“Here, in my pack.” Cornsilk drew out her obsidian blade. As long as her hand, it was only a finger-width across.
“I’ll hold the rabbit,” Fledgling said, “if you’ll butcher it.” He pulled a back leg straight and held it out for her.
Cornsilk carefully sliced through the pink muscles and down to the leg joint. She had to work her blade through the tough tendons to get inside the joint, pop it loose, and continue through the meat on the opposite side of the joint.
The leg came off in Fledgling’s right hand and the remainder of the rabbit swung in his left. “Let’s cut off the other hind leg, and save the rest for breakfast.”
“All right. Here—let me skewer that leg and get it started. Then I’ll cut off the other one.”
Cornsilk pulled a long thin stick from the woodpile by the firepit and slid it through the leg. She propped it near the edge of the flames and picked up her blade again.
As she cut, Fledgling looked up at the twilight sky. “It might be a clear night. If so, it’s going to get very cold.”
“Hard frost by morning.” She watched her blade to make certain she didn’t slice off any of her brother’s fingers. “After we eat, we’ll gather more wood, then we’ll move our blankets close. We’ll be all right.” She glanced up and saw Fledgling’s brows draw together in worry. “What’s wrong, brother?”
The leg came off in Cornsilk’s hand and she reached for another stick from the woodpile. Fledgling watched her slip the stick through the tendons on the lower leg and lean it close to the flames. The first piece of rabbit already sizzled, dripping fat onto the gleaming coals. It smelled delicious.
Fledgling rose and took the rest of the rabbit carcass to the nearest tree. Removing the cord he wore as a belt, he tied it to the rabbit’s forelegs and looped it around a high branch, to keep the meat from hungry animals. After he’d knotted the cord, he turned. The carcass swung behind him. “You’ve been very quiet,” he said. “Is something wrong?”
Cornsilk longed to tell him how confused she felt, that she was the hidden child, but she’d promised her mother. She looked away, tucked her chert cobbles in her pack beneath the magnificent turquoise-studded blanket, then leaned back against the pack to watch the fire glow flicker over the towering cliff. The light moved like silent golden wings, fluttering, swooping. “I’m just tired, Fledgling.”
“Cornsilk?” Fledgling returned and sat cross-legged beside her. His hair fell over his skinny chest. “I’ve been thinking.”
Cornsilk reached for their clay cups, sitting close to the tripod, and used hers as a dipper. She filled her brother’s cup first, handed it to him, then dipped out her own. The rich fragrance of rose hips encircled her face as she sniffed the steaming brew. “About what?”
Fledgling looked at her over the rim of his cup. “Do you remember much from when we were little?”
Cold leeched up from the rock, biting at her legs like tiny teeth. She shifted to a new position. “No, not very much.” And how I wish I did.
“Do you remember that Mother and Father said we were born at Talon Town?”
“Yes. What about it?”
“I remember many things,” he said, “but nothing of Talon Town.”
“Why would you? Mother said we left there right after we were born. It would be stranger if you did remember it.”
Wind Baby barely breathed tonight, tenderly touching the juniper and pine needles, fanning the flames of their fire. The scent of faraway rain carried on the breeze.
“Do you think people there remember us?” Fledgling asked.
“Somebody must.”
The gleam of the fire tipped his lashes as he looked over at her. “I was wondering if Ironwood would recognize … one of us.”
Fear prickled her veins. “And I wonder if any of Ironwood’s enemies would recognize us.”
Fledgling fumbled with the fringe on his blanket. “I know it’s dangerous, but I—”
“You or I could end up dead.”
A pained look creased Fledgling’s face. “Cornsilk, I must know who my parents are. I—I want to go. To ask Ironwood myself.”
Cornsilk turned both rabbit sticks, taking her time so she could think. “Fledgling, I have been asking myself many questions over the past two days, and the scariest question of all is about Ironwood. I mean, haven’t you wondered why he would give up his child?”
“Yes.”
“He was War Chief, even then. Such a powerful man could have kept his child if he’d wished to. Couldn’t he?”