People of the Silence(30)
For many summers cold fear had lain like a slumbering rattlesnake beneath her heart. Tonight, the serpent had raised its head and looked her in the eye, issuing a Spirit challenge. Would she ever face the truth about the child?
She had never believed Sternlight’s story. How could she? She, Thistle, had worked as a mason in Talon Town, helping to construct the multistoried buildings. She had seen the Blessed Sun daily. Even now, so many summers later, she could recall every detail of his face, and in no way did the child resemble him. The arching brows and broad cheekbones were not Chief Crow Beard’s, nor were the thin bones and pale golden skin. As well, at the time of the child’s birth, the Chief had been gone for ten moons on a trading mission to the Hohokam. The child might have been a late birth, but she doubted it. She distinctly recalled the winter night when Beargrass had placed the child in her arms—she had remarked that it looked to be an early birth.
Thistle hugged her knees to her chest. Less than a moon after they’d left Talon Town, terrible rumors had reached them. Young Fawn, one of Night Sun’s slaves, missing for over a moon, had been found dead in a trash mound, her corpse buried beneath a winter’s worth of debris. She had been stabbed twice in the breast, then her belly had been slit open, and the child she’d carried stolen from her womb—no one knew why, or what had happened to the baby.
Curiously, the rumors said that the great Matron of the First People hadn’t made a single inquiry about the murder of a valued slave. But the runners hastened to add that Night Sun had been deathly ill, locked in her chamber with a fever. She had thrashed about like a madwoman they said, refusing to see any healer. Old Dune the Derelict, the great seer, said that she yearned so for her absent husband that the Spirit had left her heart. And, indeed, just after Crow Beard returned, she recovered.
Thistle studied the faint movements of the deerhide curtain. Wind Baby had roused. It would not be safe to say anything aloud now, but the fabric of her soul remembered the day Young Fawn missed her first bleeding. It had been a gorgeous spring day. The blooming desert plants had scented the air with sweetness. The young woman had been proud and excited. For nine moons she had been secretly loving a very powerful man, a man whispered to be close to War Chief Ironwood. Young Fawn claimed he was a warrior, but dared not mention his name for fear both of them would be punished. She had not been bold enough to ask Night Sun’s permission for the coupling, as was proper for a slave. Owners naturally wished to supervise mate selection, hoping for stronger, better slaves. Young Fawn had vowed she would tell Night Sun as soon as she mustered the courage.
The child would have been eight, or eight and a half, moons at the time Young Fawn disappeared. Even if Young Fawn had never asked permission, clearly Night Sun had seen her pregnancy and allowed it to continue. Unless … had she banned even her servant women from her chamber during her fever? Had Night Sun finally risen, seen her pregnant slave, and heard the rumors of the Chief’s indiscretion? Had she ordered Young Fawn killed in vengeance?
The small sounds of the dawn became incredibly vivid. The log in the fire cracked and hissed, flooding the white walls with ruby light. An owl hooted as it sailed over the bluffs. Somewhere up in the pines a pack of wolves serenaded the dying darkness, their mournful cries echoing with haunting clarity in the desert silence.
She lifted her gaze to her children.
No, not Crow Beard’s child. Those probing eyes, that skin the color of winter-brown cottonwood leaves … the father could only be one man. War Chief Ironwood.
Terror took hold of Thistle. She tiptoed to her tool basket and pulled out a hafted chert knife, then silently went to her children. Slumping down against the wall between them, she propped the knife on her knees.
Orders were given and carried out with painstaking accuracy at Talon Town. Lives often depended upon it. Perhaps Night Sun had discovered Ironwood’s dalliance with her slave and ordered Sternlight to kill Young Fawn. But why would the Sunwatcher have taken it upon himself to rescue the infant from the young woman’s womb? Had he owed a favor to Ironwood?
Cornsilk stirred. She reached for her mother’s skirt, and when she touched the yellow hem, she exhaled contentedly. Thistle tenderly held her daughter’s hand.
“Sleep, my daughter. You must get well.”
“Love you, Mother,” Cornsilk murmured. Weakly, she opened her eyes.
Wonder prickled the edges of Thistle’s soul. The young woman had eyes like thunder, powerful, promising a storm. Some of the village children had accused her of having “witch eyes.” Their parents had scolded them for saying such a terrible thing, but Thistle could see the fear on the adults’ faces. Half of them believed it. And the raven that kept returning just made it worse.