Her eyebrow raised in challenge.
Fire Cat took a deep breath and shook his head. “How do I tell if you can’t get your souls back from the Underworld? I’m not a priest.”
“If I stop breathing? Well, that’s usually a big clue. Assuming you’re not occupied stroking your rod to relieve your unfulfilled fantasies, or sound asleep when it happens.”
“Hadn’t thought of the former. But then, I haven’t seen a woman whose charms are worthy of a real man’s fantasies since I was taken from Red Wing town. In the end, I guess if your souls are lost in the Underworld for more than a day or two, you’ll eventually figure out I let you down.”
He could see the anger stirring behind her eyes, and said, “Good. Keep that rage. Hold on to it and use it like a weapon. I don’t know much about soul-flying Spirit journeys, but you’ve got a lot better chance of getting back when you’re mad than afraid.”
A flicker of a smile crossed her lips. She glanced away, then stepped over to one of the immaculately carved wooden boxes. Lifting the lid she reached in and removed a small brownware jar.
Setting it on the floor before the altar, she shook her hair back and undid the clasps at her shoulder. Her dress slipped down her athletic body.
Despite his taunts to the contrary, he wondered: How could a woman that perfect, sensuous, and gorgeous be home to such tortured and angry souls? And what was it in a man’s make-up that he could desire her so desperately at the same time he’d have liked nothing better than to drive a stiletto into her heart?
Reconciliation of opposites? Wasn’t that what the priests called it? And wasn’t that what he and Night Shadow Star were all about? Some curious mix, thrown together by Power in a misguided attempt at saving the world?
He watched her drop to her knees before the altar with its mirror-black well pot. She bowed her head, her fluffy black hair gleaming in the lamplight as it cascaded down her back to the twin globes of her rump. Almost reluctantly she extended her long fingers into the brownware pot and dipped out the greasy contents. She was praying under her breath as she rubbed the compound into her temples.
Taking a deep breath, she bowed her head over the well pot to stare down into its depths. Fire Cat slipped out of the doorway, and walked across the main room to the corner. There he knew a box of Makes Three’s old weapons were stored.
Dragging it out into the firelight, he opened the lid. One by one, he removed the contents. When he’d made his selection he returned the box to its place, settled the slightly-too-large armor on his shoulders, clapped the leather helmet to his head, and strung the heavy war bow. The quiver full of arrows, he set beside her door along with a leather-bound wicker shield he took down from the wall. When he checked, she was still singing softly to herself, staring intently into the well pot.
“All right, Lady,” he muttered to himself, “when you come back to your body, let’s see who’s more disgusted that I’m still here. You? Or me?”
Hate her, he might, but after what he’d seen in Lace’s sleeping quarters? The monster might indeed try to get Night Shadow Star. Pray he wouldn’t be coming tonight.
Forty-two
The way Smooth Pebble was looking at Seven Skull Shield, he wasn’t sure if it was outright hatred, or just simple loathing. The berdache had suggestively placed a war club just inside the door, but whether it was to intimidate him, or Black Swallow and his crew, he just couldn’t be sure.
Or maybe it was the song they were singing that upset her. To occupy themselves as they waited on the Keeper’s veranda they’d been singing the song called “Woman with a Cactus-Lined Sheath.” An old Trader’s song about … Well, the title actually did a pretty good job of describing the lyrics.
Why would Smooth Pebble care? She was berdache, and didn’t have a sheath, let alone one lined with cactus spines. And, well, it was just a song, right?
“Is that her?” Mud Foot asked. He pointed beyond the veranda’s drip line.
The song died away as they all climbed to their feet and stared at the warriors surrounding Blue Heron’s litter. The Keeper was born through the gray morning drizzle. A rain shield consisting of a square of matting on extended poles was being held over her by slaves following along behind.
“That’s her,” Seven Skull Shield agreed. He stepped out into the mist, bowed at the two guardian posts depicting fierce-looking birds, then made his way down the steps to where the canoe lay at the foot of the stairs. The craft was a pretty thing, thin-walled and light, and capable of seating four. He wondered if its owner had discovered it was missing yet.