“Then who? You’re Lady Night Shadow Star. Who could possibly give you orders?”
Her expression went distant again. “I do as my master tells me.” And with that she rose elegantly to her feet, and head down, walked wearily back to her private quarters.
Rot and stink take me, I’ve promised on my honor to … serve the insane?
The Serpent
What I am about to attempt has taken years of planning. They never would have thought me capable. Certainly I shouldn’t have accomplished all that I have, been to all those places, done the things I have. Call it the culmination of a family’s love. That’s what families do, don’t they? Provide incentive to exceed expectations?
I certainly wouldn’t have dedicated myself to such intense study of the chaotic Powers of the Underworld. It is there—and to a lesser extent from the Powers of the Middle World—where true guile and stealth are learned.
I’ve watched bobcats, weasels, foxes, and wolves, but the stealthiest hunters of all are the snakes. And they are the true Power of the Underworld. No one stalks as silently, as carefully, or with the invisibility of the serpent. Watch them approach. Not a blade of grass quivers as they close with their prey. Nor do they hurry, but stop, wait, and sense, totally attuned to their surroundings.
Oh yes, I have studied. Now the moment has come to return my love in full measure. The Four Winds Clan is dedicated to the Sky World. But, in all things, there can only be harmony with equilibrium. The Underworld is about to cast the balance, and I am its warrior.
I move with the night, ascending the steps to the palace. I know this place, can imagine the rooms and where my victims await. My feet barely caress the wood as I climb. Sky Beings are creatures of the day, and the guardian posts of Eagle and Falcon do not see me, cloaked as I am in Serpent Power. My body is painted black, the color of death and invisibility. I wear the night like a cloak, hidden within its darkness. I slick a finger through my black grease-paint and smear a slithered black serpent over the shell eyes of the guardian posts. Come dawn’s light, they will find themselves blinded.
Grasping my war club, I ease my way across the porch with a snake’s silence and stop, listening, breathing slowly in the same manner a snake does.
In contrast to the war club in my right hand, the long and deadly chert knife in my left has a light heft, like the deadly serpent’s fang that it is.
Confident that no one watches, I ease the door open and slip inside. There, like a stalking serpent, I wait, allowing my eyes to adjust. I make out sleepers along the wall benches. The fire has burned down to a glowing pit of coals in the center of the room. One by one I study the sleeping forms. Even those closest to me do not stir, but continue to breathe deeply.
Like a serpent through a nest of rodents, I start across the floor, passing the fire pit, veering around the tall clay altar in the rear where the lordly ruler normally sits atop his ornate litter.
Again I pause when I reach the doorway to the sleeping quarters. Looking back, nothing moves, though the shadows seem deeper behind the altar.
Carefully I lower the war club, then insert the thin chert blade to feel for a thong latch. Finding none, I lift the door and ease myself inside.
Again I wait, letting my eyes adjust to the deeper darkness as I catalog the room’s contents. The sleeping bench is against the back wall, and there I see my quarry.
On silent feet I cross to stand above the recumbent form.
The stories of the Beginning Time are told for a reason. What the Morning Star can do, so too, can the Wild One. I must prove myself worthy, capable of following in the god’s footsteps. I expected to feel remorse, some hesitation. Instead, to my surprise, a building anticipation rushes through my veins.
Yes, this night I am the god!
I lean down, setting my war club on the floor. Positioning myself just so, I lower the beautiful stone knife, its carefully sharpened edge keen enough to cut hair. I orient it so that with a single slash, I will sever that beloved throat.
Eighteen
Seven Skull Shield blinked awake. He’d always had that particular skill, as if his souls kept track of the passing night, and alerted him when it was time. If asked, he’d never be able to describe how it worked; it just happened. In this case, he’d ordered himself to awaken halfway between midnight and dawn. Thereafter he’d slept deeply, his belly happily digesting an outstanding meal of roast deer haunch, maygrass cakes, baked persimmons, and acorn mash all washed down with sweetened sassafras tea. If he could say nothing else about the Clan Keeper, her people definitely ate well!
But the time had come to extricate himself from this mess.
He carefully raised his head from the sleeping mat. That intimidating cock-jawed warrior, Five Fists, had given it to him and ordered him to sleep on the floor, just inside the door. A place generally reserved for the dogs.