People of the Morning Star(14)
“Remember, this is Spotted Wrist. As good as the other commanders have been, Spotted Wrist was under no illusions about the dangers.”
Soft Bread glanced around, then leaned close, whispering, “Has the Morning Star had a vision? Some sign from the heavens? Power alerting him to the outcome?”
“Not to my knowledge.” She tried to summon a faint resemblance to a conspiratorial smile. “You’ll know as soon as I do, I promise.”
“Thank you, Clan Keeper.”
“And if you’ll excuse me, I see Matron White Apron over there talking to Chief Flying Falcon. I need to discuss some business relating to Raccoon Clan with them.”
Even as she escaped Soft Bread, Five Fists Mankiller, the Morning Star’s palace chief, hurried forward. He was a big man, an old warrior with a face so intricately tattooed and faded it looked black. Years spent out in the weather had burned his scarred and grainy skin. The man’s jaw hung crooked on his face, having been dislocated and broken so many times in stickball and war it had never properly healed. Decked in multicolored feathers from distant southern birds, he gave her a crooked grin.
“Clan Keeper? I was starting to panic.”
Blue Heron ensured none of the Earth People were watching before she arched an eyebrow and replied, “Like camp dogs, the Earth People need occasional petting and special treats. Part of my job is to keep them sufficiently in their place, while dishing enough rewards to keep them enthusiastic and dedicated in their service to us.”
“A task at which you are most adept, Clan Keeper.” He lowered his voice, glancing around as if looking for someone. “And the Lady Night Shadow Star?”
“Indisposed,” she rasped.
Five Fists’ dark eyes narrowed the slightest bit. “That will displease the Morning Star.”
She gave him a knowing look. “Old friend, I had her sent to Rides-the-Lightning. She’s been in the datura. Keep that to yourself.”
“Of course, Clan Keeper.” He turned. “The Morning Star asked to see you. He’s there, atop the observation post in the west palisade.”
She glanced at the bastion, saw the lone figure atop it, and nodded. “Always more climbing, isn’t there?”
“Only the most pure, chaste, and disciplined are borne to the Sky World on eagle’s wings, Clan Keeper.”
“Then any chance for me vanished before I reached the age of twelve.”
Five Fists masked a chuckle and escorted her to the ladder that led up to the bastion. A group of soul fliers and sky priests—including Moon Gazer, the Morning Star’s recorder—stood clustered at the ladder’s base. These were the cherished servants and advisors to the living god. Each bowed respectfully to her.
Taking a deep breath, she grasped the uprights, placed a foot upon the first rung, and made her shaking legs lift her tired body to the high platform. She clambered through the hole in the floor, and sighed.
Morning Star didn’t bother to reach down and offer a hand; he might have been oblivious. Instead he kept his gaze on the west, hands braced on the weathered tops of the palisade logs where they protruded through the plaster.
While his body had seen only twenty-six summers, he nevertheless looked older with his perfectly applied face paint. Of medium height, he had a muscular build, evidence of his prowess in chunkey and stickball.
This night he wore an immaculate white apron, its front rounded and narrowing to a point as it fell between his knees. A “soul bundle” had been attached to the fabric, and contained the life-souls of the dead men whose beaded forelocks decorated the bundle’s outside. An eagle-feather cape, dyed a brilliant blue, hung from his shoulders. His hair was pulled tight in a bun at the back of his head. A small, copper-clad, wooden box containing a Spirit bundle had been tied atop his forehead. His ears were covered by triangular shell ornaments: long-nosed renditions of human faces representing the human heads Morning Star had worn for decoration in the Beginning Times.
While his face had been painted white, black forked-eye tattoos ran down his cheeks, and a black band, painted in charcoal grease paint, stretched from the angles of his jaw and across his mouth. His thoughtful eyes were pensive as he studied the far western horizon.
“She’s not coming?” The words were clipped, barely containing the anger.
“No, my lord. And you don’t want her here.” Blue Heron hesitated, fear like little mice, scampered around in her gut. Very few individuals scared her like Morning Star did. “She’s been in the Underworld, dancing with Sister Datura.”
His mouth tightened. “I received a messenger today. Spotted Wrist has taken Red Wing town. He did it as he said he would. Bloodlessly. Matron Red Wing, her two daughters, and that wretched Fire Cat were taken alive. They should be delivered to me in the next couple of days. Perhaps she can work her grief out on their dying bodies.”