People of the Morning Star(37)
Some curious communication passed between them, and to Fire Cat’s eyes, while she’d called him an “old friend” Rides-the-Lightning just didn’t look like he wanted to be anywhere close to her.
The priest gave Fire Cat one last dismissive stare, his blind gray eyes narrowing. “I hope he is worth it.”
“We all do,” she whispered, and rose to her feet.
“What have you done?” Fire Cat cried, suddenly dizzy as he gasped for air. It felt as if some part of him was draining away. He fought to keep the room from spinning.
She turned those dark and eerie eyes on his. “Your oath may be sufficient for what’s coming, but I had to be sure. Now, I have claimed both your souls and your body as mine.”
And with that she turned on her heel and followed the old man outside.
“I am taken by a witch,” he managed through gritted teeth, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes.
He reached up, the movement agonizing to his arms, and scrubbed at the tears, hardly aware as a man padded in on bare feet and knelt beside him. With a damp cloth, the man scrubbed at Fire Cat’s little wounds, wiping away the blood.
“Forgive me if this hurts.”
“I … I’m a warrior.”
“Not anymore. You are whatever the lady says you are.”
“Who is she?”
The man gave him a solicitous look. “She’s the lady Night Shadow Star, first daughter of the tonka’tzi, of the Four Winds Clan. The woman whose husband you killed.” He paused, no sympathy in his expression. “I have no idea why you are still alive given the grief she’s suffered on account of you. Whatever you do, I wouldn’t disappoint her. Not if you value what little life you have left.”
Twelve
A warm spring sun burned down on the plaza; wisps of mist rose from the trampled grass on the stickball field. As the sun burned away the last traces of the rain, Blue Heron delighted in the warmth. She reclined on her litter, her attendants clustered around her. She’d come to think, to watch the stickball practice—and to get an informal word with Night Shadow Star.
She glanced around at the crowd that lined the field, mostly older people with spare time on their hands. Here and there, pots, shell, pieces of copper, blankets, sacks of corn, and other goods had been wagered on the two teams’ practice scrimmage. Odds were on the team wearing flaring black skirts.
To the north, Morning Star’s soaring temple seemed to pierce the sky where it dominated the great mound’s heights. A throng of people congregated at the bottom of the ramp that led up to the first, walled terrace. There, in the Council House, Tonka’tzi Red Warrior was already holding audiences with the endless line of chiefs, councilors, Traders, and messengers.
Better him than me. Blue Heron had always preferred the deeper, more intricate games of deception, move and countermove, and the subtle intrigue that went with them.
But I missed Cut String’s attack on the Morning Star.
How? Nothing she had heard had sent so much as a prickle of premonition through her.
Who could have planned it?
Matron Columella? Cut String was one of the Evening Star House matron’s cousins several times removed, and the wily Columella was more than capable of plotting such a strike. But had Columella done so, she would have prepositioned herself to take advantage of a successful assassination. Something that in retrospect would have given her away.
The same for Matron Round Pot at River Mounds City. Next to Columella, Matron Round Pot would have had the most to gain. But again, Blue Heron was aware of no machinations that would hint at the woman’s readiness to take advantage of the ensuing chaos. The signs would have been evident: accumulations of warriors; actions that would have raised her profile; feasts to increase her prestige among the other lineages, or feelers for support.
A yell went up. Blue Heron resettled herself on her litter and returned her attention to the stickball practice. Around her, her attendants shouted support and applauded with glee.
In the middle of the field fifty-some women battled ferociously. Naked to the waist, only short skirts clung to their hips. Night Shadow Star’s team wore red, the opposition black. A melee developed as the two teams struggled for control of the ball. Racquets clattered, long black hair flew as women collided. The hollow thumps of blows carried across the morning grass. Someone bellowed in pain.
The few rules were simple: An opponent couldn’t be struck with a racquet or hand; and a player couldn’t use her hands to so much as touch the ball, let alone catch or throw it. Anything else, including head-butts, body blocks, tripping, kicking, and elbowing, were legal. Black eyes, bloody noses, dislocated joints, sprains, and broken bones were normal. On occasion a dead player was carried straight to his clan’s charnel house when Power completely abandoned him.