Misty silver veils wavered over Talon Town, shifting and twisting in the wind. His gaze fixed upon them. If it would only rain like this during the growing season, perhaps some of the tension would ease. The Straight Path people would begin planting corn, beans, and squash in a little over a moon, depending upon Sternlight’s solar observations. He prayed the thlatsinas would send the rains then.
Inside the chamber, Dune and Snake Head spoke in low, strained voices. All day they had been arguing over Crow Beard’s dead body, and Ironwood had grown tired of it. He was here because Dune had asked him to stand guard, and Snake Head had agreed—but only until Webworm returned.
Wind Baby gripped Ironwood’s cape and flapped it around his shoulders like red wings. He tugged it closed again. Long ago, Wind Baby had been his Spirit Helper, but many summers had passed since he’d heard whispers in the wind.
In a voice too low for those inside to hear, he said, “I need you, Spirit Helper. Come. Speak with me. Advise me. I beg you.”
In the stormy sky, Thunderbirds growled and soared, leaping from cloud to cloud. Lightning flashed and Ironwood saw a group of slaves huddled in the plaza five stories below. Ordinarily, at dusk, all slaves were confined in the circular windowless chambers on the edges of the plaza. For them to be caught outside at night, without the permission of a clan leader, or one of the First People, was a crime punishable by death. Snake Head must have assigned this group a special task. They sat in a small circle with blankets pulled over their heads. A tiny fire burned before them.
Ironwood wondered what they discussed. He knew so little about their lives. Slaves were taken by warriors during raids. As one of the spoils of victory, warriors could keep as many as they could guard, though most were given away to First People. In exchange, the warriors received the blessings of the gods, and curried the more secular favors of their rulers.
Slaves almost never spoke a civilized tongue, and they worshiped alien gods. Ironwood had owned as many as thirty slaves at a time, but he’d found that the expense of feeding, clothing, and guarding them required more than he gained in status. And, if the truth be known, as he grew older, slavery became more than his heart could bear. He often heard little children weeping in their chambers, and knew without needing words that they cried for home and their lost families. As a matter of honor, he still took slaves. But he sold them all to pay for Cornsilk’s protection.
He gazed down at the Cage, where Night Sun remained imprisoned. The slaves worshiped her. Once a sun cycle, generally during the holy days of summer, she freed her most loyal slave and sent her home with a pack of riches. Cloud Playing had always done the same. It made them heroes to the captives. It also made Snake Head indignant. Crow Beard had never seemed to care, but Snake Head stamped about every solstice celebration, grumbling and complaining about his share of the wealth they were throwing away! He’d been especially adamant when Night Sun had wanted to free Mourning Dove.
Ironwood remembered the day well. Snake Head had been a boy, eleven or twelve. He’d thrown a tantrum so violent he’d lost consciousness and collapsed in the plaza. The event had shaken Night Sun, and she’d given Mourning Dove to Snake Head as his own personal slave.
Ironwood had always wondered why Mourning Dove didn’t strangle Snake Head in his sleep.
Dune’s reedy old voice rose from within the torchlit chamber. “What was that, boy?”
Ironwood leaned into the room and saw Dune hobbling across the chamber swinging his walking stick. Snake Head backed before him, hands thrown out for protection. His long purple shirt glimmered in the orange gleam. On the floor, Crow Beard’s body lay under his blankets. His lips had drawn back into a strained grin that exposed the few stubby incisors left in his mouth.
“I meant only,” Snake Head defended, “that you are old! Age affects the memory!”
“Not mine it doesn’t.” Dune backed Snake Head against the wall and cracked the boy on the elbow with his walking stick. Snake Head yipped, and Dune said, “I remember very well what your father wished of me. And I plan on doing it, whether you like it or not!”
Snake Head’s large dark eyes and full lips pinched. He’d coiled his black hair into a bun. “If you smash my father in the face with your Bashing Rock, here, in this room, then his soul will fly free before it is ready! We must carry him to the sacred Humpback Butte and the ladder to the skyworlds! Surely my father would not have told you he wished to have his soul floating around Talon Town rather than climbing the ladder to become one of the thlatsinas!”
“Surely your father would have … and did.” Dune scowled menacingly.