returns.”

“I—I think I’m going to throw up,” he said, and shifted a round object from one cheek to the other.

Cornsilk crouched a body-length from him and studied his roasted body, his long black hair. “What were you doing? Spinning around like that and flapping your arms?”

His eyes roved about as if trying to fix on something. “I was learning to be a moth. You know how they’re always whirling and fluttering, especially near fires.” He paused to take a breath, and added, “I tried being a beetle and a cockroach, but they eat some really foul things. Did you know that?”

Cornsilk lifted a brow. “Why are you learning to be insects? Are you being taught by a shaman?”

He propped himself up on his elbows and his mouth quirked. “Look around. Do you see a shaman here?”

“I already looked. No.”

“That’s because he abandoned me.” Gingerly, he sat up and took a deep breath, apparently feeling better. He shifted the round object back to the other cheek; it clacked on his teeth as it passed. “But before he went he told me to practice being a bug.”

“As punishment?”

He blinked. A curious expression came to his narrow face. “How strange that I never thought of that.”

Cornsilk gestured to his blistered shoulders. “You had better get a salve on that burn soon, or you’ll scar.”

“What?” he said, looking down at his skinny body. “What burn?”

Cornsilk stood up. “Maybe that spinning addled more than your sense of balance.”

He grimaced, got to his feet, and staggered into her. Cornsilk grabbed his arms to steady him, but his feet kept weaving, as if dancing without his brain’s consent. He stumbled into a thorny thicket of brush and almost toppled over backwards. Cornsilk gasped and tugged him firmly toward her. He braced his feet and blinked, as if not certain why she’d done that.

“Are you all right?” she asked, aware of the fevered heat rising from his sunburned flesh.

“Oh, it’s just that I haven’t eaten in many days, and my eyes go black when I stand up too soon.”

“Haven’t eaten? Then what’s that in your mouth?”

“A pebble.”

“You have a rock in your mouth?”

“Umm.” He smiled and nodded happily.

She let go of his arms and studied him. “How many days have you been fasting?”

“I really can’t say. I’ve lost track. Perhaps seven or eight?”

Cornsilk’s expression slackened as her eyes took in his emaciated carcass. “Blessed Ancestors. You’ve been drinking water, though, haven’t you?”

“Oh, yes. I figured I’d die if I didn’t.”

“Well,” she said pointedly, “once you start to feel that burn, you might wish you had.”

He held his arms out and examined himself, curiously frowning at the blisters on his chest, thighs, and arms. “You really think it’s that bad? I don’t feel anything. Except my skin feels tight, as if it’s stretched out on a drying frame.”

“You should see your back.”

“Bad?”

“Raw meat.”

Cornsilk glanced at the dilapidated little house. Big flakes of white plaster scattered the jungle of sagebrush that engulfed three walls. Only the front side had been cleared to allow entry and exit. There was a dangerous dip on the left side of the roof. The ceiling poles had rotted out until it looked as if it might collapse in upon itself at any moment.

She narrowed an eye. “If you’ll share a meal with me, I’ll tend those burns for you.”

He gave her a startled look. “I’ve forgotten my manners! I should have invited you for supper. Please, come. It’s not my food anyway, so it really doesn’t matter.”

“Uh … fine.”

She gestured him ahead and followed him up the narrow trail. Prickly pear cactuses clotted the way, their thorns as long as her fingers. A wren had made a nest in one of the larger trunks of giant sagebrush. Dried grass and old feathers protruded from the hole.

Cornsilk leapt backward as the young man lost his balance and stumbled.

“Let me help you,” she said.

“Oh, I’ll be all right. Really, you don’t have to—”

Cornsilk took his arm and led him to the door. The leather curtain had been mouse-gnawed. Where the plaster had cracked off, the red sandstone masonry showed. “Is this your house?”

“No.”

“Well, if this isn’t your house, or your food, who do they belong to?”

“My teacher, Dune the Derelict. He’s a great Singer. A very holy … What’s the matter?”

Cornsilk gasped and swung him around. He almost fell over the top of her. She put her hands in the middle of his chest to prop him up so she could stare into his soft brown eyes. “Great gods! This is where old Dune lives? He’s your teacher?”

“He was. For a few days.”

Fear prickled her spine. Dune had a reputation for doing unpredictable things, like changing people he didn’t like into packrat urine or a sticky fly’s foot. She gave the young man a suspicious look.

“How does your soul feel?

“Hmm?” he said, peering at her with the surprised curiosity of a roadrunner. His waist-length black hair billowed in a puff of wind, fluttering over Cornsilk’s shoulders. “My soul?”

“Yes, does it still feel human? Maybe Dune gave you a moth’s soul before he left, and that’s why you’ve had the uncontrollable urge to be an insect.”

The youth thought about that. “He does have an odd sense of humor, and I must admit I have been feeling very floaty and fluttery—”

“Like your soul has wings!” Cornsilk leaped back, and he crumpled. His knees struck the ground, then he sprawled face-first across the trail. When he struggled to get his knees under him, his bright red buttocks thrust up. That effort proved too difficult, so he gave up, rolled to his back, and squinted at Cornsilk.

After a few moments, he filled his lungs with air, and through a long exhalation said, “No, more like a cloud in a windstorm.”

Cornsilk leaned over to peer down at him. “Oh, well.” She shrugged. “Then maybe you’re still human after all.”

He sighed and extended his hand. “Could you help me up? I don’t think I can make it by myself.”

Cornsilk gripped his arm and hauled him to his feet. Weaving, he headed for the door, held back the curtain, and waited for her. Inside, she saw a firepit in the middle of the floor and a rolled-up gray blanket to the right of it. A stack of baskets sat in the rear. Nothing looked sinister … and she longed to rest and eat. Her legs had begun to tremble again.

“Thank you,” she said, and ducked under the curtain into the house.

He draped the curtain over a peg in the wall, leaving it open, and followed her. “With evening coming, we’ll need the light to get the fire going.”

She stood awkwardly while he scraped the long-dead coals to the side of the pit, arranged a nest of dead juniper bark, and pulled kindling from the woodpile to lay atop the bark. Her eyes took in the new surroundings.

Soot splotched the white walls and created a shiny black ring around the smoke hole in the roof. The dried corn, squash, beans, and prickly pear fruits hanging from the rafters bore a coating of creosote and ash. A grinding slab, water jug, and a few plainware pots sat by the door. Five tattered baskets leaned in the corner ahead and to her right. Not even a thin sleeping mat separated the gray blanket from the cold floor.

“Hallowed Ancestors,” she murmured. “It had never occurred to me that a great Singer like Dune would be poor.”

“He’s a very holy man. He gives away everything he gets.” The youth picked up his fire cobbles and began striking them together over the bark. They sparked, but nothing happened. He kept striking and mumbling, and after ten or twelve attempts, said, “This firepit hates me! I don’t know what I’ve done, but—”

“Here,” Cornsilk said, “You’re weak, let me try.”

He slid aside and handed her the chert cobbles. Cornsilk knelt, unslung her pack, and pulled out a small tuft of her remaining cotton. She tucked it into the midst of the shredded bark.

“While I start the fire, why don’t you fill the boiling pot with water and bring over the tripod.”

“I can do that,” he said as he rose. “The boiling pot doesn’t hate me.” He went to the door where the water jug sat, and she heard water gurgling and splashing as he poured it into the pot.

Cornsilk leveled the fire cobbles over the cotton and smacked them together several times. Sparks flew, and a tiny red eye caught in the charred cotton. Cornsilk blew softly. The spark reddened, smoked more, and finally crackled to life. Flames greedily licked through the shredded bark. She kept blowing until the twigs caught, then added larger pieces of wood from the woodpile.

“The firepit likes you.” He smiled as he knelt beside Cornsilk and arranged the tripod and boiling pot so that the bottom of the pot sat directly over the flames. His legs trembled as he sat back down. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize how feeble—”

“Rest,” she said. “I’ll make us supper and tea. Where are the cups and bowls?”

“Over by the door. Dune puts the small cups and medium-sized food bowls inside the larger bowls. Just lift up the top bowl and you’ll find everything you need.”

The rich fragrance of burning juniper encircled her as she rose and walked to the pots. She drew out cups, bowls, and two horn spoons, then examined the coarse pottery. It was plain and red; the potter had not even bothered to smooth away the coil marks. When a potter began a pot, she rolled out long snakes of clay, then coiled them on top of each other until she’d finished the basic shape of the pot. Next she took a piece of wood or stone and smoothed the surface to erase the coils so the pot could be decorated. This potter had not cared much about her work.

“Does Dune only keep the worst of everything?” she asked.

“Oh, yes. He distributes the rest of his belongings to the needy.”

Cornsilk tilted her head curiously. She lifted the lid off the meal pot and examined the contents. Blue cornmeal. Good. It would give a sweet richness to the dumplings she planned to make. Another contained ash from the four-wing saltbush, which would make the dough rise. She carried the pots to the fire, along with the cups and supper bowls.

The young man was watching her with an unsettling intensity, as if seeing right through her. She ground her teeth a couple of times, then asked, “Is something bothering you?”

“Are you sure I don’t know you? I would swear I’ve seen you before. What’s your name?”

Cornsilk hesitated Trust no one! “My name is … Spidersilk. But everyone calls me Silk.”

“I’m Poor Singer.”

She wrinkled her nose distastefully. “You are here studying to be a Singer—and you have a name like that? I’ll bet you’re eager for the day when old Dune gives you a new name.”

“That is my new name.”

Cornsilk cocked her head sympathetically and reached for a stick from the woodpile to prod the flames. “Maybe Dune thinks punishment is good for you.”

“But I just don’t know what I’ve done to deserve it!”

“Maybe it’s something you haven’t done.”

Poor Singer stretched his naked body out across the dirt floor and Cornsilk winced, imagining how the grit felt on his singed flesh, though he didn’t seem to notice. His long hair fell over his skinny chest and belly. He wasn’t handsome by any standard. In fact, he resembled a bird of prey. But something in his round doelike eyes touched her.

“Where are you from, Silk?”

“F-from Turtle Village.” Her voice shook, but she didn’t try to stop it. “My family … they were killed by … by raiders, Tower Builders, and I…” A sob lodged in her throat. She prodded the fire again. Sparks shot out and winked upward toward the smoke hole.

Poor Singer’s eyes tightened. “I’m sorry. I lost my father, too. But I was less than a summer old. I don’t even remember him. How long ago was the raid on your village?”

“Half a moon,” she answered, which was correct for Turtle Village.

“Blessed thlatsinas. You’ve been alone since then?”

She laid the cups, horn spoons, bowls, and pot of cornmeal out in a line in front of her. “Yes.”

“But you must have other family. In another village?”

“I—I think maybe in Talon Town.”

She stared at the flames that licked the bottom of the boiling pot and wondered what her Uncle Deer Bird and Grandfather Standing Gourd would be doing tonight. Had word of Lanceleaf’s destruction reached them? Were they even now rushing to the charred ruins in search of their family?

Before she could stop it, all of her terror and anguish flooded up and she sobbed aloud. Her chest ached. Clamping a hand over her mouth, she sat there, fighting, until she could get a deep breath into her lungs.

Poor Singer’s expression softened. “Is there something I can do to help, Silk?”

She shook her head. Rising swiftly, she went to the door, picked up the small grinding slab and handstone, and brought them back to the fire.

Poor Singer watched her remove several prickly pear fruits from their ties on the rafters. He said, “I tried to be a dung beetle a few days ago.”

“What?” She looked down at him.

His eyes shone. “A dung beetle. I tried very hard to learn to be one, but I just couldn’t.” Firelight danced over his narrow face, highlighting the arch of his hooked nose. “I think it’s because humans live in dung so much of the time that I couldn’t bear the thought.”

Cornsilk crouched to place the fruits on the grinding slab. “Maybe it isn’t so bad for beetles. They seem to like dung.” She used her brown sleeve to wipe her wet cheeks.

“Then again, maybe they don’t have any choice.”

Cornsilk thought about that. She hadn’t had any choice. Nor had anyone else at Lanceleaf Village—especially not Fledgling.

She met Poor Singer’s shining eyes as she picked up the handstone and began mashing the fruits on the grinding slab. “I think you’re becoming a Singer. And not a poor one.”

He grinned suddenly. “I want to be, very badly, so I can help my people.”

“What is your village?”

“Windflower. I am of the Coyote Clan.”

Cornsilk mashed the prickly pear fruits to a fine red mush, then leaned over to peer into the boiling pot. Tiny bubbles fizzed on the surface. For really good dumplings the water needed to be at a full boil, but she didn’t care tonight. She dipped up two full cups of blue cornmeal and emptied them into her supper bowl, then added two cups of hot water. Pulling a flat juniper stick from the woodpile, she ran it along the edge of the firepit, until she’d scooped up enough white ash, and added it to the cornmeal. Finally, she dumped in half of the prickly pear fruit mush and stirred. A soft purple dough formed.

“Almost ready,” she said. “But we should make tea first. There won’t be any hot water left after I drop in the dumplings.”

She dipped both of their cups full of hot water and added what remained of the prickly pear mush. As it steeped, the tea smelled delicately sweet. She handed a cup to Poor Singer.

He took it with a grateful smile. “Thank you. I’m still feeling like a cloud in a windstorm.”

“I ran out of food yesterday. If you hadn’t been willing to share with me, I would have had to hunt tonight. Hunting is always a chancy thing, and I was really too tired.”

“I wanted to share. When I become a great Singer, I’ll be able to share much more than food with people.”

He sounded happy and eager to help his clan. She studied his luminous brown eyes. “What will you do first?”

“Hmm. Well, I’ll either Heal the sick, or kill a few witches. Maybe both.” He grinned.

A smile came to her lips, and Cornsilk sat for a moment, savoring the joy. Poor Singer seemed to understand, for he gazed at her with his whole heart in his eyes.

Cornsilk rolled the dough into beautiful purple balls and dropped them one by one into the boiling water. A lavender froth swelled and leaked over the edge of the pot. As bubbles plopped on the burning logs, they sizzled wildly. Steam gushed toward the roof.

She sat back to wait for the dumplings to cook. The first Evening People glittered through the smoke hole. “It must have been hard for you, having your father die before you saw one summer. How did it happen?”

“Well … I…” He looked like he wasn’t certain. “My mother told me he broke his leg, and it became infected. She said it took three moons for him to die. She had loved him very much and refused to remarry. After that, all we had was each other.” He frowned into the pale red liquid in his cup. “Everything I am, I owe to my mother, Snow Mountain.”

Cornsilk sipped her prickly pear tea. It tasted deliciously tangy. “You don’t believe your mother?”

He lifted his head and frowned at her. “Does it show?”

“You looked uneasy when you told me the story.”

Poor Singer toyed with a pebble on the floor. “It doesn’t really matter. If she’s not telling me the truth, it’s because the truth brings her too much pain. I love her with all my heart anyway.”

Secrets. Did all parents keep things from their children?

Cornsilk sighed. “She must be very proud of you becoming a Singer.”

“Oh, yes. She is.” He took a small sip of his tea, and his stomach squealed so loudly they both stared at his sunburned belly. A nest of tiny black hairs filled his navel. It shimmered in the firelight.

“Are you going to throw up?” Cornsilk asked.

He squinted one eye as if in discomfort. “I hope not.”

“Sip slowly, Poor Singer. I think you need to keep it down.”

He burped, looked terrified, and cautiously said, “I think you’re right.”

Cornsilk used the flat juniper stick to dip out one of the dumplings. It had swelled into a fluffy pale blue ball. She put it in her bowl and cut it open. “They’re done.”

Poor Singer braced a hand on the floor and sat up as Cornsilk scooped the steaming dumplings into their bowls. Placing Poor Singer’s on the floor at his side, she gave him a horn spoon.

She cut her first dumpling in quarters, blew on it, then spooned a piece into her mouth. The prickly pear fruits added a flowery sweetness to the nutty flavor of the blue corn. She ate as if she’d been the one fasting for days, chewing and swallowing as quickly as she could. As her stomach filled, her desperation began to lessen. The knots in her shoulders eased. But her weariness deepened, weighting her limbs. She yawned, set her bowl aside, and lifted her cup of tea, drinking as she watched Poor Singer.

He took the shiny pebble from his mouth and held it in his hand while he used his spoon to mash his dumplings up. He poured some of his tea into the mixture to create a thick soup. Gingerly, he ate.

“Are you feeling better?” Cornsilk asked.

“More cold than sick.” Bumps prickled his skin.

Cornsilk rose, took the gray blanket from the floor, and carefully draped it over Poor Singer’s blistered shoulders. Fevered skin was always more sensitive to cold. “Does that hurt?”

“No. Thank you. It feels good. That was very kind.”

“You were kind to me,” she said matter-of-factly. “I can be kind to you.”

His eyes narrowed, and he seemed to be examining the air around Cornsilk, his gaze drawing a line around her hair and shoulders. “I think you would be kind to me anyway. You have a—a bright blue light around you. A Healing light.” He dipped another spoonful of his dumpling soup and swallowed it.

Cornsilk sat down, picked up her teacup, and scrutinized him over the rim. Her mother had told her about Singers who could see the colors of the soul, but she’d never met one. “Have you always been able to do that?”

“Hmm?” he asked, startled. “Do what?”

“See the colors of the soul.”

“Oh, no, not me.” He shook his head. “Not until today. Yours is the first soul I’ve ever seen. I mean, other than my own. And I only saw mine just before I saw yours.”

She lowered her cup to her lap. “What color is your soul?”

He smiled. “Yellow. Brilliant blinding yellow. That’s why I was laughing earlier.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s yellow!” He leaned toward her, his eyes wide. “Don’t you see, Silk. I’ve been sunlight all along. Of course I couldn’t stand in the light, not when I am the light.”

Cornsilk’s brows drew down. “Well, if you are sunlight, then what am I?”

“You,” he said, and looked at her with such love that she recoiled a little. “You are the sky at dawn.”

“You mean my soul comes from there? That it’s a part of the dawn sky, like a chunk cracked off, or something?”

Poor Singer bit his lip. “I’m not really a Singer yet, so I don’t know for sure. All I can tell you is that when you live inside your soul, it doesn’t feel like a chunk of sunlight or dawn sky, it feels like…” He stopped, as if he required concentration to speak correctly. “Well, I felt like I was sunlight, touching everything, shining everywhere all at once.”

Cornsilk smiled. He bowed his head as though embarrassed, and dark hair fell around him, framing his thin hawkish face.

His mouth tightened. “I’m sorry. Did that sound prideful? Dune says I have a problem with pride. I—I don’t mean to be vain, I—”

“You didn’t sound prideful at all. In fact, you sounded”—she gestured uncertainly—“innocent. I used to have a friend, a little boy…” Tears beaded on Cornsilk’s lashes. “His name was Brave Boy. He had seen five summers. He would laugh and—and the sound always made me ache inside, from happiness. Your voice sounded a lot like his. It made me ache, too.”

Poor Singer smiled and ate more soup, slowly ladling it into his mouth and waiting after each spoonful to see what would happen. Finally, he said, “So, you are on your way to Talon Town? To find your relatives?”

“I’ve nothing left. Nowhere else to go.”

“That’s where Dune is. When you get there, please tell him I’m well.”

“I will. If I find him.”

“Oh, you can’t miss him. He’s about this tall”—he lifted a hand to show her—“with no teeth and a bad temper. When you see him, I’m sure he’ll be bullying someone.”

As evening descended upon the canyon, the cold deepened, nipping at her skin. She finished her tea, untied her blanket from her pack, and wrapped herself in it. Warmth seeped into her, and her eyelids suddenly felt as heavy as stones. Firelight fluttered over the walls like a flock of golden butterflies. She had not slept since … since the night before last. She stretched out beside the fire and pillowed her head on her pack. The precious turquoise-studded blanket inside it cushioned her ear. A faint whisper filtered up through the pack, and Cornsilk strained to hear what the blanket was saying, but she couldn’t. She wondered if Poor Singer could, and looked at him.

He didn’t seem to. He just ate the rest of his dumpling soup and lay down an arm’s length away. Just before he pulled up his blanket, he put the pebble back in his mouth.

“Aren’t you afraid you’ll swallow it?”

He gave the matter careful consideration. “No. At least, I’m not afraid the pebble will hurt me. But it does worry me that I might accidentally hurt the pebble. I wouldn’t wish to do that. This pebble has been very good to me.”

Cornsilk snugged her blanket around her throat and looked at him askance. “Tomorrow, I’ll make a salve for your sunburn.”

He yawned sleepily and tossed more wood on the fire. Crimson threads of light spattered the ceiling. “Perhaps by then, I’ll be concerned. Right now, I just want to sleep, too. Have a good visit in the afterworld, Silk.”

“And you also,” she said, and closed her eyes.

Tears pressed hotly against her lids. Her dreams would be barren because her family wasn’t in the afterworld. She hadn’t cleaned and cared for their bodies. She hadn’t Sung the proper ritual Songs, or led the burial procession to the sacred sipapu, as was her duty. Her parents and brother would be homeless ghosts, wandering the earth, lost and wailing.

When sobs racked her chest, she squeezed her eyes closed.

A hand, large, but very gentle, stroked her hair. She shifted, and saw Poor Singer staring at her. His gray blanket lay open, revealing his bare chest. Concern sparkled in his eyes. “Are you all right?”

Cornsilk braced herself on one elbow and tried to breathe deeply. Hoarsely, she answered, “Poor Singer, I … I didn’t bury them, my f-family. I was too afraid. There were dozens of warriors running through the village. People were screaming. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t do anything except hide on top of the hill, and—and—”

“Shh,” he whispered, and pulled away the hair that had fallen over her eyes, so he could look at her. He smiled gently. “They will be waiting. If you want me to, I’ll go back with you.”

Her lungs shuddered as she exhaled.

He searched her tormented face. “We will find them and care for them. We can make travoises to haul them along the sacred roads. It might take a few days, but we’ll manage. Then we’ll Sing their souls to the afterworld. I’m a new Singer, but I think I can remember all the words to the Death Songs.”

Cornsilk eased back to the floor and pillowed her head on her arm. Her throat ached. “Thank you, Poor Singer.”

He smoothed her hair again. “Everything will be all right. Don’t worry. Ghosts understand more than people think they do.” He drew back his hand and pulled his blanket closed. “Sleep well, Silk.”

Cornsilk listened to his slow, even breathing and sank into an exhausted sleep.