Creeper looked, blinked, and then clapped his hands, calling, “Excellent, Blessed Sun. You look like a god.”
“Yes,” Desert Willow added, “but which one?”
Webworm paced and skipped, turning so that the magnificence of his costume could be seen. The wooden parts had been painted with azurite and malachite along with charcoal, hematite, and plant-pigment-based paints.
“Why, Sun Eagle, of course. We’ve almost forgotten him in our worship. War Chief? What do you think of this?” Even as Webworm spoke, the lower jaw of the eagle’s beak dropped, only to snap shut with a loud clack. Webworm repeated the performance, diving like a bird, snapping his beak at an unimpressed Desert Willow.
“Remarkable, Blessed Sun,” Wind Leaf added dryly, clapping his hands in approbation. The sound echoed hollowly within the kiva.
“Sun Eagle is only a god out in the Red Rock country,” Creeper said with a frown. “Those people have always had peculiar ideas. They even portray the Flute Player as a cricket, of all the silly things.”
Webworm sighed. “Old friend, the idea is to reinforce the notion that we respect all of the old gods. I want to reassure people that we take their heritage seriously, especially in the Red Rock country where the famine is going to be severe. They have to understand that we sympathize with their plight. The last thing we want to do is belittle them, even though they do think Flute Player is a cricket.”
Webworm stopped, evidently seeing Desert Willow’s distaste reflected in her hard eyes. He spun around two more times, then reached up and lifted the eagle mask from his head. A look of satisfaction lit his round face. “I think it will help, don’t you?”
Wind Leaf asked, “Have you discussed this with Blue Racer?”
Webworm made a gesture, the motion pulling on the string that worked the elaborate wooden beak. “He’s down in Straight Path Canyon, sitting atop Spider Woman’s Butte … doing something with the Sun Marker. But as soon as he comes back I’ll—”
“Summer solstice is two moons past,” Desert Willow said. “What could he possibly be doing up there?”
“I think he’s trying to understand this drought. I told him there had to be some reason why the rains won’t come. If it’s tied to Sister Moon’s homecoming I want to know about it.” Webworm waved it away. “But the old gods, I remember how it was when I was little, sitting at Mother’s feet during the ceremonies. They inspired me.”
“I remember,” Creeper said fondly. “Your mother was still young. You should have seen her. She was among the most beautiful of women. Her souls …” He winced and looked away.
Wind Leaf caught Desert Willow’s roll of the eyes. Her boredom must have rivaled his own.
“It’s no wonder our authority is being challenged,” Webworm continued. “We’ve got to go back to the old ways. I half suspect that’s why we’re afflicted with this drought. We’ve strayed from the ways of our ancestors.”
“What does that weigh?” Creeper asked, pointing to the splayed wooden fan.
“Quite light, actually.” Webworm beamed. “And cunningly made. Look here, see how brightly they’ve painted it?”
While Creeper fingered the wood, Wind Leaf took a deep breath, considering the things he still had to do. Guards had to be posted, reports needed to be made to his deputies. Someone was going to have to do something with old Flat Nose over in the Red Rock country. Too many rumors tied him to the molestation of young girls. Then there were the “Sotol People”—barbarians from the cactus-and-limestone country to the southeast. They were a thorn to the settlements in the southern Great River country. Never a major threat, their raids were more of a nuisance, and no one really wanted to follow them out into their desolate rocky wasteland to hunt them down.
He was so preoccupied that it took a moment to register the scuffing steps echoing from the southern entrance. He turned, glancing up to see a burly warrior, sandals slapping the sandstone steps as he descended to the kiva floor, made the bow of obedience to the gods, and hurried forward. He wore a warrior’s shirt and had the look of a winded runner. Sweat had left a creased path down the scar that marred his cheek.
“Blessed Sun!” the man called as he approached.
“Yes? Who comes?”
“I am Turquoise Fox, Blessed Sun. I serve with Deputy Leather Hand in the north.” He bowed and touched his chin in respect.
Wind Leaf nodded. “I remember you. What is the word on the beasts that broke into the Blessed Sun’s stores and killed our priest?”