The Feverbird's Claw (20 page)

No.

Once the men reached this room, she and Figt would surely be seen.

Then?

Moralin remembered the feel of her finger on her throat.

S
O SHE WOULD DIE A
D
ELAGUA DEATH AFTER
all. She was suddenly glad she had gotten a chance to see amazing things. Who would have thought even Grandmother's stories could not hold the whole of the frightening and marvelous world out beyond the wall? And the voice on the cliff.

Slap, slap.
Sandals on stone.

Nothing here but walls and floor. They'd be seen anywhere in this empty room.
Slap, slap.
Perhaps twenty footsteps more, and the soldiers would reach the stairs.

Help me die bravely, Cora Linga.
All those times she had escaped death. Cora Linga had surely been with her the whole time after all. But now that the sword of the enemy was at her throat …

Wait. What had Cora Linga told her that night in the Arkera camp? “Go to the web when a sword is at your throat.” But she had gone to the web in the hollow log.

Slap, slap.

No! Humans almost always got it wrong. Daughter of the night. The bloodred web. Go …

Slap, slap.
Maybe ten more footsteps before the soldiers reached them.

Go to the web. With one quick motion, Moralin pulled Figt—rush, hush—up against the kneeling figure.

Several things happened almost at the same time. From somewhere deep, she heard chanting begin. The footsteps stopped. A man cursed. At their backs a bolt squeaked, and she felt cool air.

A door had been opened. Moralin took a deep breath and pulled Figt around the edge of the tapestry and inside.

They were in a huge, dim room that smelled of incense and smoke. A robed figure, walking away from them, was beating on a drum, singing some kind of summons.

Ah. The invisible ones would now walk. She and Figt must also become invisible. Moralin silently pointed to dui-duis draped on a web made of cloth.

In a few swift steps, she had reached them and was pulling a dui-dui hurriedly over her head. She backed into the river of white cloth, hoping Figt was following, hoping they were now hidden ripples on that river. When the drum had thrummed ten more times, she heard footsteps, saw—through the eyeholes—a woman with a shaved head reach for a dui-dui. And another. The priestesses walked solemnly, looking at the ground.

Moralin joined the stream of figures. Was Figt behind her? Soon she could see that the line was approaching the woman with the drum. Moralin mimicked the person in front and felt something pressed into her hand. She glanced down. Three pieces of cloth, painted with symbols.

They moved into a lamplit room. Around the walls were tapestries, a huge map of the city. All right. The pieces of cloth were instructions to go to certain households to collect the dead. The priestesses found their way with this map. She tested her idea, looking for Old Tamlin's house. Yes, it was marked as a coiled creeper.

She was glad for the chanting that must cover her loud and leaping heart. Study each section. North. South. East. West. Nothing. Someone touched her elbow.

She slowly turned. Figt was trying to show her something. The one-legged bird was here in the temple. Of course.

A
LMOST ALL THE SHADOWS HAD PROBABLY
worked here until the uprising had forced the Delagua to scatter them. They would be needed for the backbreaking demands of the cloth.

Watch. Listen. Do what the others do. The priestesses seemed to work in twos and threes, taking the supplies they needed, rolled straw mats and white sheets of cloth. When she and Figt were back out in the corridor, Moralin looked around. Doors now stood open. She heard the
shiick, shiiick
of a sword being sharpened. Guards—by the stairs. One coughed. “Dusty night.”

Shhh-shh-shh.
Cora Linga, be with us.

“Deep dryness was bad this year.” She had heard this man in the fighting yard, shouting at the boys. “The little rains haven't helped much yet.”

“Many lost,” the first man said. “Fortunately mostly shadows.”

They laughed. Then one nudged the others and turned quickly as Moralin and Figt approached.

Down the corridor, past more guards, who hastily faced the wall. Into the room. Five rows of shadows sleeping on cots. About ten in each row. “See him?” Moralin's whisper was hoarse with the fear she was holding in. She stepped slowly and deliberately. Figt reached out and put her hand on Moralin's shoulder.

Masks. One-legged birds. Behind each mask was a face. How could the Delagua keep something with a human face in a cage, when she couldn't even bear to hold a star-footed wood creature?

The squeeze startled her. Figt gestured at the leg of the boy and traced the half-moon scar in the air. Quickly Moralin unrolled the straw mat. What if he cried out?

Figt bent over him.

“Are you death, heard my wish and come for me?” he whispered.

“Hush.” Figt eased her hands under his arms. “Lie still as death.”

When he was covered with the white cloth, they threaded their way out the door, down the corridor past the guards. At the top of the stairs, they found a dark spot in the temple and set down their burden.

Figt pulled another dui-dui from underneath the one she was wearing. “As I've discovered,” Moralin whispered, “just wishing for death is not enough to make death come.”

They retraced their steps. Moralin went first, wary until she was sure the priestesses had not yet come for Old Tamlin. Inside her childhood room they pulled off their dui-duis. Nazet made a small noise of astonishment. “My brother.” Figt picked up one of his hands and covered it with kisses. His blank, masked face stared at her.

Later Moralin sat on the floor outside her room, hugging her knees. One time when she was young, she had been caught in a big rain, and she had raced along the stone streets, watching the ferocious, tantrum wind whirl leaves from the trees. Now she trembled as if she were once again caught by that storm.

She had known Nazet would be angry, of course, but still she was stunned by the pain and fury in his eyes. He refused to speak while she was in the room. Of course, why should he? What human being would be able to break years of such training … and hatred?

Eventually she had stepped into the hall, beckoning for Figt to come with her. “Can you see if he knows anything about the rooms where the girls do temple service? Tell him your dream. Anything will help.”

If only she could talk to Old Tamlin just one more time. Tell him what she now knew. Ask his advice.

She moaned, letting her head droop to her knees. Her people had done this. Old Tamlin had done it.

Sometime tomorrow workers would fill this house. It would have to be cleaned and made ready for some new official. She glanced down at the painted squares they had dropped on the floor. What kind of cry would go up when bodies were discovered still in their houses and not at the temple?

She scrambled to her feet and paced fearfully, frantically, a river of steps up and down the hall, trying to think. Trying to plan. Finally Figt opened the door.

Moralin grabbed her hand, listening as Figt explained that shadows carried wood to the door of the complex where the girls did temple service. Over the years they had listened and watched and whispered to one another, sure that someday they could make use of the little things they learned.

“Tell me everything you can,” Moralin said. “I need to see this place for myself.” Perhaps she could make small amends.

Back to the temple then. Be a white cloud, a white tooth, the spirit of the moon itself floating to the heart of the heart of the city. She followed priestesses down the stairs and moved without hesitation through an open door.

All right. Her neck and shoulders ached, and she let out her breath in a slow
whoosh.
Here she was. The huge main room stank of smoke, and she stopped breathing for a moment, trying not to cough. Carefully she tugged at the eyeholes of her dui-dui as she turned. There were the ovens, hungry for the wood the shadows carried. Around the edges of the room girls were asleep on cots. This was her awa clan.

Don't stay here.

She moved like a wraith into the first room that branched off. When she stepped inside it, she thought for a moment the big rains had come, spattering the roof over her. Stepping closer to the trays, she realized the sound was from fat gray worms munching on leaves. Nazet said they would eat only leaves from the trees that grew in the convent garden.

Unbelievable. The smooth and lovely water-rippling cloth started with these crawling things?

She hurried on. Here fluffy white cocoons hung from twigs. Cautiously, she reached out to touch one, brushing the soft surface lightly with her fingers. According to Nazet, the girls put most of these into the ovens to kill the moths before they could crawl out and spoil the thread. Others soaked the cocoons to loosen the filaments that were then wound onto a spool.

She breathed deeply, considering the scent of the branches that stood in huge tubs of water. A sudden sound made her stiffen and stare. Two of the white-robed figures had come into the main room. They moved toward a cot and bent over the body lying there. The girl's arms flopped as they lifted her, and even from here, Moralin saw the burns. Her skin crawled with pity for this girl who would never go home. Gently she closed her fingers around the cocoon.

When she returned, Figt was jagged with worry. “Be calm,” Moralin told her. “You must not think of leaving until daybreak when I can get supplies.”

Though it had taken them only two days to travel from the caves to the city, Figt and Nazet would not be able to go back the same way, of course. Song-maker had said four days. The cave people must use a path somewhere to the north of the city on the edge of the Great Mountains. Figt would have to find it. Impossible without food and water.

They could shelter with the cave people until the Arkera returned to camps in the red forest—and maybe longer. They would need help to remove Nazet's mask. He would need time to heal. As for Figt, was it really possible for a solitary to rejoin the village? She thought of Ooden's many comments about the ancestors and thought it unlikely.

The caves then. Later she would allow herself to feel this sadness that was tugging at her, sadness for all they would see that she never would. For now she smiled to remember the garden. The smell of the trees. The gift she would give Figt to carry would make them welcome.

She dozed and dreamed again she was running to her mother. Mother was not smiling and not frowning—just beyond Moralin's outstretched fingers. “Mamita,” Moralin called out. “Mamita, wait.” She jolted awake, put on a velee, and went outside.

Night was already shot through with silver. She gasped as if seeing the beautiful city for the first time. Over there was a stable where, on mornings of velvet fog, servants stood in pools of light, holding their lamps high, lingering over the gleaming sides of the animals they brushed. How many times had she gone this way, clinging to Old Tamlin's hand or sneaking back home from the fighting yard?

Ah. There was the house. She lifted her arms as if she could somehow embrace it.

Slowly the sun's eye peered over the horizon. A faint sound of chanting floated from the temple. A woman emerged from a nearby house, sobbing. A cry of mourning rippled.

Grandmother came out the door first. Then Mother. Moralin's breath stuck in her throat. By the flower bush they leaned on each other. Though their faces were hidden and they made no noise, she could see their grief in the way they stood. Lan joined them.

Moralin took a step—and then stopped. Lan had changed. Not any longer a laughing child, she carried herself stiffly and stared ahead with dark, serious eyes.

Followed by the household servants and shadows, the three of them walked out into the street. Moralin willed them to look at her. No one did. She gazed after them, pressing her fingers against the corners of her eyes to hold back the tears.

After the street was empty again, she forced herself to move. She bent to pick a yellow moralin, breathing in the smell. She could almost taste its sweet scent.

Inside the house she allowed herself one quick glance around. Scarlet and purple hangings on the walls, glittering dishes, a tray of pretty cakes. If only Figt were here. “See how different my world is from yours,” she would say.

She found the bedroom that had been hers. What would her family do when she began to tell of her adventures? Mother would raise one eyebrow in horror and dismay. “Here is my story,” Moralin would say. Would anyone listen?

Maybe Lan? She thought about her sister's face. In just a few years Lan would be one of the girls standing for hours, scorched and wilted, burning the wood the shadows left by the door, tending the secrets of the beautiful cloth.

She swayed for a moment, full of sorrow, unable to move, at the same time, knowing if she didn't, she would be trapped here forever. Eventually her feet found the room with the walls that were draped with starbright weavings. “Mother,” she imagined saying, “I have seen the skeletons of human beings hanging in trees. I have seen the giant wings of a skulkuk.” Would she dare say this: “I know what happens in the secret temple chambers”? And what about this? “The Great Ones do not favor the Delagua and care for us above other people of the earth.” She laid the yellow flower gently on the woven cover of the bed.