People of the Morning Star (71 page)

Her sister was staring at her with horrified eyes, her mouth open, fingers to her lips.

Columella, still quivering, made a whimpering sound. Flat Stone Pipe had thrown himself flat, no doubt hoping to be ignored in the coming explosion of rage.

“Do you challenge me, Keeper?” his voice was flat, emotionless. “Do you
question
me?”

Blue Heron tried to swallow, her tongue sticking.
Too far. I’ve gone too far.

She saw it in his eyes, the sharpening for the kill.

Knowing she was already dead, she stated hoarsely, “I might have been able to save some lives if I’d known. Might even have caught him, stopped him before he slit Lace’s throat, hung her husband up like a gutted bird. How dare I, huh?”

So this was what it felt like to condemn oneself to death? It was a hollow, gutted feeling, a draining of hope.

She chuckled humorlessly, exhausted eyes meeting his.

“Squadron First!”

“Yes, Morning Star!”

She didn’t need to look back to know Five Fist was bowing and touching his forehead.

“Take the Keeper out and tie her in a square where the entire world can admire her courage. Make her a—”

“You will
not
!” a strident voice called.

Blue Heron turned to see Night Shadow Star burst through the open doorway, the Red Wing behind her and to the right. She elbowed Five Fists aside as they passed through the rank of warriors without so much as a raised hand.

She wore a black fabric war shirt with intertwined red Tie Snakes embroidered over each breast. It was belted at the waist where rested a copper-bitted war club, larger than the old one that had burned in Columella’s palace. A Tula bow hung from her shoulder; the quiver strapped on her back bristled with arrows.

Behind her, the Red Wing wore battle armor; a wooden carapace and breastplate bound by fitted leather protected his vitals. It certainly fit better than what she’d seen him wear last time. He, too, carried a Tula bow, arrows packed in the quiver on his back; his war club, brandished in his right hand, looked more wicked than hers.

“Greetings from Piasa and the Powers of the Underworld,” Night Shadow Star’s voice rang out. “He and I hold you to our bargain.” She passed Blue Heron without even a glance and strode into the sacred and inviolate space between Morning Star and the sacred fire.

The room might have been a charnel house at midnight, so thick had the silence become. Blue Heron doubted people were even breathing. The recorders appeared frozen, beads forgotten in their fingers; the warriors in the rear stood in awed amazement.

Morning Star alone seemed unfazed. “Where is your brother, Night Shadow Star? Walking Smoke’s chaos has taken us far enough down the path of destruction. He has had his chance, and it failed.”

Blue Heron watched Night Shadow Star cock her hip, her right hand resting on the head of the war club. “Speak his name no more, great Lord. That man is gone, the mere uttering of his name unseemly.”

“He is dead?”

“He is defeated. At least for the time being. But to call him dead? That may be a matter of definitions.” Her smile was a grim thing. “It took all of my resolve to keep from killing my brother when I had the chance, but Piasa kept whispering into my ear to wait, to hold, and finally, to deliver him to the river. That, I was able to do. And when the time was right, I capsized the canoe and dragged my twisted brother down to the depths.”

She took a deep breath, head back, eyes closed. “And what I saw there…?”

As the pause stretched, Morning Star asked, “Yes?”

She opened her eyes, meeting Morning Star’s stare. “My brother believed himself to be the Wild One. Like the stories of old, he wanted to unleash chaos and remake the world by resurrecting Piasa inside himself. My task was to deliver him to the Underworld Lord for punishment. Which I did.”

She hesitated, as if searching for words. “I saw the Piasa dart up from the depths. As he did his presence filled the river with a remarkable iridescent blue light. Piasa fixed on my brother as he sought to choke the life out of me. In that half a heartbeat, before Piasa could seize my brother and devour him, the Thunderbirds struck. Four bolts of lightning flashed down and boiled the water around us.”

People gasped, and Blue Heron raised a hand to her throat. It made perfect sense that the great Spirit birds would have taken the opportunity to strike when their old adversary was so close to the surface and vulnerable.

“My souls were stunned. The world went away. When I could see again,” Night Shadow Star continued, “he was gone.”

“Piasa or your brother?”

“Both. I floated limply, tumbling, alone. Everything was black. I could hear the rain hissing on the river’s surface. My lungs ached, desperate to breathe. For all I knew, I might have been dead.” She shifted, as if reliving the experience. “And then a hand reached down, grabbed me by the hair, and rudely pulled me from the river and back into this world.”

“But you didn’t see your brother die?”

“To Piasa’s disgust, the Thunderbirds struck an instant before Piasa could wreak his vengeance. Did the lightning kill my brother? Perhaps his body tumbles along the sandy river bottom disturbing only the clams and moss. He had, after all, threatened the Sky World by seeking to unleash the Powers of the Underworld. Or perhaps the Thunderbirds took him for their own reasons.”

Or perhaps—
Blue Heron felt a shiver run through her—
he is really the incarnation of the Thrown Away Boy, and his Power rescued him at the last moment.

Were that the case, eventually he’d be back, perpetually in conflict with his brother. And to her horror, it meant that Walking Smoke was more than just a twisted witch, but that his Power might be even more dangerous than anyone had anticipated.

He might still be alive?

She instinctively ran her fingers over the newly formed scar on her throat. An icy chill had settled between her souls.

Morning Star sat silently for a moment. Was that a look of wistfulness that reflected from his dark eyes? Did she see the faintest quiver of his lips? Perhaps Chunkey Boy’s memories of better days played somewhere between the living god’s souls?

Blue Heron sighed.

Night Shadow Star stated, “The threat posed by my brother is over for the time being. Piasa ensures me that Power between the worlds has been restored to balance.”

Morning Star said, “Convey our gratitude to the Piasa. He has saved us the construction of a square and the trouble of disposing of your brother’s remains. You may go, Lady Night Shadow Star.”

“We are not finished here, great Lord. You and I had an agreement the night I saved your life: I forgave the debt of your life; in return the perpetrator was mine to hunt.”

“Did you know at the time it was Walking Smoke?”

“I did not. Piasa didn’t see fit to share that bit of information until that night when I came here, to your palace. The night when I told you, the Keeper, and the
Tonka’tzi
. But you knew, didn’t you? That he came so close to killing you, that I thwarted the attempt at the last instant, threw you completely off balance. The impossibility that your life was saved by Underworld Power had you reeling and confused.”

He smiled—a cunning sort of expression. “I wasn’t sure where the truth lay. Was your brother’s alliance with you? Or with Sun Wing? Or with both of you? After we made our bargain, it came to me that you might have hired that man to cut my throat. Accompanied him here that night. It wasn’t unreasonable that you waited until he placed the blade to my skin, and murdered him at the last moment to win my trust.”

“You cast a wide net, Morning Star. The problem with drawing it in is that you have swept up everyone. Piasa, Horned Serpent, and Snapping Turtle could care less who you sacrifice in your plots and games. They sought only to counter the threat to Power.” She stepped forward, placing one foot on the dais.

At the affront, Five Fists and his warriors came rushing forward; the Red Wing whirled and, in a war chief’s voice, ordered, “Hold!” He raised his arm in emphasis and bent it in the Cahokian war signal to maintain position.

Five Fists and his warriors, trained as they were, stopped short.

“But
I
care!” Night Shadow Star told Morning Star as she peered into his eyes. “Look at me through the god’s eyes, as you will, Morning Star. But we have a history, you and I. As Chunkey Boy or Morning Star, you know my words are true when I tell you my brother came very, very close to destroying our world. He didn’t realize that with the slitting of Sun Wing’s throat, it would have been irreversible. The boundaries and barriers between the worlds would have fallen. Piasa would have been ripped from the Underworld and thrust into ours. My foolish brother thought he needed the blood and bodies of all three of his sisters? Two would have sufficed, because I was already Piasa’s.”

For the first time, Blue Heron, from her angle, could see the cold uncertainty that entered the Morning Star’s eyes.

Night Shadow Star straightened, stepping back. “Yes, you do understand, don’t you?”

She half turned away, then glanced back at him. “You and I have an alliance. Fragile, yes, but an alliance nevertheless. Other threats are looming, great Lord. The danger is not passed. Word of my brother’s actions will travel. Others will try to follow in his footsteps. When they do, we must be ready.”

She gestured toward Blue Heron and her companions. “With the exception of Sun Wing, these people serve you. They serve Cahokia. They are, however, under my protection. No harm will come to them.”

“And Sun Wing?”

“She is yours, Morning Star.”

With that, she turned, walking smartly past Blue Heron, back straight, her long black hair flowing. The hand resting on her war club was white knuckled. Behind her, the Red Wing followed with eyes forward, his war club at the ready.

When Blue Heron looked back at the Morning Star, he was smiling, eyes almost twinkling, as if some great victory had been achieved. And that puzzled her. She thought they’d all just avoided disaster by the narrowest margin.

Or had he planned it from the very beginning? And if he had, what did that say about the depths of Morning Star’s cunning and guile?

Sixty-seven

In the cord-makers’ workshop in River Mounds, Seven Skull Shield threw his head back, singing,
“Such a pretty young lass, she lay back on the grass.”

He filled his lungs, booming out,
“With her eyes on the skies, I parted her pale-skinned thighs.

“Oh please, she did beg, so I drove in my peg.

“She gasped and she cried, she moaned like she’d died.”

Black Martin, in a pained voice, said, “
Enough
already! Your voice is as soothing as sandstone grating on wood.”

“But there’s true art to the song, don’t you think? A sweet poetry of the soul. The kind of reflection on my life that—”

“I’d rather hear dogs tortured,” Big Fish muttered from the back of the workshop. He was using a flyer to spin cord from separate fibers.

The way the cord and rope-spinners told it, Cahokia was literally held together by their craft. And there was truth to their claim.

Seven Skull Shield sat on a stump just inside the door and watched the cord makers as they practiced their magic. Everything from thread to string to cord to rope was made here.

Wild Hare worked at separating fibers from a skein of hemp. He was a middle-aged man, thin, with ropy muscles. His head, topped by a black mop of hair, was shaped like a wedge, thick and flat at the top and skinny at the bottom. The way his fingers played over the fibers reminded Seven Skull Shield of a spider fiddling with strands of web.

All around him lay skeins of different fibers Traded from everywhere. Hemp, basswood, and cedar bark made up the majority of the rough fibers. Combed cottonwood down for fine lace and hanging moss from the far south were some of the more exotic wares. Pounded and separated sinew had its own place as did a water jar in which lengths of intestine had been sunk. Bales of buffalo wool and human hair hung from the rear wall.

Where morning sunlight shone through the door, Black Martin sat on a tattered blanket, a length of tanned buckskin spread over his thigh. His lined brow had deepened into a pensive frown as he concentrated on slicing a narrow strip, or plait, from the hide. He followed a faint black line made from stretching a soot-covered string over the hide and snapping it. For this fine work he used a freshly struck obsidian flake.

“Obsidian is expensive stuff,” Seven Skull Shield noted. “Lots of demand for it. Some of the societies insist on obsidian for their blood-letting and scarification rituals.”

“I don’t have much trouble getting it,” Black Martin noted. “The societies, they have to offer services. Surveying, healing, telling fortunes, and casting spells.” He grinned up at Seven Skull Shield, which exposed gaps in his bad teeth. “Me, all I have to do is offer a Trader one or two of my ropes. No one in the world makes better ropes than I do. I test each one for strength.”