“Thanks,” Wrapped Wrist said through gritted teeth.
“Broken?” she asked, crouching beside him, eyes on the wavering figures who fought around them. Was it just Wrapped Wrist’s inexperience, or were there a lot of warriors emerging from the rooms?
Wrapped Wrist flexed his elbow and raised his arm. “I don’t think it’s broken.”
“Stay behind me. Watch my back.”
“Glad to.” It was sobering to think how close he’d just come to death. The fight became a melee of whirling figures, screaming men, and hissing arrows.
Spots could have turned and run—should have bolted like a panicked jackrabbit—but something had kept him walking obediently at Nightshade’s heel as she climbed up the tiered levels of Dusk House, into the forbidden territory of the First People.
No one seemed to give her a second glance as she walked regally in the macaw-feather cloak, the hideous mask tucked beneath one arm. She crossed the second-floor roof and climbed to the third. She never hesitated as she turned and walked straight past a guard, the poor fellow huddled under a deerhide cape. He stared out from under his blanket. “Elder? Excuse me. That’s the Blessed Sun’s room. Do I know you?”
Unconcerned, Nightshade ducked into Webworm’s personal quarters.
The guard muttered, stared uncertainly at Spots, and stood while he fumbled for his war club.
The action was instinctive. Spots stepped close, ripped the man’s stiletto from his belt, and drove it straight into the warrior’s breast. At the same time he clamped his left hand over the man’s throat, squeezing his cry short in his windpipe.
Hot blood spilled over his hand. Within moments the guard’s flailing ceased, his body limp in Spots’s arms. The man sank, tremors running down his legs and arms.
Spots’s own breath came in fast gulps. He shivered, and stumbled toward the doorway.
What did I just do? What came over me?
In the Blessed Sun’s ornate room, coals glowed in the fire bowl. Spots stared in amazement at his blood-slick hand.
“Come sit,” Night Sun whispered.
Spots staggered forward, still in shock. Looking around, he recognized several of the pieces of wood he’d Traded that day in the Blessed Sun’s woodpile. Who would have thought? Then, to his amazement, he realized that the form under the blankets was none other than Webworm himself.
He must have looked like a gaping idiot when Nightshade motioned him to be seated atop a pile of buffalohides that had been stacked against one wall.
I’ve got to run! I just killed a Red Shirt! But his muscles had frozen.
Moving quietly, Nightshade retrieved her familiar pack from where it hung on a corner peg. She reached inside and withdrew several pouches. Her long fingers took a pinch of something from one. This she sprinkled atop the glowing coals. A faint but pungent smoke rose from the hearth.
Nightshade lifted a narrow pitcher from beside the bed and poured water into a striking white cup decorated with thin black lines and patterns of dots. Into this she poured yet another potion from one of her little bags. After she removed her shining black bowl, she dipped a thick dab of paste onto her fingertip. This she touched ever so lightly to Webworm’s temples. She made a faint grunt of satisfaction.
Spots just stared, wondering what had possessed him to follow her here. Nightshade was inspecting the line of pots and jars. She picked one—a wide-necked black-and-white Green Mesa design with a wooden lid. Raising the lid, she dumped the red cornmeal it contained onto the floor and set the open jar by her side.
Finally she gave Spots a warning look. “No matter what, say nothing. Do nothing.” Then she sat back, donned the hideous mask, and began to chant.
How long they sat there, Spots couldn’t say, but periodically Nightshade would reach out to dab more of the datura-laced paste and rub it with ever more vigor onto Webworm’s temples. Meanwhile, the wind howled outside, and Spots grew ever more frightened.
Someone will come and find me here. When they do, I am going to die.
In all of his wild nightmares he would never have believed that he would be seated like an idol, terrified to the point of jumping out of his skin, across from the Blessed Sun’s bed.
Webworm tossed and turned, mutters and moans coming from deep in his throat.
“That is Sister Datura wrapping her souls around you, Webworm.” Nightshade spoke gently. “Let yourself go. Rise and twirl in her arms. Surrender yourself, Webworm.” She paused while Webworm mumbled, swallowed hard, and groaned. “Yes, tell Sister Datura what you desire more than anything.”
“Cloud … Playing …” Webworm whispered.
Spots made a face. Power was loose in the room. He could hear the subtle whispers and hisses as the voices from the sack began to tease the deep recesses of his souls. It seemed that each time the voices grew louder, Webworm’s mutterings increased.