Webworm’s face went from slack, to squinting, to slack. “My life s . . was … was murdered by Swallowtail. He took my Dreams away … .”
“And you took his evil fetish,” she hissed. “You looked into its eye, and your souls, like his, were swallowed by the serpent. It coils inside you, Webworm. Only I can take it out, relieve the pain.”
He nodded slowly, crawling back to his bed. “You swear? If you do this thing, I can go to Cloud Playing?”
“You can.”
To Spots’s amazement, Webworm began tugging at his shirt. The effort to pull it over his head was tremendous and came perilously close to defeating him. The fabric fell from his senseless fingers, and he sank back naked on his bed.
“It won’t hurt?” Webworm slurred.
“Do you feel yourself flying?” Nightshade asked as she leaned forward.
“I’m floating. Lighter … lighter.”
“That’s Sister Datura, bearing you aloft. She can’t take you all the way to the Cloud People until I remove your heart.”
“ … The Serpent … stays with … ?”
“It will.”
“I will … be free?”
“You will be free.”
He yawned. “ … Sleepy … now …”
“That’s the morning glory powder you drank filling your veins. Let go, Webworm.”
Spots gaped as the Blessed Sun closed his eyes, breathing deeply. His left arm skipped off his belly, landing on the bedding like dead meat.
“Elder?” Spots whispered.
“Shhh!” Her masked head swiveled, and he found himself staring into the Blue God’s hard eyes.
His breath locked in his throat.
The terrible face swung back to Webworm. The man’s breathing had slowed, his head lolled to the side. Spots could see his eyes rolled back in his head. His tongue lay in the side of his gaping mouth.
The curious chant rose on the air again as Nightshade reached into her pack and carefully laid out a spindle whorl, a length of thread, and a long obsidian blade.
“Elder, you can’t—”
“Do not meddle, boy!”
He started, as if slapped. The voice issuing from behind the mask hadn’t been Nightshade’s.
The Blue God extended her bony hand, and the glassy blade glittered in the red light. With one swift motion, she cut a long slice that followed the V of Webworm’s ribs.
The man jerked, air hissing as the blade sliced the diaphragm. Without effort, Nightshade batted his flailing arms aside, leaning over him as her hand disappeared under his breastbone.
Spots watched in disbelief as the old woman worked the blade this way and that. When she withdrew her blood-slick hands they gripped the quivering heart. Webworm’s mouth worked like a fish’s in air. Bug-eyed, he stared into eternity.
“Yes,” the old woman said solicitously. “I hear you in there.” Turning, she laid the heart inside the wide-necked jar, slapped the lid down, and sat back, sighing wearily. “Go, Webworm. You’re free now. The serpent is safely removed.”
Spots rose off his seat to stare into the slit in Webworm’s chest. He could see pooled blood in the cavity where the man’s heart had been. The Blessed Sun’s feet were kicking weakly, his hands grasping at air. A gurgle sounded from his throat.
Nightshade was stringing thread around the spindle whorl. “Go now, Spots. Take the heart with you. No matter what, do not remove the lid until you are in the great kiva. The Priests will have returned from the fields and kindled a bonfire. Tell them you come with the offering of an elk heart. Cast it into the flames yourself. Stay only long enough to see that it is indeed burning, and then leave. Once outside the walls, smash the pot.” She glared at him, and once again he was staring into the Blue God’s eyes.
“I understand.” His voice sounded weak.
He took the vessel, a beautiful thing, white-slipped and painted in the striking Green Mesa mountain-and-cloud designs.
He wasn’t prepared for the weight. Gods, a man’s heart couldn’t be that heavy, could it?
“It’s the evil inside,” Nightshade told him. “Now, go. Your duty to me is finished, Spots. When you have smashed the pot, find your woman, but speak nothing of what you’ve seen here.”
He almost stumbled, legs gone curiously awkward and stiff; he stepped out into the cold night. Snow twirled down to melt on the roof. The guard lay sprawled, a darker stain of blood on the wet roof.
The gods help me! Gods, please help me!
In the silent night, Spots made his way down the combination of ladders and stairways to the plaza level. With each step, the pot seemed to grow heavier. He skipped sideways as a serpent hissed from the night.