People of the Morning Star(78)

Blue Heron took a step toward her litter before turning back and producing the bit of flaked stone that had been wedged in the dead woman’s crotch. “Out of curiosity, have either of you seen stone like this? Perhaps a large chert knife?”

Corn Seed took it, holding it up to the light, and squinting. “Looks like a bit of…” She hesitated, face oddly pale. “Where did you find this, Keeper?”

“Whoever did that”—she jerked her head toward the farmhouse—“broke it off his knife while in the process of coring her sheath out of her hips.”

Corn Seed seemed to tremble, swallowed hard, and offered it back. “I don’t know the stone,” she said softly, eyes distant.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” Blue Heron told her gently as she plucked the knife fragment from Corn Seed’s unresisting fingers. “And, unlike these dirt farmers, at least you’ve got the protection of your clan.”

Corn Seed nodded, cast an almost desperate glance at her brother, and turned away.

“Enough of terror and death,” Blue Heron muttered as she waved to Five Fists. “Take me home.”

Her words might have been brave, but when she was safely on her litter, she looked back. The farmstead seemed so ordinary, one of thousands. Nothing on the outside hinted at the terror within its now-polluted walls and the screaming souls they contained. To one side, Right Hand and Corn Seed stood, their retainers huddling just out of earshot. She could see Right Hand waving his maimed hand, apparently in anger or frustration. Corn Seed had her head down, no doubt still shaken by the horror she’d seen in the farmhouse.

If you only knew the extent of terror being loosed on us, Matron, you’d never sleep restfully again.





Twenty-six

The heavy chunkey stone slapped into Fire Cat’s hand as he deftly caught it. Then, with a swing of his arm, and a roll of the shoulders, he tossed it high again. The beautiful black stone shot up, just shy of the high ceiling rafters, and plummeted. It dropped into his hand with a solid slap.

Whoever had crafted the stone had been a master. The diameter fit perfectly into the palm of Fire Cat’s hand. Both sides had been ground equally concave and polished until he could see his distorted reflection inside. That the piece had been used often was apparent by the dull scuffing on the rim.

When Field Green had seen him pick up the stone, she’d almost cried in horror. For whatever reason, he’d responded with a hard squint that in his old life would have promised mayhem and murder.

By the Piasa’s balls, anything was better than this endless waiting. Field Green had immediately charged off toward Night Shadow Star’s private rooms in the rear, ducked through the heavy hanging, and frozen. Then she’d slowly backed out, ashen-faced, and swallowing hard. She’d given Fire Cat the kind of look that should have shriveled his souls. For whatever reason, the woman had gathered the household staff, ordering them to clean everything, restack the pottery, dust the statuary, carry in firewood and water, carry out the ashes sifted from the burning coals, and straighten the bedding.

Through it all, Fire Cat played with the stone, tossing it high, and catching it. He was beginning to feel the burn in his muscles, the skin on his palm red and sore.

But the control was still there.

Wonder if I’ll ever play again? He’d been good, one of the best in Red Wing town. As if he’d had any choice, being his uncle’s heir and the only son of the Red Wing Matron. He’d barely been able to walk when Uncle first put a little clay chunkey stone in his tiny hand.

Around him the room suddenly went quiet, the slaves and servants freezing where they worked. All eyes had gone toward the rear of the room.

The falling stone smacked into his hand.

Night Shadow Star stood in the rear doorway that led back to her private bed and the shrine. She held the door hanging with one hand, the other propped on the door frame. Her hair was down, falling over her shoulders in a tangled wave that seemed to accent her enlarged eyes and almost slack face. She stood watching him—a hardness reflected in her clamped jaw and the way her full lips pinched, as if in pain.

Has there ever been a more beautiful woman? he wondered as he took in her full body, long legs, and wide shoulders. And how could such a gorgeous woman be wrapped around such a tortured soul? He could see it in her eyes, in the way she stood: dancing with the Datura again.

The servants were staring anxiously between Fire Cat and Night Shadow Star, expressions horrified. She just pinned him with those hollow and shining eyes, head tilting slightly as if hearing some distant voice in the room’s complete silence.

“Leave us,” she ordered, voice barely more than a rasp.