Ripple’s head rolled back, his breath white in the half-light. “Cold Bringing Woman? I didn’t betray you.”
“No,” Bad Cast agreed, trying to pull his limp friend up. “You did fine.” He looked up at Wrapped Wrist. “You’ll have to help; he’s delirious.” And I’m already half frozen.
Whistle stood to the rear, behind the crowd that thronged the third-floor roof, and watched as Burning Smoke’s warriors did their best to pull the bonfire apart on the high summit.
He turned his eyes to the southwest, wondering what the Blessed Sun’s guards on the high promontory of distant Smoking Mirror Butte were making of this. Assuming they had seen the fire spring to life, of course. Their keen eyes weren’t always focused on the horizon. Sometimes a game of dice took precedence.
No matter—that was Larkspur and Burning Smoke’s problem. Let them explain as best they might.
He was mulling that when a petite shape sidled up beside him. He looked down, aware of her scent: a combination of yucca and wild rose.
“How do you think it got started?” she asked.
“I’d say a fire bow,” he answered dryly. “Do they do this to you often, Matron?”
“Never before.” She sighed. “I’ve already sent out runners to stop the war party Webworm or Leather Hand will be dispatching and turn them back.”
“It will make an interesting report to the Blessed Sun.”
She stiffened; then her cool hand came to rest on the swell of his arm. “Whistle, perhaps we could come to an arrangement? Some way to soften the Blessed Sun’s scrutiny?”
“What did you have in mind?”
“Why don’t you come down to my rooms? You’ve been running the roads for a long time. I have warm water steaming over the fire. Perhaps you’d like some of this trail grime washed away.”
He gave her a sidelong look. “The last time one of the First People trifled with a warrior below her class, it ended in disaster.”
“I’m not Night Sun,” she replied. “And I’m not planning on having your child.” She hesitated, glancing at where the crowd still watched the fading red glow of the signal fire. “I’ve spent nearly two years here without a man’s company.”
“What about your husband?”
“Away in the south. He has his duties to the Blessed Sun. He keeps an eye on the Hohokam and Mogollon who have gathered at the base of the Rainbow Serpent. They’re building a ball court there, can you believe?”
“I can.”
“Then perhaps you understand long separations … and how lonely a person can be.” She paused. “Are you an influential man? One who might speak persuasively to the Blessed Sun about the situation here? Let us say, a favor for a favor?”
He was on the verge of finding an excuse to get away, but saw shadowy figures hurrying across the western plaza. They looked as if they carried a heavy burden.
“Yes, Matron, your company sounds most appealing. Assuming it can be shared without complications for either of us.”
She tightened her slim fingers around the muscles in his arm. “Believe me, warrior, I have my ways.”
She led the way, descending the ladder and walking to her doorway. The two old women were still seated, shelling corn in the darkness as if it were the most normal thing in the world.
“See that no one interrupts us,” she told one of the crones, then led Whistle into her spacious quarters.
Leather Hand looked up at the sky, awash with the myriads of Evening People in all their formations. So many of them twinkled—like patterns of souls gleaming against the soot-blackness of night. Wind Baby still blew up from the southwest, his hot breath tempered by night, but his touch remained dry, sucking for any hint of moisture.
Behind him the collection of buildings that composed Saltbush Farmstead formed silhouettes against the sky. The granaries were dark squares, while the pit houses made rounded humps on the pale plaza. Reddish yellow light painted the ladders protruding from the roofs.
Here, in this place, the world had changed. He could feel it: a brooding that seemed to rise from the drab desert land around him. He cocked his head, listening, trying desperately to hear the wailing Spirits of the dead. He kept turning, looking over his shoulder, as if he could sense a dark presence. Each time nothing but empty desert met his eyes.
What was it? Something dark and Powerful, a malevolence tempered with curiosity, as if it watched him. Recognition lay just beyond the threshold of his understanding.
He shook his head. Nonsense. He was alone but for the wind. Nonetheless he could feel the dead, aware that part of their breath-heart souls were within him—that more than their flesh, he had gorged on bits of their souls.