People of the Moon(170)

“Why don’t you let me sew your war shirt back together?” He indicated the folds of red cloth hanging at her waist.

“I’m no warrior,” she replied dully. “I am unworthy of this shirt. When they cut it off me, it was as if I lost myself.” She leaned her head back, her hair spilling loose from the bun at the back of her head. “Nightshade was right. There was nothing but anger inside me. I became the shirt. When I lost it, I didn’t know who I was. I never knew I was such a coward.”

From his memory the words came: “‘Swallow your fear. It is meaningless—illusion meant to keep you from what needs to be done. You have never understood that your souls are even stronger than your body. Without death, there is no life, no future.?”

She gave him a disbelieving smirk. “Words, Wrapped Wrist.”

He frowned, wincing at the pain in his cheek. “Ripple … the Dreamer told me that last time I saw him. He said I had to know it down between my souls. That I had to understand.”

“What else did he tell you?”

“That you would need me.” He made a gesture. “Who’d have thought? Ripple. My old friend.” He glanced up skeptically. “Did he really see the future?”

She stared vacantly at the fire where the stew boiled. “Maybe, like Nightshade, he knew I was hollow.”

“You’re not hollow.” Wrapped Wrist reached for his pack, recovered his little clay cup, and dipped up the hot liquid. “You going to eat?”

“Not hungry.”

“Well, you’d better eat. We lost a half day when they started back toward First Moon Mountain.”

She shook her head. “I’m not going.”

Wrapped Wrist made a face. “Ironwood is depending on us.”

Crow Woman said wearily, “I would have betrayed him. Wrapped Wrist, I’ve got to think about this.” At that she got awkwardly to her feet and limped away.

Wrapped Wrist watched her go, the ruined war shirt swaying around her long legs. Sighing, he turned his attention back to the fire and sipped the hot stew. If only he could get the memory to go away, but all night long he’d relived the fight. He could still feel the warrior’s neck as the bones popped. Could feel how the man had twitched, how the head had flopped, a dead weight in his hands.

The queasy sick feeling tickled his stomach again.





Forty-eight



Soft white light shone through the small window in the north wall; Leather Hand knew that morning had come. He looked down into her dark eyes, seeing them widen as he slid into her warm sheath. She locked her legs around his hips, pulling the blanket lower on his back. The morning chill prickled his skin.

A satisfied purr came from deep in Larkspur’s throat as she tightened and arched her hips against his.

This was a delightful way to awaken. He’d been lost in Dreams when her fingers had found him under the blanket. Only after she’d awakened his manhood had she pulled him onto her warm body and opened herself to him.

He surrendered himself to the moment, tried to concentrate on the sensations. Unlike the slave girls he emptied himself into, she moved with him, grinding her hips against his. The stifled gasps in her throat were refreshment for his soul.

His loins exploded with an intensity that left him breathless. The muscles in his legs and buttocks cramped and locked as he rammed himself into her and stiffened. Her body thrashed under his as she dug her fingers into his back, a scream locked behind clenched teeth. She ended, arched against him, panting, her eyes blazing as she tightened her grip on his shoulders.

“You have to learn to be quiet,” she whispered. “Only the slaves would have heard, but at the wrong time …”

“I made no sound.”

She laughed, digging her nails painfully into his back again. “Really? A rutting bull elk doesn’t bray with that much passion.”

He rolled off of her, aware that his sweat was drying in the cool air. She stood, the pale light lovely on her smooth skin, her nipples like hard thumbs as she stepped over and squatted above the chamber pot.

He gasped and threw his arm over his head, the nerves in his body still quivering.

“I hope your warriors are getting as much relief,” she told him as she reached for a blue cloth dress that hung from a peg. She slipped it over her tawny body and belted it at her slim waist. Pulling her long hair out, she fluffed it by running her fingers through it.

“Your orders were explicit. They were to be granted every request.” He grinned under the weight of his arm. “I saw the looks in the eyes of the Made People. What your authority does not dictate, the wrath of my men does.”

She was watching his face closely when she said, “News arrived last night. Matron Husk Woman was found in her sweat bath. Her head was missing. Tall Piñon has been without a Matron for over a week.”