People of the Silence(31)

The older Cornsilk grew, the less she fit in. How long would it be before she became a stranger to her own clan?

Wind Baby flipped the door curtain and crept inside to listen to them. The fire hissed and popped, sending out a wreath of sparks. Thistle waited until Wind Baby left before she even allowed herself to think about the subject again.

Ironwood had many enemies. Did any of them suspect he had a child?

She sank back against the wall. They had but one choice: to run, to take the children far away.

Tomorrow she would tell Beargrass her suspicions about Ironwood, try to convince him that Sternlight had lied, and show him the danger they faced.

Would he believe her?

She gripped her knife hard.

She had to make him.

* * *

A furious gust of wind whistled around Talon Town and flapped the leather curtain over Snake Head’s doorway. He leaned back against the white wall of his personal chamber and snugged his tan-and-yellow blanket more tightly about his shoulders. Around the curtain, he could see Evening People sparkling like crushed quartz crystals tossed upon a soft black mink hide. The fragrance of burning sage drifted on the night. In the middle of his floor, his warming bowl sizzled and flared redly, the coals casting a crimson gleam over the gloriously painted walls.

The chamber spread four by five body-lengths across. On the northern wall, the Badger Thlatsina Danced, his black body encircled by a ring of enemy scalps. Snake Head had cut them from the heads of eight Fire Dogs himself, trophies of the battles he’d fought and won. He smiled at them. His people performed a Scalp Dance to transform the hairy prizes into water and seed beings, so that they might bestow long life and great spiritual Power upon the owner—but he’d never felt any. To Snake Head, scalps were dead human hides, nothing more.

In the southwestern corner of the room, a red macaw fidgeted in its large willow-stick cage. It slid back and forth on its foot pole, squawking softly. A bowl of piñon nuts and sunflower seeds sat on the floor of the cage, surrounded by cracked hulls. The big bird stretched six hands from beak to tail and had a magnificent white face with blue, yellow, and red feathers. The macaw watched him intently.

Snake Head kept his sleeping mats on the far side of the room, because the malevolent bird took any opportunity to bite him. Once, just after Snake Head had obtained the bird from a Trader, he’d slept near the cage and accidentally rolled into the bars in his sleep. He’d awakened when a taloned foot nearly clawed his ear off.

Bowls clattered behind Snake Head, and he turned to see Mourning Dove bend to collect his dirty supper dishes.

Tiny, delicate, she had a face like a chipmunk, with plump cheeks, wide eyes, and a pointed nose. When Snake Head stood, the top of her head barely reached the middle of his chest. She wore a beautiful red dress tonight—one he’d given her. Olivella shells from the western ocean decorated the fringes on her sleeves, clicking pleasantly as she went about her nightly duties.

She glanced up, saw him watching, and asked, “May I go now, Blessed Snake Head?” She returned her gaze to the coals in the warming bowl, but her voice shook.

Snake Head sipped the cup of tea she’d made him. It tasted sweetly of dried phlox petals. “No, let’s talk for a time.”

“But I—I promised Creeper I would—”

“Creeper is one of the Made People,” Snake Head reminded. “I am one of the First People. My needs come before his.”

“Yes, of course, forgive me.” Mourning Dove set the pile of dishes on the white plastered floor and stood. “What is it you require, Blessed Snake Head?”

“Look at me.”

She lifted her gaze, and Snake Head smiled. Her eyes fascinated him, drawing him as a wounded rabbit draws a mountain lion. Fear and hatred shone in those soft brown depths: for him, and him alone. The fire of her emotions stirred his passions. Though she had always been his mother’s slave, she’d been assigned to take care of Snake Head since he’d been a boy. And he’d used her. At the age of ten summers, he’d first ordered her to lie with him. During the insanity of adolescence, he’d called her to his chambers as often as four times a day. She had serviced him without a word, speaking only when spoken to.

She’d become his only confidante, which he found very ironic. He had been a privileged child, and she had always been a slave. Well, not always. At the age of thirteen summers, her Fire Dog mother had been taken captive by the northern Tower Builders. Mourning Dove’s father had been a Tower Builder. She’d lived among the barbarians for the first eight summers of her life, until she’d been stolen by Straight Path warriors. The strange mixture of traditions had given her curious notions. She believed in the prophecies of her Fire Dog mother’s people, for example, but traced her descent through her father, as did all Tower Builders.