People of the Morning Star(184)

“Not to my knowledge, Great Lord,” Blue Heron offered as the silence stretched. “She’d just seen her sister sacrificed by Walking Smoke. Was apparently on the point of having her throat cut when Night Shadow Star burst into the room. It is possible, Great Lord, that her souls were frightened completely out of her body. It might be worth employing Rides-the-Lightning to see if he can call them back.”

Morning Star hadn’t shifted his gaze from Sun Wing. Those tells Seven Skull Shield had described were barely visible. The tightening of the corners of the mouth, the lifting tilt of the head.

“Squadron First.”

“Yes, Morning Star?” Five Fists called from the back, touching his forehead and bowing.

“Detail some warriors to take her to the Earth Clan’s soul flier. By my order he has four days to call her souls back into her body that I might question them.”

“Yes, Morning Star!” Five Fists was already issuing orders. Four very nervous-looking warriors trotted forward, bent, and with wary reluctance, lifted her litter as if it were host to a nest of water moccasins.

“By the Morning Star, no,” Tonka’tzi Wind whispered, eyes clamped shut against tears.

“Keeper,” the Morning Star asked, “if there was any lesson to be drawn from this, what would it be?”

“That we can guard against everyone but those who know us best, Great Lord.” She lifted her head, squinting as she dared to look him straight in the eye. “Walking Smoke changed the rules. He didn’t sneak back into Cahokia seeking to ingratiate himself, or to play subtle political games. He came, knowing our strengths and weaknesses … knowing our hearts and habits. And he came to destroy those who once loved him.”

He almost snorted in response, his nostrils flaring slightly, a hint of worry on his lips.

“And where is he now, Keeper? Sneaking up the stairs as we speak? Secreting himself to assassinate me in my sleep? Stirring the Powers of the Underworld to unleash disaster in our world?”

“I … don’t know.” She felt her heart sink as she stared into his implacable eyes. Then, seized by some insane impulse, she added, “But you’re aware of that. You knew all along, didn’t you? What was it? A whispering of the wind? Some voice from the Sky World that told you he’d come back? That he’d already bent Sun Wing to his will?”

She pointed, hearing gasps from around the room. “That’s why you had me climb the tower out there with you that day. That’s what you were trying to tell me, wasn’t it? That’s why you had me report to Sun Wing. You were keeping her close, watching, trying to determine who was with or against you.”

She raised her hands, knotting them into fists. “By Hunga Ahuito’s shadow, why didn’t you tell me?”

Her sister was staring at her with horrified eyes, her mouth open, fingers to her lips.

Columella, still quivering, made a whimpering sound. Flat Stone Pipe had thrown himself flat, no doubt hoping to be ignored in the coming explosion of rage.

“Do you challenge me, Keeper?” his voice was flat, emotionless. “Do you question me?”

Blue Heron tried to swallow, her tongue sticking. Too far. I’ve gone too far.

She saw it in his eyes, the sharpening for the kill.

Knowing she was already dead, she stated hoarsely, “I might have been able to save some lives if I’d known. Might even have caught him, stopped him before he slit Lace’s throat, hung her husband up like a gutted bird. How dare I, huh?”

So this was what it felt like to condemn oneself to death? It was a hollow, gutted feeling, a draining of hope.

She chuckled humorlessly, exhausted eyes meeting his.

“Squadron First!”

“Yes, Morning Star!”

She didn’t need to look back to know Five Fist was bowing and touching his forehead.

“Take the Keeper out and tie her in a square where the entire world can admire her courage. Make her a—”

“You will not!” a strident voice called.

Blue Heron turned to see Night Shadow Star burst through the open doorway, the Red Wing behind her and to the right. She elbowed Five Fists aside as they passed through the rank of warriors without so much as a raised hand.

She wore a black fabric war shirt with intertwined red Tie Snakes embroidered over each breast. It was belted at the waist where rested a copper-bitted war club, larger than the old one that had burned in Columella’s palace. A Tula bow hung from her shoulder; the quiver strapped on her back bristled with arrows.

Behind her, the Red Wing wore battle armor; a wooden carapace and breastplate bound by fitted leather protected his vitals. It certainly fit better than what she’d seen him wear last time. He, too, carried a Tula bow, arrows packed in the quiver on his back; his war club, brandished in his right hand, looked more wicked than hers.