The tonka’tzi’s expression looked shocked and confused. Five Fists nodded when Morning Star gestured he follow Night Shadow Star.
“Accord?” Matron Wind asked. “What terms?”
“Patience, Matron. Even the most ancient of enemies can make alliances when they face a mutual threat.” Morning Star might have been staring into an eternity only he could see.
“An alliance!” Blue Heron sputtered. “With whom?”
“What threat?” Red Warrior demanded. “What was Night Shadow Star doing here? And without so much as a skirt? I don’t understand—”
Morning Star cut him off with a slash of his hand.
“She saved my life,” he said simply. He turned his preoccupied gaze on Blue Heron, and she recoiled at the turmoil reflected there. “We shall need your assistance, Clan Keeper. No one knows the patterns of intrigue as well as you.”
And at that moment, two more warriors emerged from the Morning Star’s room. These bore the body of Cut String. Blue Heron gaped at the three arrows, neatly driven through the dead assassin’s back.
The fletching, she noticed immediately, was Five Fists’. But how had he allowed anyone, even a trusted man like Cut String to get so close?
“Night Shadow Star did that?” The woman had been wet, obviously from the rain. Which meant she’d come straight here from Rides-the-Lightning’s? She’d known?
“Yes,” the Morning Star whispered softly, as if reading her thoughts. “Chaos is shifting like an evil smoke. And we are caught in its eddies and swirls. Something terrible is brewing, and unless you find it and stop it, Clan Keeper, Sky, Earth, and Underworld will be burst open like a dropped pot.”
Ten
The faintest graying of dawn barely penetrated Fire Cat’s stumbling mind. Some distant part of him recognized the event, but the rest of him had gone numb; the breath in his weakening lungs was barely enough to keep him awake. And when that failed, he’d go limp, the stretching of his arms pulling his chest tight. Lack of air would send a panicked signal through his souls, and he’d jerk upright, gasping.
Just die, he told himself. As it was, he could no longer feel his hands or upper arms. The terrible pain that was his body had been deadened by the cold rain that soaked his skin and leeched the last warmth from his claylike flesh.
Hands of time had passed since he’d last called to his sisters. Even then he’d received no answers.
Mother, however, somehow had managed to rasp back, “Save your breath, son. They’ll be coming with torches and knives in the morning.”
Why haven’t they already?
Throughout the day, the guards had remained vigilant, keeping the throngs of passersby from doing any more than looking, pointing, or shouting insults.
They’re waiting for something. Someone.
He blinked, trying to clear the droplets of water that ran down his forehead.
Some presence made its way through the numb ache, and with what little energy remained in his sodden flesh, he raised his head.
I’m dying now. First Woman has come for me.
She was inspecting him with eyes from another world, large and dark, almost luminous with Power. Mist lay thick in her long hair, graying it in years beyond the perfect triangle of her face. She had a full-lipped mouth, her nose straight and balanced between delicate cheekbones. The woman’s broad shoulders and muscular arms reminded him of a swimmer’s. Cold-hardened nipples seemed to strain from high, round breasts, and her waist narrowed before flaring in a perfect curve of hips. The woman’s long legs were slim and muscular, adding to the illusion of otherworldliness.
“Take me,” he croaked. “I’m ready.”
Her expression sharpened, her eyes still boring into his. “Do you give yourself to me fully, Fire Cat?”
“Take me.”
How would she do it? Suck his souls from his tormented body? Reach out with her Spirit hands and tear his heart from his chest? He’d once heard that the souls could be drawn out of the body the way a spindle whorl spun thread.
“You are not afraid?” she asked.
He managed the faintest shake of his head. “Ready … to die.”
She cocked her head the slightest, eyes narrowing. “I have paid a terrible price for you. Don’t make me regret it.”
He blinked, confused by the anger in her words, the bitter hatred in her dark eyes. “Price?” He could barely mouth the word.
Just stop the pain!
“If you give yourself to me, your life becomes mine. Do you swear to follow my orders, no matter the consequences?” The words seemed to thunder in his head.
“Yes,” he croaked. “I swear on the graves of my ancestors.” If a Spirit like First Woman pulled the souls out of a body, were they ever allowed to make the journey west in search of the Land of the Dead?