People of the Silence (48 page)

She sat perfectly still. An azure glow suffused the room as twilight shrouded the canyon, and she saw for the first time how deeply the wrinkles etched the skin around his eyes, and how silver his temples had turned over the long summers.

“My—my Cloud Playing?”

His face tensed. “Yes, Night Sun.”

“She … she’s…”

“Yes.” His words came slowly and softly, as though she might not hear him if he spoke too quickly. “No one knows for certain how it happened. I checked the tracks myself, just to make sure Webworm didn’t miss anything. She was almost home. The man shot her from behind. Used an unmarked arrow. Apparently her attacker had been waiting for her down by the wash. Webworm’s warriors scoured the area and found the man’s campsite, little more than a shallow firepit and a scooped out place in the sand where he’d lain. He had obviously slept there the night before.”

Dumbly, she looked up at Ironwood. Her eyes blurred, and his face contorted in shared pain.

“There’s more, Night Sun.”

“Tell me.”

His jaw hardened. He stared at the floor a moment. “She had corpse powder—inside … her … her wounds.”

“Witched?” she asked in shock. “My daughter was witched?”

“Apparently. Dune held a purification ritual tonight to cleanse Cloud Playing, and anyone who might have touched her.”

The sobs started as a tightness in her throat, then built until they racked her entire body. “Oh, Ironwood, my daughter … she’s gone.”

She reached out for him, needing him like a freezing animal drawn to the warmth of a fire, and Ironwood wrapped his arms around her shoulders and drew her close. A warm rush of feeling flooded her. It had been so long since a man had held her … since he had held her. He murmured something soft, soothing, and kissed her hair.

As sunset faded, a feeble wash of dusk filled the room, graying the white walls, and shining darkly on the drops of blood that spotted Ironwood’s moccasins.
Cloud Playing’s blood?

Night Sun buried her face against the soft fabric over his chest and closed her eyes.

When he shifted, as if to speak, she whispered hoarsely, “Don’t let go.”

His arms went tighter. “I won’t.”

Twenty-Eight

Ironwood sat on the bottom step of the stairway that led down into the First People’s kiva, his head in his hands. Wind Baby raged outside, shivering the bones of Talon Town and breathing cold down his back. The worn softness of his red cotton cape did little to block the chill. A fire burned at the opposite end of the kiva, one hundred and four hands away, but almost none of the heat reached him.

He pulled his cape more tightly closed and gazed around the beautiful chamber. Four square pillars, painted red, supported the pine log roof, and three levels of benches ringed the kiva; the lowest was painted yellow, the next red, and the highest level blue. On holy days they seated all of Straight Path Canyon’s three hundred First People. Thirty-six small crypts sank into the white walls, holding bowls of cornmeal and precious ceremonial objects such as dancesticks, yucca whips, and antelope hoof rattles. Above each crypt hung a magnificent thlatsina mask.

He should have felt safe here, surrounded by the gods, with two great holy men, Dune and Sternlight, standing in front of him, and the sacred scent of cedar filling his nostrils. But as he listened to their low voices discussing Cloud Playing’s murder, deep weariness settled in his muscles.

“Why would someone do this?” Sternlight said in an agonized voice. “I don’t understand.”

The light of the flames dyed Sternlight’s taut face orange, and reflected from Dune’s faded old eyes. Both men wore white ritual shirts and knee-high white moccasins.

Dune said, “Killing is a form of mourning, Sternlight. It is an expression of grief. To find the murderer we must discover the source of the pain.”

On either side of the chamber stood large rectangular foot drums. Hollow masonry structures, fifteen hands long and eight hands wide, they had been plastered and painted white, then covered with rawhide. During ceremonials musicians sat on the edges of the masonry boxes and beat the drums with their feet.

Cloud Playing’s body rested on the drum to Ironwood’s left, Crow Beard’s on the drum to his right. Turquoise-studded Death Blankets covered them.

Dune and Sternlight had removed Cloud Playing’s blood-soaked dress, and washed her flesh and long hair with yucca soap. Her silver temples shone. The four spirals tattooed on her chin looked very black against her pale face.

“Here,” Dune said as he handed Sternlight a wooden comb. “Let us finish this last task, so we can both rest. It’s been a long day.”

Sternlight took the comb and carefully separated Cloud Playing’s hair into three parts, then began braiding it.

Dune’s white bushy brows knitted. “The source of the pain,” he repeated.

Sternlight glanced at him. “You mean an old wound?”

“Yes. One that has never stopped bleeding.”

“But this is not simply murder, Dune,” Sternlight said. “She was mutilated! This was a terrible, violent—”

“Everything violent is, in its heart, something helpless, reaching out for help.” Dune’s eyes drifted to the thlatsina masks. “Our task, Sternlight, is to offer help.”

“Help the murderer?” Ironwood asked too loudly. His voice seemed to ring in the firelit stillness. Both Dune and Sternlight turned to stare at him. “Why would we wish to do that?”

Dune gave him a quizzical look, then put a hand on Sternlight’s shoulder. “Would you mind if I sit down for a time? I—”

“Please, go and rest, Dune. You have been a great help to me today. I can finish this by myself. Thank you for all you have done.”

Dune smiled and hobbled toward Ironwood. He slumped down on the yellow bench ten hands away. A sheen of sweat filled his wrinkles and matted his white hair to his cheeks. He bent forward and breathed deeply for a time.

Finally, he turned to Ironwood. “I wish to help because that is the only way we will ever catch her killer. To draw him out we must—”

“Her killer was a madman and a witch. I don’t want to help him. I want him in range of my bow!”

Dune held up a crooked finger. “Think about this, Ironwood. Cloud Playing had no enemies. Even her slaves spoke well of her. She was a gentle, kind, and honest woman. She had no power. She owned nothing.”

“… Yet,” Ironwood answered.

Dune braced his elbows on his knees and propped his chin with one knobby fist. “You suspect she was killed because she would one day have been matron of Talon Town?”

“It occurred to me.”

After a pause, Dune asked, “Who would have cared? Snake Head, despite being the Blessed Sun, can’t control her property. All of Cloud Playing’s wealth would go to her nearest living
female
relative. Snake Head had nothing to gain by her death.”

“Yes, he did, Dune. Snake Head only became the Blessed Sun because his father died, and neither his mother, nor his sister, had husbands. Some day, Cloud Playing would have remarried. And when that happened—”

“She would certainly have deposed Snake Head and put her new husband in his place.” Dune sighed. “Yes, but that is not a wound, Ironwood. That is a reason. And not reason enough for this
kind
of killing.”

Ironwood looked away, thinking while he watched Sternlight gently coil Cloud Playing’s braid into a bun. Sternlight performed the task tenderly, stroking her hair, whispering to her. His long hair swung about him as he worked.

Ironwood said, “Cloud Playing’s mutilation is not a single event, Dune. I’ve seen a belly slit open like this before. Sixteen summers ago. It was after the Winter Solstice…”

Sternlight dropped the shell hairpin he’d been holding. As he knelt to retrieve it, his hand shook, and Ironwood frowned. Sternlight picked up the pin and secured the bun, but his breaths had gone shallow, his chest rising and falling swiftly beneath his white shirt.

For a time, only the groan of wind disturbed the quiet.

Ironwood looked back at Dune. “Do you recall? The slave girl? What was her name?”

“Young Fawn,” Dune answered, and grimaced at the floor. “I remember.”

“Yes,” Ironwood said. “Young Fawn. Webworm found her body in the trash mound. Her belly had been slit open just like Cloud Playing’s. Except…” He searched his memory. “Young Fawn had been pregnant. Isn’t that right, Sternlight?”

Sternlight put one more pin in place, then lifted his head. His cheeks had flushed. “I don’t really recall.”

The fire ate into the heart of a log and light leaped, dancing over the chamber, shading pure orange where it lay upon the red bench and four red pillars. As the light flowed into the small pits in the white walls, it created a pale yellow-and-gray mosaic, like exquisite beadwork.

Ironwood’s brow furrowed. Sternlight had started wiping his hands on his shirt, over and over, as if to rid them of some sticky substance.
What’s wrong, old friend? Why does this discussion disturb you so deeply?
As Sunwatcher, Sternlight would have been a party to the First People’s private conversations about the event, but ordinarily the War Chief was informed of such discussions. Perhaps, there were things the elders had elected not to tell him.

“The child,” Ironwood continued, “had been cut from her belly. We never found it. Or Young Fawn’s murderer.”

They had just finished Winter Solstice celebrations. There were still thousands of people at Talon Town, busy storing the extra food, carrying soul pots to Center Place, and visiting relatives.
And Night Sun was very close to giving birth to our daughter.
He’d had little else on his mind.

“No, of course not,” Dune said. “You know how many fights break out after celebrations. People are always exhausted, and irritable. A murderer would have blended right in.”

Ironwood shook his head. “I remember thinking that Young Fawn must have gotten into some kind of trouble. But after today, after seeing Cloud Playing’s injuries … I’m not so sure.”

Dune waved a hand. “There’s no connection, Ironwood. Trust me.”

“You had a Dream about it, eh? The gods told you there was no connection?”

“I have always suspected that Young Fawn died because she was Jay Bird’s daughter, and somebody realized—”

Ironwood blurted, “
Blessed thlatsinas, that’s right!
I had forgotten. Yes, and she was serving as Solstice Girl. Isn’t that right, Sternlight?”

Sternlight groped for the bench behind him and sank down. “Yes. That’s right.”

Cold wind blew down the staircase and breathed over Ironwood’s back. He shivered and saw Dune rub his sticklike arms.

Ironwood untied his red cape and draped it over Dune’s hunched shoulders. “Here, Elder.”

“Thank you, Ironwood.” Dune fumbled to tie it beneath his chin. “The fact that she was Jay Bird’s daughter would have been reason enough for any member of the Straight Path nation to kill the girl. Let’s forget about her and concentrate on Cloud Play—”

“To kill her
and
her child,” Ironwood said. “Especially if the baby had been a girl. The next matron of the Mogollon people? Blessed gods. Holding that child slave here in Talon Town would have been very dangerous. How is it that Young Fawn’s pregnancy went unnoticed for so many moons? I never knew about it. Did you, Sternlight?” He paused. “If Young Fawn was Solstice Girl, you must have—”

“No.” The answer was barely audible. “No, I—I didn’t know.”

“How could you
not
have known? She—”

“It was winter,” Dune said brusquely. “She would have been wearing many layers of clothing. If she’d wished to keep her pregnancy hidden, she could have.”

“But—”

“Let it go, Ironwood!”

Heat flushed Ironwood’s veins. He glanced between them. “What are you two hiding from me? What’s—”

“Ironwood,” Sternlight said, his voice suddenly cutting, “I had far more important things to worry about at the time. Let us concentrate on Cloud Playing, and who might have wished
her
dead.”

The tone stunned Ironwood. He’d never heard Sternlight speak in such … and then he understood.

Hallowed Ancestors, of course he’d had more important worries.
Cornsilk was born less than a moon after Winter Solstice. Sternlight wouldn’t have taken notice of a slave. Except for attending to ritual mandates, he spent all day, every day, with Night Sun, caring for her, talking with her, trying to ease her fears …

“Forgive me.” Ironwood tilted his head apologetically to Sternlight. “You’re right. Let’s worry about Cloud Playing.”

Sternlight seemed relieved.

Dune let out a breath.

They all sat in silence for several moments.

“Yes,” Dune said softly, as if to himself, “we must help him end the pain.”

Ironwood gave the old holy man a sidelong glance. “I would be happy to, Dune. Swiftly. And forever.”

Dune scowled. “Are you tired?”

“Very.”

Dune nodded. “I think we’re all tired. Why don’t we discuss this tomorrow. When our souls can see more clearly.” Dune braced his hand on Ironwood’s shoulder and rose to his feet with a grunt. “Can both of you meet me here at dawn?”

“I can.” Ironwood rubbed his grainy eyes.

Sternlight nodded. “I’ll be here.”

“A pleasant night to you, then.” Dune climbed the stairs.

Ironwood waited until his footsteps died away, then fixed Sternlight with an inquiring look. Sternlight didn’t look at him. Firelight coated the left side of his face and shimmered in his long black hair.

Ironwood opened his mouth to ask his friend some pointed questions …

But Sternlight said, “How did Night Sun take the news? Is she all right? I know I should have been the one to tell her, but I had so many religious responsibilities—”

“I’m glad you asked me to tell her.” Ironwood inhaled a breath, left off balance by the sudden change of topics. His thoughts returned to Night Sun, to the haunted look on her beautiful face, the terror in her eyes. “She’s reeling, Sternlight. I held her until the guard forced me to leave, but by then she was fast asleep. She needs time to work through the past half moon. First she loses her husband, then her daughter … she’s soul-sick.”