People of the Silence(60)
“No,” Crow Beard hissed, and closed his eyes.
Night Sun’s jaw trembled. She reached out and gently placed her fingertips on her husband’s hair. “Crow Beard, I have been waiting for—”
“Go away!”
She sat so still she might have been carved from wood. Ironwood’s fists clenched. He longed to say something to comfort her, but speaking would make matters worse.
Sternlight reached across the dying Chief, lightly touched Night Sun’s cheek, and rose. He walked to Ironwood. When he passed the bowl of warming coals, his white ritual shirt took on a bloody hue. “Do you know where old Dune the Derelict lives?”
“Yes.”
“Dispatch a runner immediately, and tell him…” Sternlight gestured awkwardly. “Warn him that Dune is odd. The old hermit may refuse to come.”
“Even if Dune knows the Chief is dying?”
“Oh, yes. Dune will know instantly why he has been summoned. Make sure the runner tells Dune this is not a request; it is a command from the Blessed Sun.”
“If you foresee such problems, perhaps I should go myself?” I would do almost anything to be away from this chamber. “Dune knows me. My presence might make the chore easier.”
Sternlight glanced at Night Sun. She fussed with the Chief’s blankets and hides, making certain every portion of Crow Beard’s body stayed warm. “While Crow Beard no longer needs you, I fear that Night Sun might.”
They exchanged a knowing glance, and Ironwood lowered his eyes. “She doesn’t need me, Sunwatcher. She is a remarkably strong woman.”
Ironwood turned to go, but Sternlight gripped his shoulder, stopping him, his expression serious. “My words were not an accusation. I meant them sincerely.”
“I know that.”
Sternlight murmured, “I will prepare a mixture of ground turquoise and blue corn for you to take to Dune. But if he shows any reluctance to come back with you, Ironwood, don’t give it to him.”
“You mean that you wish me to deceive one of the most Powerful shamans in our people’s history?”
Sternlight’s dark eyes seemed to expand. “Exactly. And hurry. I will expect you in two or three days.”
“Three. Dune is old and frail. He will need the time. Keep a lookout for my runners.”
“Of course.”
Ironwood ducked through the doorway and strode out into the cold. He glimpsed Sternlight leaving after him, heading in the opposite direction, probably to prepare the turquoise and blue corn.
Ironwood climbed down four ladders, set foot on the snowy plaza, and veered wide around the shuffling Dancers. He made his way through the spectators. His own chamber lay to his left, on the southeastern end of the U-shaped structure.
Adults dipped their heads respectfully as he passed, and a few children reached out to touch the hem of his long shirt. Just a touch, nothing disturbing. When they brought their hands back, they stared at their fingers, young eyes worshipful. Two women smiled. Ironwood nodded politely in return, but the effort made his heart pound.
Silently, he cursed himself. How could memories sixteen summers old still be so vivid?
Night Sun had asked him once “to forget.” As if it were as simple as walling up …
A man’s hoarse scream split the darkness.
Ironwood whirled and pulled his bone dagger from his belt in one smooth movement.
Stunned silence fell over Talon Town, then chaos erupted. People ran in every direction, shouting orders, hurrying children inside. Infants wailed shrilly. Several old people stood up to get a better look at the commotion.
Five warriors dashed through the gate that connected the halves of the plaza.
“What’s happened?” Ironwood demanded.
“Come quickly!” the lanky, square-jawed man in front replied. In the ruddy glow of the plaza fires, Webworm looked as though he’d just witnessed the rebirth of the Monster Children. “Creeper found a dead man.”
Ironwood sprinted past his warriors.
People flooded toward the gate and the western plaza entry, shoving and shouting at each other. Frightened gasps carried on the wind. Ironwood had to force his way through, yelling, “Move. Move!”
When he made it through the gate, he turned left and raced for the entry. He found Creeper, leader of the Buffalo Clan, kneeling over a body, dressed in his magnificent ritual costume. His headdress lay on the ground beside him, the long buffalo beard shining in the amber gleam cast by the town. The body lay sprawled between the two mounds. The fourteen-summers-old slave boy, Swallowtail, crouched behind Creeper, a horrified expression on his face.
“Who is it?” Ironwood asked. “Is it—”
“It’s Wraps-His-Tail,” Creeper answered, and used the back of his hand to wipe sweat from his eyes. Short and fat, Creeper resembled a bear. Thick black hair covered his bare chest and arms. His white kirtle and moccasins shone eerily in the dim glow. “I sent Swallowtail out to fetch more wood for the fire. Swallowtail almost tripped over him, and came running to tell me. When I saw the blood, I yelled for Webworm.”