“You know that if there were anyone else …”
“You don’t have to say it.”
Fifty-three
The village cooking fires blushed color into the towering lava cliff and gave the cold evening air a pungent smoky fragrance.
Ecan hurried along the base of an old lava flow that stuck out of the side of Fire Mountain like a low shoulder. He was just east of Salmon Village, where the trees gave way to a basalt cliff.
He kept glancing over his shoulder as he hurried along the dark trail. Cycles ago chunks of stone had cracked loose from the sheer cliff and tumbled down to create a wind-smoothed garden of boulders. These in turn provided a home for brambles of raspberries, currants, and, where the water seeped, cranberries. As night deepened, the place turned black and foreboding. Angular sections of basalt overhung the trail like monsters bent on hearing his passage.
Paintings covered the rocks. At the tops of the tallest boulders, white spirals glowed in the pale winter moonlight. Lightning bolts zigzagged out from the spirals and punctured the red hearts of wolves and bats.
When the path entered a stand of firs, it became pitch black. He could barely see two paces ahead, and slowed, letting his fingers glide along the porous rocks.
The sweet smell of moss seeped from the cave hidden in the boulders ahead. He placed his feet with care. In summer, the cave provided a cool haven, but in winter, the moisture turned to ice.
Ecan stepped around the last turn. The old lava tube resembled a dark womb cut into the cliff.
He stopped at the mouth of the cave. “Are you here?”
His voice echoed, coming back to him sounding tense and edgy.
No one answered.
“Wind Scorpion sent me.”
Nothing.
He ducked inside and blinked at the utter darkness. Though he couldn’t see it, he knew the cave stretched three tens of hands across and two tens high. A steady stream of water dripped from the ceiling and splashed into a small pool in the rear.
The scent of moss bathed his face.
Ecan braced his back against the entry. The stone fetishes in the bag tied to his belt clicked with his movements. He could feel them, hear them, whispering with excitement.
Since Dzoo had told him about the assassins Cimmis had sent to kill his boy, he’d been able to think of nothing else. His son’s face and laughter filled Ecan’s every waking moment. He had to do something. No matter how much it cost, or—
Someone breathed in the rear of the cave, near the pool.
Fear tickled the base of Ecan’s throat. His hand dropped to the stiletto on his belt. “Show yourself.”
A form moved in the darkness, no more than a stirring of shadows.
“Wind Scorpion sent you?” The voice was little more than a hoarse whisper.
“I am—”
“I know who you are, Starwatcher.”
A tall body moved forward, gradually changing from a black silhouette to a gray apparition. He wore an obsidian-black cape decorated with red coyote tracks. The head remained deeper in shadow, and at first all Ecan could see were the eyes, gleaming with an unnatural light. As the apparition took another step, Ecan’s breath caught in his throat.
It had to be a mask, but in the darkness, he would have sworn he saw a huge coyote’s head perched atop a human body.
“Why would Wind Scorpion send you here?” the breathy voice asked.
“I asked if he knew who Cimmis might send to murder my son. He told me that if I came here, I might find someone who would be of service.”
A long silence passed. Then the breathy voice took on an eerie sibilance. “I shall have to have a talk with this Wind Scorpion.”
The shiver of fear ate through Ecan. He was used to inspiring terror, not experiencing it.
The masked figure stopped opposite Ecan and gazed outside at the starlit boulders. “You must be desperate to have called upon me, Starwatcher.”
“I am desperate.”
“What do you want?” The coyote mask with its white teeth, pointed ears, and furred brows shone when he turned.
“I have a job for you.”
“Indeed? How will you pay me? My fees are exorbitant.”
Ecan took the bag from his belt and held it out to the dark figure.
The eyes behind the mask fixed on the bag. “What is it?”
“Open it and look.”
The second Coyote’s hand touched the bag, he stopped, as if frozen. “Where did you get these?”
“It doesn’t matter, but I assure you, they are fetishes of great Power. With them—”
“I know what they are!” The voice boomed now, undertones laced with anger. “Where did you get them!”
“The Singer, Pitch, had them.” Ecan tried to swallow his fear and failed.
“Fascinating.”
Ecan waited, locking his knees to kill the weakness in his legs. Coyote remained as he was, still holding the leather sack, his head cocked, as if listening to the voices.