In the past two moons, his body had mostly healed, though walking still pained him. The empty left eye socket ached all the time, but the steady leakage of pus had tapered off to a yellow crust. He adjusted the patch he wore over it and looked down at his arms, at the intricate tracery of whitening scars. Pink ridges of tissue criss-crossed his face, too, but his chest, legs, and back were worse.
When they reached the crest of the hill, he stopped and looked down the trail. Cornsilk, Poor Singer, and Dune walked a short distance behind. Dune had picked up a walking stick and used it to gesture with, as well as for support. He was stabbing it at Poor Singer. The two had been arguing about this trip for days. Poor Singer claimed he had to find out if the Keeper of the Tortoise Bundle was real. To which Dune replied, “Real where? In this world, or another?”
Ironwood smiled.
Night Sun turned to follow his gaze. “Are they still at it?”
Ironwood’s gaze caressed the graying black hair that fluttered about her beautiful face. Poor Singer had talked his grandmother into providing new clothing for them, and Night Sun wore a red dress with black lightning spirals around the hem. She looked lovely. They’d left Gila Monster Cliffs Village as soon as Ironwood could walk, but they hadn’t gone far—just up into the mountains. They’d spent a full moon in a wondrous little canyon filled with currant and berry bushes, surrounded by tall pines and oaks.
Since then, they’d been slowly making their way north through the ash-coated deserts. They didn’t have the strength for rapid travel, and with raiding warriors and refugees on the trails, care had to be taken. They’d adopted a leisurely pace, stopping often to let Dune rest, to hunt or fish—for none of the villages would have welcomed them. Besides, since they didn’t know where they were going, it mattered little when they arrived. Up there, in the far northern mountains, they would find a home.
Ironwood grinned. “Poor Singer maintains this is the way, and Dune says he’s lost his senses. That no one with any brains would live in this cold country.”
Night Sun laughed, and the sound melted Ironwood’s heart. It had been a long time since he’d heard her laugh with true joy.
Dune waved his walking stick at Poor Singer and the youth skipped sideways with a yip. Cornsilk grinned at their antics. Despite her rich tan, an irregular splotch of white scar tissue marred her cheek.
We all have scars. Cornsilk’s and mine are just easy to see.
“I must admit,” Night Sun said, sighing, “I really love these cool mountains. The pines, the streams, the abundance of game. I could be very happy here, Ironwood.”
Ironwood grasped Night Sun’s hand and held it tightly. “As soon as you want to stop, tell me. I’ll start cutting stones for a house.”
She slipped her arm around his waist and pulled him close. “Do you think the rumors are true? That the Mogollon joined forces with the Tower Builders to attack Straight Path Canyon?”
“The Trader who told us said he’d heard they were going to attack the canyon, not that they had. I’m sure Webworm has heard the same rumors. He’ll be taking the proper precautions.” Ironwood tenderly smoothed loose hair behind her ear. “Do you miss home so much?”
Night Sun looked away, her gaze roaming the pines and quaking aspens. “One does not forget a lifetime of responsibility. In a sense, I always will be Matron of Talon Town. But being worried about them doesn’t mean I want to go back, my husband. I don’t. I only regret that you and I haven’t found our place yet.”
“We will. I want to keep going north, far away from Straight Path country.”
Night Sun rested her head against his chest and tightened her arms around his waist. “So do I.”
As Dune, Poor Singer, and Cornsilk came closer, Ironwood heard Dune say, “You don’t search for gods, boy, the gods search for you. And usually, after they’ve found you, you wish they hadn’t.”
Poor Singer shook his head. He wore a blue shirt and had tied his hair in back with a length of cord. The style accentuated the narrowness of his face and the size of his dark eyes. “I don’t think she was a god, Dune. I think she was a woman. A human being.”
“Human beings don’t live in turquoise caves, you imbecile. Gods do.”
Ironwood looked southward. Far away, on the other side of those jagged peaks, sat Fourth Night House, and the turquoise mines of the Straight Path nation. Could such a cave truly exist? Ever since Poor Singer had told the story of the Keeper, Ironwood had been trying to imagine where the cave might be. Large veins of turquoise were very rare and precious. Even if they found it, the cave might be heavily guarded. On the other hand, the Keeper might have enough Spirit Power to keep the cave hidden from probing eyes.