Perhaps Orenda had felt it too, that glacial breath of wind against the back of her neck, as though a warning hand had been suddenly raised.
Several members of the Starbom pe^ed through slitted hangings as the two passed. Those who watched had fear in their eyes, and hatred in their hearts for Nightshade, that she had roused Tharon's anger by taking Orenda into her care. Tharon had vented his rage on them.
When they stepped out beyond the highest pahsade and into the misty morning. Nightshade filled her lungs, sucking in all die damp air she could hold. Blood rushed in her ears as she looked down at the bustling plaza, where at least a hundred people walked, laughing and conversing.
She had forgotten that today was Barter Day.
Every seventh day of the moon, Tharon's finest artisans spread their wares on blankets at the bases of the mounds. Magnificent pots, tools, and fabrics encircled the feet of the creators, who worked to craft new pieces until onlookers stopped to haggle prices.
The song of a flute wafted on the morning air as Nightshade and Orenda went down the steps, across the lower terrace, and through the gate. Soft and joyous, the notes spun by the flute touched Nightshade*s soul, soothing it like a tender hand.
She followed the flute's song across the grass, passing a flintknapper who was heating chunks of brown chert in a small fire so that the stone would be easier to work. An antler flaking tool with a copper tip lay beside his knee, next to a battered hammerstone. Handspikes, arrow points, and long stone knives were displayed on his outspread blankets.
A weaver had set up her loom close by. She worked her colored strands back and forth while blankets and shirts waved gently around her, displayed on a series of wooden racks. One blanket, a magnificent blue creation that sported red, green, and yellow geometric designs, had been woven from the soft undercoats of dogs. Nightshade touched it admiringly before studying the bubbling pots of dye that sat on four fires. Cottonwood leaf buds made the yellow, maple twigs the black, dodder the orange, and blooctoot the red.
As they walked on, Orenda seemed to relax. Her dark eyes brightened and lost some of their usual hunted-mouse look. Nightshade led her to the base of the next mound, where a shell-bead worker was squatting on a cattail mat, with sandstone smoothers, abraders, sawing tools, and drills scattered around her. Nightshade's memory tugged. Could it be? Had Pursh grown so old in ten cycles? The woman had yellowish hair and no teeth. She sucked her gums while she rolled a bead in the sizing slot on her sandstone pallet. When she lifted the bead to examine its size, the shell gleamed like polished elk ivory.
Nightshade knelt before the array of necklaces displayed on the tan-and-green blanket. A magnificent gorget, the size of her hand, caught her eye. Spider spread his legs across the shell in breathtaking splendor.
"How much for this one?"
The old woman glanced up and squinted her half-blind eyes, as though struggling with recognition herself. The shell bead dropped from her fingers as she stiffened her spine. "For you—^Priestess—one deerhide."
"That's half what it's worth, Pursh. Fll send you two."
"Thank you, Priestess," the old woman quavered and hastily picked up her shell bead, refusing to raise her eyes again.
Nightshade took the necklace and put it on. The gorget reflected the morning sunlight like a pearlescent mirror.
Orenda fidgeted and yanked Nightshade's red skirt.
"What's the matter, Orenda?"
Oienda cocked her head.
"Are you all right?"
Orenda whispered, "She's coming . . . soon."
"Who? Who is?"
"That . . . little girl. The one who t-talks to me sometimes in my Dreams."
"Don't you dare cry, Primrose," Nit ordered. "If you cry, ril strike you with my fist. At least ... at least they're both alive."
Primrose shook as the old woman handed him one of the deformed babies: a little boy, his face twisted, wrapped in a green swaddUng blanket. The baby had a misshapen bald skull —not like other newborns'—ballooned at the top and narrowing sharply to a pointed chin. His eyes were closely spaced, and he had no nose, just nostrils in the center of his face. Primrose's soft moan changed to sobs, but no tears came. His eyes had gone as dry as his throat over the past thirty hands of time.
Green Ash had lived—^though she lay as still as a corpse on the soiled blanket. She had collapsed into a sound sleep nearly the instant the infants had been bom.
''Will she be all right?" Primrose asked Nit. Rye was throwing back the window jind door-hangings to let in the slate-blue gleam of dusk.
"Looks like it. The milk vetch will make her sleep for a whole day probably, but she should be up and around by the end of the moon."