People of the Silence(51)

The burly slave master, Gray Wood, stood atop the eastern mound, his red shirt billowing in the wind. He was waving his bow to catch Night Sun’s attention. He called, “Welcome back, Blessed Night Sun!”

“Good day, Gray Wood!” she shouted. “How is my husband?”

Gray Wood lifted a hand uncertainly. His shadow stretched long and straight, pointing eastward. His loose hair glinted blue-black. “Only the gods know. But surely he will get better now that you are home.”

Night Sun smiled weakly and hurried on into the narrow portal. Through the entry, she could see the Yamuhakto, the Great Warriors of East and West, who stood painted on the curving rear wall of Talon Town, thirty hands tall, magnificent. The rich blues, reds, and yellows of their terrifying masks took on an unearthly light in the afternoon sun. The lightning bolts in their upraised hands were aimed down at the plaza, at anyone or anything that might dare disrupt the sacred harmony of the Straight Path people.

Over the past twenty summers, Sternlight had often Dreamed that Power was abandoning the canyon, disowning the Straight Path people. He’d warned that if they didn’t do something soon, they would see their world crumble to dust. Last summer, Sternlight had gone out into the desert to fast and pray, then had returned at a run, shouting at Talon Town’s artists to paint everything—interior and exterior walls, pots, clothing, jewelry—anything that would hold an image, a shred of the vanishing Power.

Then he had broken down and wept for four days and four nights, until he’d had no more tears to give.

Suddenly frightened, Night Sun ran through the entry, passing, to her left, the slave chambers and the Cage where they kept prisoners locked up. Three large kivas dotted the plaza in front of her. Ladders thrust up from their roofs, allowing entry and exit. A long strip of rooms cut through the middle of the plaza to her right, dividing it in half. Ahead, five stories of rooms rose, each story stepped back, resembling a huge staircase. Ladders led from roof to roof.

She bowed briefly to the Great Warriors, then began climbing, gripping the pine poles, her feet working, scaling the next ladder, and the next, until she reached the fifth story. Though most chambers in Talon Town were entered by ladders through holes in roofs, this block of rooms had T-shaped doorways. The shape helped cool the rooms in the summer. The cool air near the floor was hindered from escaping by the narrow base of the “T,” while the hot air vented through the wide top. Ironwood stood beside the doorway she sought.

Night Sun stopped, breathing hard, and peered into his eyes. Tall, sun-bronzed, he leaned against the white-plastered wall with his muscular arms folded. He’d braided his graying black hair into a single plait that draped over his right shoulder. Muscles bulged under the fabric of his long red shirt. He wore black leggings and sandals. At the age of almost forty-six summers, the War Chief’s violent life showed in his face. Deep lines etched his forehead and curved around his wide mouth, accentuating the flatness of his nose. Even when he smiled these days, he looked sad, though deep inside her, he would always be the handsome laughing youth she had loved so desperately.

But that was a long time ago, wasn’t it, Ironwood? Back when we were both young and outrageously foolish.

As she walked toward him, he straightened, and tenderness softened his dark eyes. “Forgive me,” he said as he extended an arm to block the door. “Crow Beard left orders not to let you enter his chamber.”

“That doesn’t surprise me, Ironwood. He’s never known what was good for him—or for anyone else, for that matter. Is he alive?”

“Yes. Barely.”

“Then he needs me. Get out of my way.” She gripped his arm and tried to force it down.

He held fast. “Blessed Night Sun, would you have me disobey—”

Night Sun swiftly ducked beneath his arm and stalked across the elaborately painted room toward her husband’s bedside, where Sternlight knelt. Dressed in white, his long hair shone as blackly as it had twenty summers ago. He gazed at her solemnly.

“Aunt,” Sternlight said, “you know that I am honor-bound to tell you—”

“I do know it, nephew,” she cut him off. “Which means there is no need for you to say it. Besides, Crow Beard is asleep. He cannot punish you for something he does not witness.”

Sternlight raised an eyebrow. “True.”

Night Sun knelt opposite him and gazed upon her husband. What she saw frightened her. Thin gray hair clung to his freckled scalp in damp wisps, and his wrinkled face was flushed. His chest moved rapidly beneath the blankets.

She bent forward to touch his gaunt cheeks. “Hallowed gods,” she whispered. “What have you been doing for his fever?”