“And your other runner?” Dune said.
“My other…” Ironwood’s expression slackened. “How did you know I’d sent—”
“Is Cone dead?”
Ironwood gestured lamely. “All we know is that he has not returned to Talon Town.”
Dune grunted as he got to his feet and walked off.
Confused, Poor Singer trotted after him. Ironwood brought up the rear, his footsteps light.
When they reached the sagging white house, Dune ducked under his door curtain. Poor Singer and Ironwood stood outside, glancing uneasily at each other. A single flute note blared, followed by the thump of a pack hitting the dirt floor.
“He’s packing,” Poor Singer said.
Ironwood ignored him, his hard gaze on the swaying curtain.
Awkwardly, Poor Singer added, “He’s a very holy man. I’m sure he’ll help in any way he can. He…”
Dune emerged from his house dressed in a clean brown shirt, his walking stick and pack in hand. He tossed the pack beside a sagebrush and headed straight for Poor Singer. He fell on his knees, bowed his head, and instructed, “This is going to be a grim journey. Sing for me.”
“Wh-which Song?”
“Sing! Before I lay a curse upon you and all your unborn children!”
Poor Singer’s arms shot heavenward, and he Sang the first Song that came to his mind:
“Far away in the north,
Lies the road of emergence
Cloud flowers blossom there.
And … uh … lightning flashes
Something … else … happens,
and
Raindrops fall—!”
“And,” Dune said as he got to his feet, “they have Singers who know all the words.”
Horrified, Poor Singer bit his lip.
Dune glared at him, grabbed his pack, and shouldered past Ironwood, saying, “Let’s hurry.”
“Don’t worry about anything, Elder!” Poor Singer called after them. “Have a safe journey. I’m not going home. I promise! I’ll be right here when you return!”
Over his shoulder, Dune yelled, “Remember what I have told you. Keep your tongue from waggling and practice being a bug. And don’t forget to feed the mice!”
Poor Singer muttered, “I hate mice,” but yelled, “I won’t!”
Fourteen
Father Sun had vanished from the sky, but echoes of his brilliance lingered, reflecting from the flat faces of the cliffs, turning the juniper-filled hollow where Cornsilk and Fledgling sat into a luminous mosaic of purple, deep green, and the palest of golds.
Cornsilk pulled her red-and-white cloak tight about her shoulders. They couldn’t have found a more perfect place. Water bubbled up from the sandstone and trickled down a pine-choked crevice in the rock. A small pool glistened at the base of the slope, surrounded by deer, rabbit, and bird tracks. It made hunting easy. They had already snared a rabbit for dinner.
While Fledgling skinned and rinsed the animal in the cool water, Cornsilk removed a handful of charred cotton from her pack, along with two chert cobbles. A shallow depression in the sandstone had old charcoal in it. She cleaned it out and mounded up her cotton, then carefully sprinkled dried pine needles and twigs over the top. You couldn’t add too many, or the tinder would smother the cotton and it would just smoke, rather than catching fire. She reached for her cobbles and struck them sharply against each other. They sparked. After several attempts, the cotton smoldered, then flared. Cornsilk quickly put her cobbles aside and bent to blow on it.
Orange flames crackled through the pine needles and licked up around the twigs. She added larger and larger pieces of wood until she had a good blaze going, then moved their tea tripod to the edge of the flames to warm. She had collected shriveled rose hips and juniper berries and added them to the water earlier. The gut bag swung, creaking.
“Fledgling?” she called. “How is the rabbit coming?”
Fledgling held up the skinned carcass, smiling. “Almost ready.”
His stubby hands caught the sunset gleam as he lowered the rabbit to the pool and rinsed it one last time. He had their mother’s broad cheekbones and their father’s eyes, but his own pug nose. Long black hair fell down his back, blending with the charcoal diamonds woven into his tan shirt. He looks so much like them. I don’t. Why have I never seen that before?
Uncertainty gnawed at her soul. Cornsilk surveyed their camp. Junipers, she decided, could grow anywhere. The smallest dirt-filled gap in the stone held a tree twice her height. As the cool of evening deepened, they released their sweet scent and set it loose on the wind.
Fledgling walked back and knelt beside her. “Where’s that sharp blade you had?”