At the age of eight summers, Snake Head had been fascinated by this strange behavior. His mother would dress beautifully and leave before dawn, carrying a basket of food and a jug of tea. She never returned until after nightfall—and she seemed to think no one noticed her absences, or connected them with Ironwood’s.
“You were such a fool, Mother,” he whispered to himself. “About that and so many other things. I came to hate you for betraying my father. I only wish I—”
The birds suddenly went silent. The dogs in the plaza yipped and ran off with their tails between their legs.… Then, with a low growl, the shaking began. Snake Head braced himself in his door frame to keep from stumbling and listened to the roof timbers groan and crack. Stones shook loose from the canyon wall and crashed down to roll across the ground. Sharp cries and shouts rang out. The tremor lasted only a few moments, but by the time it subsided, Snake Head was breathing as if he’d run across the canyon and back. His knees had gone suddenly weak.
Night Sun rushed to her chamber and disappeared inside. Snake Head stared after her.
“Did you feel the rage of our ancestors, Mother?” he whispered. “They’re giving you just a taste of what will happen if I ever tell anyone about the things I witnessed as a boy.”
He rose and, as he walked by the macaw’s cage, thumped the bars until the bird squawked and flapped. Snake Head smiled and proceeded to his bedding. He stretched out on his back, trying to get some rest.
He would need it. The moment his father died, Snake Head would take over as the new Blessed Sun of the Straight Path nation.
Then, his life would truly begin.
Eleven
In front of their house, Cornsilk stood quietly in the morning light while her mother draped a red-and-white striped cape around her shoulders. Thistle had been fussing with Cornsilk’s clothing and pack ever since they’d finished breakfast, over a hand of time ago, making certain she had enough food and water, that her extra clothing would equal any change of weather.
People watched from the roofs of Lanceleaf Village, shading their eyes against the morning sun. All were curious, but too polite to ask the real reason for Cornsilk and Fledgling’s departure.
Thistle retied the laces on Cornsilk’s pack—for the second time—and grimaced. Her mother always fiddled with things when she had something to say but hadn’t yet decided how to put it.
Thistle wore a deep reddish brown dress; the color came from a dye made with ripe prickly pear fruit. A tan blanket draped her shoulders.
“You look beautiful, my daughter,” her mother said. “Don’t forget to tell Deer Bird that this will only be for a short time. Just until we know for certain whether the Tower Builders plan to attack us or not. When we know we’re safe, we’ll come and get you.” She stroked Cornsilk’s hair tenderly. “I miss you already. I must have you back in my life as soon as possible.”
Cornsilk gazed into her mother’s agonized face. Lines etched the skin around her dark eyes, and she looked as if she might cry. “Don’t worry, Mother. I’ll be fine. I should be going. Fledgling is already waiting for me on the trail.”
“Yes, I know, but…” Her mother spread her hands the way she did when coming to an important decision. “Just a moment, Cornsilk.”
Thistle ducked into the house, draping the curtain over its peg. Through the open doorway, Cornsilk could see her as she crossed to the big painted pot at the foot of her bed. She lifted the stone that weighted the top, set it on the floor with a solid thump, and dug around inside.
Cornsilk swallowed hard. She’d never seen anyone open that pot! From her earliest memories, her parents had forbidden her to touch it. For once, she had obeyed. Strange sounds came from that pot late at night, hisses and taps, as if something alive were trapped in there. Something dangerous enough to require that huge rock to keep it in.
Her mother pulled out a folded blanket and held it to her heart before ducking back outside. “Cornsilk,” she said, “if something happens to you or Fledgling—and nothing will, but just in case—I wish you to have this. It’s very precious to me.”
Cornsilk watched in awe as her mother unfolded the blanket. Polished chunks of turquoise studded the centers of the red, black, and blue diamonds that had been woven into the cotton fabric. Copper bells jingled at each corner.
“Where did it come from?” she whispered. “It’s beautiful.”
Thistle carefully tucked it into Cornsilk’s pack, then retied the laces once more. “It was a gift to me many sun cycles ago.”
Cornsilk girded herself, carefully considered the question, then looked at Thistle. “A gift … from my real mother?”