People of the Morning Star(158)

“Of course you will.” He gestured submissively. “It’s easier if you cooperate. Less chance of tearing those beautiful fabrics or breaking the laces on your cloak.”

She stiffened, glaring at him. “You’re serious? Why?”

He pointed at Lace. “As in all things, you will have to follow your sister.”

“I gave her to you! Told you when her husband would be returning … how to gain entry—”

“You did indeed.” His simple smile widened. “And now you have given yourself to me as well. I really do thank you for that. Hopefully the Keeper and the tonka’tzi will also offer themselves.”

“You said that if I helped you, I’d receive the greatest honor in Cahokia!”

“And you will!” he exclaimed. “You, Lace, the Keeper, Matron Columella, good old High Dance, and all the children over there. Can you think of a higher honor than resurrecting the Water Panther’s souls into my body? Think, Sun Wing! What nobler offering is there in all of Cahokia than you?”

She gaped at him. “What are you talking about?”

“Once Lace has been through it, your part in all this will come perfectly clear. You have a choice: you can strip yourself, or my wolves will do it. You see, I have to tie you up now. Otherwise you might decide that you’re … well, unworthy of the honor and try to escape.”





Fifty-seven

“Get up. You need to go.” Piasa’s voice sounded so clear, as if he were whispering from right beside Night Shadow Star’s head.

“Walking Smoke’s going to kill me, isn’t he?”

“Most likely.” A pause. “Does that frighten you?”

“Yes.”

But then Sky Flier had only seen a span of twenty years written in the stars of her birth.

In the blackness of night, Night Shadow Star opened her eyes to her dark room. She eased her blanket aside and rose silently from her bed. She could feel Piasa’s close presence, caught his shadow at the corner of her eye as he flickered from one side of the room to the other.

She stepped over to the storage box where she’d laid her carefully folded black fabric dress the night before. Slipping it over her shoulders, she snugged it at the waist with a rope belt. With a toss of the head she shook her hair back; her practiced fingers quickly braided it.

Pulling tall war moccasins over her feet, Night Shadow Star tied the laces at the top. She loved those moccasins. Makes Three had given them to her as a gift, and they fit perfectly. Wearing them, she could run like the proverbial wind.

From the corner she took her bow and the quiver of arrows. Just the feel of the wood sent a shiver through her. Walking Smoke had given it to her summers ago, a slim stave of Osage-orange wood, springy and resilient. With it, she’d outshot him and Chunkey Boy at marks. They, of course, could drive a war arrow farther, but she’d been a better shot at measured distances.

Now, if Power willed it, she would use that selfsame bow to kill him.

Those had been better days. Before the resurrection. Before that terrible night.

Perhaps the world died that night, and I died right along with it.

Her war club came next. The arm-long ash-wood club was lighter than a man’s, and instead of a knob at the end, hers was fixed with two sharpened copper blades, the edges finely honed.

She took a deep breath as she slipped the war club’s handle under her belt. “It all comes down to me.”

“Yes,” came the whisper from Piasa’s dark shadow. “If you are good enough … clever enough.”

“I am afraid,” she whispered, and ran loving fingers over the bed she’d once shared with Makes Three. Perhaps the only time in her life when she’d been safe, cherished, and unselfishly loved.

The memories she’d hidden in the midnight of her souls had been freed. Never again could she seal them into the darkness to be forgotten. What had happened that night hadn’t been her fault, wasn’t a perverted creation of her twisted imagination.

“Existence is fear, Lady. Death is but the constant shadow of the living.”

She nodded, steeled herself, and eased to the door. The Red Wing slept uncomfortably, his back against the door frame. Fire Cat’s head was down, kinking his throat, causing his breath to rasp in his throat. In the faint light cast by the great-room fire, she could see that he’d placed the helmet to one side, but still wore the poorly fitting armor. The war club had slipped from his sleep-lax fingers; the handle now leaned against his leg.

“He guards you well. Good thing the long vigil has him exhausted.”

Carefully she stepped over him, easing her feet down.

Then she crept through her neat palace, thankful the Red Wing had ordered everything cleaned.