People of the Silence (57 page)

Four boys, including young Swallowtail, stood at the starting line, their arms out like hawks preparing to leap from a cliff. Swallowtail stood two heads taller than any other boy in line. When Mourning Dove shouted, “Run!” the boys took off, legs pumping for the opposite line. Swallowtail came in first, but the ten or so slaves watching cheered all the competitors and slapped them on the backs.

When Ironwood followed the curve around the plaza, the races abruptly halted. They watched him with a mixture of awe and fear. His red shirt whipped around his black leggings. Except for the oldest slaves, he had led the raids that resulted in their captures, and none of them had a great fondness for him.

He’d never considered such things as a young man. But now, cut loose from those responsibilities, feeling the twinges of his age, a prickling of unease had invaded his peace.

As he neared the ladder, Poor Singer and Silk stepped out onto the roof. Had they seen him coming? Or just decided to wait for him? Poor Singer wore a fresh tan shirt with brown and green diamonds around the hem and sleeves. He had a pack slung over his shoulder. Silk looked lovely. Her yellow dress accentuated the blue-black tones in her long hair. Her oval face and full lips were enchanting, while those large dark eyes were wary and reserved.

Ironwood stood at the bottom of the ladder and called, “I appreciate your promptness.”

Poor Singer gazed down at Ironwood with a curious expression of dread. “We didn’t wish to keep you waiting.”

Poor Singer started down the ladder and Silk followed, her hair fluttering in the wind. In contrast to Poor Singer’s gangly descent—the pack bouncing loosely—she moved with an athletic grace, every movement controlled.

When they both stood before him, Ironwood asked, “Ready?”

“Yes, War Ch—Ironwood.” Poor Singer reddened at his slip. The blush made his thin nose blaze.

“Come along, then. Dune will be waiting.”

The races halted again, but Ironwood saw Swallowtail lift a hand to wave at Silk. She smiled and waved back.

Swallowtail called, “The bread was delicious! It lasted me all the way home!”

“I’m glad!” Silk yelled in return.

Ironwood slowed his pace to walk at Silk’s side. “You gave Swallowtail bread?”

She gave him a sidelong glance. “Yes. He’d run very hard to get to us and left immediately after he’d eaten supper. I thought it would make his journey easier.”

“I’m sure it did. Most people wouldn’t have shown such kindness to a slave.”

Silk shrugged.

Ironwood said, “The Sunwatcher, Sternlight, will be grateful. Swallowtail is one of his slaves.”

Her steps faltered, ever so slightly, as though Sternlight’s name unnerved her. Then she continued on, chin up, following in Poor Singer’s steps.

“I’ve heard,” she said carefully, “that Sternlight is a witch. Is it true?”

“No.” Ironwood speculated about her boldness. Only someone very brave—or extremely naïve—would dare to ask. “He’s just a priest, a very holy man. But you’ll see. He’s waiting in the kiva with Dune, and he’s—”

Silk stopped dead. She wet her lips before turning to look up at Ironwood. “He’s in the kiva?”

“He is.” Ironwood studied her carefully, trying to see past her expression. “Does that bother you? You could wait in your chamber if you’d rather not—”

“No, no, I—I wish to meet him. I’ll be honored to meet him.” Her voice sounded forced. Resolutely, she started toward where Poor Singer had slowed to look back at them with uncertainty.

“He’s a holy man, Silk,” Ironwood said, hoping to allay her fears. “Nothing more.”

She nodded, put her head down, and walked on.

Ironwood replayed her reaction, seeking the key to this mysterious young woman. Most of the distant villages gossiped about Sternlight—and all of the First People, for that matter. Who would have thought the outlandish stories were taken so seriously in Turtle Village? People often chattered, but usually it was just talk. Silk’s fear was worrisome. Had the stories gained such a credibility?

You’re no longer War Chief,
he told himself resolutely.
You don’t have to monitor such things anymore.

As they neared the strip of rooms that divided the plaza, Ironwood walked ahead to the T-shaped doorway and ducked low to enter. The cool shadows of the altar room cloaked him. Dim firelight rose from the kiva below and lit the dangerous faces of the thlatsinas on the walls. Sharp beaks, furred muzzles, and glistening teeth shone.

When Poor Singer and Silk entered, they both stood with their eyes wide, studying the fierce masked gods.

“They’re
beautiful,
” Poor Singer said, his voice hushed. He lowered the pack from his shoulder and tipped his head to look into each of their faces. “Who painted them?”

“Sternlight. The Great Warriors outside are also his work.”

“His skill is astonishing.” Poor Singer walked close to examine the bared fangs of the White Wolf Thlatsina. They glinted in the firelight.

Ironwood watched with amusement. “Sternlight breathes life into every image he paints. But come”—he gestured to the staircase that led down into the firelit womb of the kiva—“he can tell you himself.”

Poor Singer sucked in a breath and his spine went rigid. His eyes met Silk’s, and some secret passed between them. In a hoarse whisper, Poor Singer said, “
He’s
down there?”

Ironwood cataloged the youth’s reaction. This was more than just stories at work. Those wary old reflexes had him on guard, now, like a hungry dog with his nose to the wind. “Yes, come. I’ll introduce you.”

It took Poor Singer a few moments to gather his courage, but he squared his shoulders and went down the steps. Ironwood gestured Silk ahead of him and followed, alert for what, he didn’t quite know.

A fire burned in the firebox straight ahead of them, all the way across the circular chamber. The four red pillars, the yellow, red, and blue bench levels, all seemed to waver and flutter with the leaping flames. In the thirty-six small wall crypts, the sacred dancesticks, rattles, and other ceremonial objects glistened orange.

Ironwood halted at the foot of the stairs and scanned the magnificently carved thlatsina masks that hung above the crypts. A strange chill prickled his neck. The masks seemed to be staring at Silk and Poor Singer with hollow, haunted eyes. As if of its own accord, his hand had wrapped around the handle of his deerbone stiletto.

Dune and Sternlight stood over Crow Beard’s body, where it rested on the foot drum to the right, beneath a glittering turquoise-studded Death Blanket.

“Finally!” Dune said. Dressed in a long white shirt, his white hair and bushy white brows shining, he looked ghostly. His deeply wrinkled face twisted into a smile as he hobbled across the kiva to grip Poor Singer’s hands. “It’s good to see you, my boy. I had begun to fear Crow Beard might rot before you arrived.”

Poor Singer’s smile drooped. “Uh—well, we came as soon as we could.”

“Yes, I know. Young Swallowtail told me the story. You brought my bundle?”

“It’s right here.” Poor Singer bent over his travel-stained pack. After unlacing it, he withdrew a small, beaded Power bundle and reverently handed it to Dune. “I hope this is it. I looked right where Swallowtail said it would be.”

Dune took the bundle and cradled it lovingly in his arms. The turquoise, malachite, and coral beads sparkled in the firelight. “Yes, thank you for bringing it.”

Dune shot a glance at Silk, lifted a white eyebrow, and then pinned Poor Singer with a questioning squint.

“Oh!” Poor Singer blurted, “Forgive me.” He gestured to Silk. “Dune, this is Silk, from Turtle Village.”

The lines in Dune’s face seemed to deepen. He stood very still, his gaze probing Silk’s.

Ironwood knew how uncomfortable Dune’s scrutiny could be—he always felt like Packrat with Owl’s talons embedded in his back—but Silk fearlessly returned the stare. Then a knowing smile bent Dune’s thin lips.

After a short interval, Dune stepped forward and gently took one of Silk’s hands. “It has been a long time,” he softly said, “since I have seen such an infinity of open sky in any soul. Did you know it was there?”

Silk’s full lips parted. She hesitated, then replied, “Yes, I think so.”

Dune’s voice turned serious. “You sail those skies often, don’t you?”

“In my—my dreams.”

“What bird is your Spirit Helper?”

Silk shifted her weight from foot to foot, and glanced uneasily at Poor Singer. “I’m not sure. Raven, maybe.”

Dune rubbed his wrinkled chin and his eyes narrowed. “Yes, that would make sense. Especially since Poor Singer’s Helper is Coyote. The two of you—”

“How did you know that?”
Poor Singer cried, and winced at disrupting the sacred atmosphere of the kiva. Apologetically, he whispered, “Dune, I never told you—”

“You didn’t have to tell me. You yip in your sleep. It was hard to mistake.”

“I—I
yip?
”

Dune turned back to Silk. “Well, boy, if you had to bring a woman into my house, at least you picked a worthy one.”

“Dune!” Poor Singer objected. “Dune, I would never … I mean, yes, Silk has been staying with me, but—”

“I wouldn’t worry.” Ignored until now, Sternlight walked forward. The grace of his movements always struck Ironwood. Lean and tall, he seemed to float more than walk. His flowing black hair framed his serene face. His brown eyes shone with a warm light this afternoon. “You’ve told him about love, haven’t you, Dune?”

Silk’s posture reminded Ironwood of a deer surprised in a meadow, frozen in place, ready to flee at the first sign of trouble. And like a deer’s, her eyes had that doelike mixture of fascination and fear.

“Certainly
not!
” Dune growled. “He wasn’t ready to hear it.”

“To hear what?” Poor Singer asked. “Dune told me to forget my body. That flesh was corrupt and would make me deaf to the voices of the gods.”

Sternlight smiled serenely. “Well, that’s true, if we’re speaking about the love of the flesh, but there is more to love than the simple joining of bodies.”

Poor Singer glanced at Silk, but her gaze remained on Sternlight alone.

Dune said, “Sternlight, it is a great risk to discuss love with someone his age. He doesn’t even—”

“I was his age when you first discussed love with me,” Sternlight gently reminded.

“You,” Dune retorted, “were born holy. Poor Singer was born proud.”

Poor Singer winced. “I’m not as bad as I used to be. I think I could hear about love now. I mean, if you wish me to know.”

Silk watched Sternlight’s every move: the twist of his lips, the way his hair fell over his broad chest, the twinkle in his brown eyes.

The young woman fascinated Ironwood. In some strange way, her facial expressions reminded him of Night Sun’s: consciously bland, or calculated for effect. Rarely spontaneous. She kept any vulnerability hidden behind an impervious mask.

“You’re not going to tell me, are you, Dune?” Poor Singer asked.

“If I tell you at this stage of your training, you’ll think I’m giving you permission to walk about with a distended breech-clout. You are not yet prepared to understand a love that is born in the soul and grows old in the soul. Trust me. I will tell you when it is time.”

Poor Singer swallowed and nodded. “I trust you.”

“Good!” Dune clapped his hands together. “Then let’s get to work. Come along, Poor Singer.” He hobbled away toward Crow Beard’s body.

Poor Singer hurried after him. “What do you need me to do?”

Dune stopped in front of the turquoise-studded Death Blanket. “The first thing you must remember is that life itself is the most sacred ritual of all. As the caretakers of the dead, we are merely keeping order, assuring that things happen at the proper time—just as we do with all other rituals, planting, harvesting, renewing the world. Everything in the universe depends upon proper timing. Otherwise the places of humans, animals, and gods will be confused, and the world will fall apart. Now.” He placed his Power bundle on the foot drum above Crow Beard’s head. “We have much to do.”

“And we”—Sternlight gestured to Ironwood and Silk—“must give them privacy to do it.” He inclined his head to the staircase.

Poor Singer turned. “Silk, will you be—”

“I’ll be fine.” She gave him a confident nod. “I’ll wander about the town, then return to our chamber. I’ll wait for you there.”

Poor Singer gave Ironwood a worried glance and stared pointedly at Sternlight. “I’ll come as soon as we’ve finished here.”

Ironwood followed Sternlight out into the bright sun of the western plaza and waited for Silk.

She left the altar room cautiously, her gaze searching the plaza before she stepped out fully.

A warrior in more than just her eyes.… Has she seen battle? Perhaps during the raid on Turtle Village.

Warm sunshine drenched her pretty face and flickered through her hip-length hair as she walked to join them. Ironwood’s brows knitted. When he’d first seen her, from the fourth story, she’d been just a young woman arriving with Poor Singer. His eyes had almost skipped over her. Now he had to fight with himself not to stare at her. Something about her struck him as
familiar,
though he could not say why. The way she tipped her head, a gesture of her hand, the look in her dark eyes. He’d never visited Turtle Village. Never even ventured close, because of its proximity to Lanceleaf Village, so he couldn’t have seen her before.

Then why am I so bothered by her?

She stopped a short distance away and lifted her pointed nose. Her nostrils flared as the fragrances of fresh spring grasses blew through the plaza. Or was she scenting for danger? He’d done that himself often enough, usually before battle, as if, by testing the wind, he could smell the locations of enemy warriors.

The slaves had returned to their duties, leaving the plaza empty and silent. Dust whirls bobbed and careened when Wind Baby gusted hard. Just watching her made Ironwood feel as if hidden eyes peered at them.

He scanned the roofs and doors. To Sternlight, he said, “Silk’s village was destroyed by Tower Builders. She’s come here looking for family.”