The Next Skywatcher: Prequel to The Last Skywatcher Triple Trilogy Series (The Last Skywatcher, Anasazi Historical Thrillers with a Hint of Romance Book 1) (16 page)

After he fell from the third floor
while working on the palace during the time of the Day Star, Peelay lost his sense of time and never regained it. Even after he recovered, he couldn’t tell the difference between doing something for a short time or a full day.

He lost other things as well. A fear of death that had paralyzed him since childhood evaporated. The gnawing hunger that used to double him over in pain faded. Even though his upper back had healed into a misshapen curve that made his head hang low, and his vision had been knocked out of one eye, his physical stamina tripled.

Because he’d become a twisted and strange-looking man, adults avoided him and children stared. He had few friends other than Leena, the last flute maker to survive in the canyon, who found him after his fall and nursed him back to life. And the Wild Boys. They liked to dance and laugh with him.

Tonight, he sneaked back into the canyon near the palace and darted from shadow to shadow until he came to Leena’s doorway. She pulled him inside and they sat in silence until Peelay stopped breathing hard.

“I have not seen you from the canyon rims like I used to,” Peelay said.

“I’m not as young as I used to be. And my hips hurt me,” she said.

“You need something? Some kind of herb? I’ll get it for you.” He stood to run out.

“Sit down,” she said. “I need nothing but for you to rest. And eat.”

He sat and watched her stir a pot over a tiny fire.

“Back in the days before the Day Star That Faded,” she said, dipping him a mug of the watery soup, “there was flute music all the time. Everyone played flutes, and some were so good it would take your spirit away. Crowds gathered for hours to hear the best players. That’s why Pók outlawed it, I think. Do you remember that?”

Peelay sat hunched over his soup mug, which he barely touched. He felt no hunger to motivate him.

“I remember someone playing flute in the house where I grew up.” He raised his head to look at Leena’s face, then dropped his gaze back to his soup. “I think it was my mother, though I cannot remember her face.”

Leena picked up a flute and played a few notes. “I can’t do that here anymore. It draws too much attention. The warriors have already taken all the flutes I didn’t hide and threatened to kill me if I make more.”

Peelay picked up his worn flute and put it to his lips, but she stopped him. “No, you play too long and loud, they’ll hear you.”

“Why do they hate flute-playing so much?” He flashed with anger. Not much made him angry anymore, but he couldn’t understand how anyone could be offended by flute music. That’s like hating the sound of a gentle rain or children laughing.

“They think it’s witchcraft,” said Leena. “They think it’s a way witches cast spells over people.”

“I’ll cast spells over them, then.”

Leena laughed. “You’re not a witch.”

“They don’t know that.”

Leena laughed again. She urged Peelay to drink his soup, and then she laid back and stared at the ceiling. “My father used to go into the side canyons and play his flute and the children would try to find him. The sound carries so strangely up there. Even when he sounded like he was right beside us, we often couldn’t find him. When I got older, he told me how certain places in the rocks, places where you can hear sound from far away, would make sound go a long way too, and that’s where he would sit and play.”

Peelay knew such places. He remembered finding curved rock faces where he could hear even whispers across the canyon. He liked to sit there, listen, and watch as the bare cliffs turned orange from the setting sun, and the growing shadows pointed their long fingers at sacred places.

When he realized Leena had fallen asleep, he sipped his cold soup and waited for the quiet of darkness to change to the noise of first light. He left Leena sleeping and climbed into rocks far back and above the palace to a place where he could hear stonemasons talking as they worked and he played his flute. He played with no thought of time, eyes closed, a dreamland of floating people and clouds and animal spirits in his head, until a man shouted, “There he is! Up there!”

Peelay prepared to run and kept playing his flute. Across a wide glade rock that spilled over the canyon rim, four Másaw Warriors appeared, one pointing at him. He heard one say, “Get him before his spell gets you.” They ran awkwardly toward him with their fingers plugging their ears.

Peelay laughed at the men. He stood and danced and played as loudly as he could until they were nearly upon him, their faces red and angry, then he scrambled up and over the ridge behind him. He jogged away, not looking back, until the day’s last hazy light erased the shadows. When he he did look back, not a warrior was in sight. He lay under an overhang of rock and listened to the yips of coyotes from far away and played his flute until the midnight stars were high and he could not distinguish the world of his flute from the real world, if there was such a thing.

Tomorrow, he thought, he would find Lightfoot and the Wild Boys. They would dance to his music. Besides Leena, only they understood the true magic of his flute.

Pók watched the Goddess
of the Future through narrow slits of his eyelids as she whispered to The Builder. Their consultation lasted much longer than usual and The Builder turned his back to Pók. No one else had arrived in the council chamber. His three patrols of elite guard waited outside to march to New Star Town to escort Tókotsi and his lesser chiefs back to Center Place Canyon for their annual Summer Council on the second full moon after the longest day of the year.

Pók couldn’t stand still, so he paced, anger growing beneath his navel. The runner he had expected yesterday didn’t show up, and just before dark a security patrol found his naked body splayed on the South Road just over the canyon rim, his throat cut, surrounded by the footprints of small feet. No one had ever attacked and killed a runner since he became top warrior. He suspected Tókotsi and Ráana, though the footprints worried him.

He didn’t know what happened in Black Stone and it maddened him. Had his patrol of regular warriors received his instructions? Had they attacked and killed Ráana and his guard? What was the runner coming back to report? And who had killed him? Who had feet that little? A white fear gripped him. White because he didn’t know what he could do about it, who to direct it toward. Could
children
have killed the runner? He wanted to blame Tókotsi, but doubt swirled inside his head. He had dismissed earlier reports of children killing his warriors as mistakes or planted lies. But what if they were true? What if a powerful witch cast spells over children and turned them into murderers of his best warriors? What if that red-hat trader and the bells he claimed were for trade possessed a magic more powerful than Pók’s warriors? What if that flute music in the side canyons had something to do with it? Just yesterday, about the time the runner must have been murdered on the road, his men reported a flute player in the rocks above the palace. They thought he was near, but when they got to where the sound came from, they saw him far away, laughing at them. But there were no children there. Were there? If there had been children present, would his men have been murdered?

He stopped pacing. He mustn’t show his agitation so strongly. He breathed deeply and settled himself, standing at attention.

Finally The Builder turned away from the woman in bluestone and faced Pók.

“Is your guard ready to muster Tókotsi’s council?” asked The Builder.

“Yes,” said Pók. “We will leave the moment I am dismissed from here.” He couldn’t prevent a slight sneer on his face and in his voice as he said the word “dismissed.” No one could dismiss him. He acknowledged no one with that power over him.

“These are troubling times,” said The Builder. “If you lose control, we will not have the labor and materials to continue building. The shadow gods will not be pleased.”

The Builder looked at Pók as if this were his fault, and Pók forced his face to remain stoic, though he wanted to bore his gaze into the woman behind the mask.

“Have you gotten your report from Black Stone yet?” asked The Builder.

“No. The runner has not yet arrived.” He hated this game. Why didn’t The Builder simply say what he knew?

“Isn’t it true your runner will never arrive?”

He must know, Pók thought. “That runner will not, you are correct.”

“Why was I not informed of this?”

Pók couldn’t help himself and glared at the woman who always worked against him. But once again, he forced himself to be calm on the outside. He always managed to turn everything she said into his favor, or at least something neutral. If he remained calm and kept his wits about him, he could certainly do it again. He just wished he knew what she knew, and how she learned what she learned. If she truly possessed the ability to see things like a witch, then he could not fight her. In fact, she could be useful to him someday when he managed to get this stonemason imposter of a High Priest out of his way. But if she had been tricking him and someone told her what visions to have, he would find out and destroy her and every traitor who worked with her.

“Because we are still searching for clues and information,” said Pók.

“And what have you learned?”

Pók tried to prevent himself from fuming. The Builder acted more cagey than usual.

“The runner was murdered on the South Road and left naked, his throat cut.”

“Yes,” said The Builder. “Surrounded by the footprints of children.”

In spite of his self-control, Pók felt his eyes bulge. “It seems so.”

“And your patrol of regulars sent to Black Stone, along with Ráana and his guard. Also killed by children. Every warrior. Not a single survivor, except for your runner. Who was killed by children before he could arrive here with his report. And there was flute music above the canyon yesterday at the time your runner was killed. By children.”

Pók looked from The Builder to the masked woman behind him. “I know nothing of the regulars and Ráana’s guard being killed. By children or anyone else.”

“That is because the runner was murdered—by
children
—before he could deliver his news to you.”

Pók once again glared at the woman behind the mask. If children killed the runner, might he have divulged his report before he died and then the children who murdered him told this woman? Was she the one somehow making children kill warriors? If The Builder had not been in the room he would have ripped off her mask and burned her face in the fire. She must be the one behind all this. But then the realization hit him. Ráana. Is dead?

“Does Tókotsi know Ráana is dead?” asked Pók.

“No. You are going to deliver that news to him.”

An involuntary curl of smile turned his lips. He would be on Tókotsi’s territory informing him of the death of the grandson he had hoped would usurp Pók. And Pók would have three patrols of his best, most loyal guardsmen. Plenty to take on Tókotsi’s Southern Guard if he had to. Tókotsi would make noise and smoke, but there would be no fire. Pók would enjoy that.

“How do you intend to keep order here in the canyon during your absence?” asked The Builder. “We can’t have any delays. Already our manpower is too low. The fewer who fear you, the fewer who come and work and the slower we build.”

His eyes on the fortuneteller, Pók asked, “What do you suggest?”

“It’s not for me to suggest! It’s for you to do!” The Builder rose from his pile of mats, his hammer-like hands clenched.

“I have three patrols of regulars that are coming along nicely,” said Pók. “And I’ll leave a half-dozen of my elite as Palace Guard, with a captain in charge of the regulars. And I’ll shut down supply deliveries to the kitchen to prevent anyone from sneaking in that way. They can make do with dry supplies for a while.”

“What if children attack us? What if that flute player helps them?”

Pók smiled. Even his regulars had succumbed to the fear of flute music. But not his new recruits. They may be out of control, but they would laugh at flute music. “New recruits,” he said, as much to himself as to The Builder. “They fear nothing. We’ll set them to searching the side canyons for the flute player. And we’ll eliminate all children from the canyon.”

“How can you do that?” asked The Builder. “They’re all over. Where will you send them?”

“Into the bellies of my warriors,” said Pók. “New recruits are much easier to control when they’re not starving.”

Pók saw the body of the woman behind the mask tense. She hadn’t expected her whisperings to The Builder to end up a death sentence for all children in the canyon. That made Pók like the idea very much.

The Builder squirmed. He had no heart for anything but building. “We can’t do that. Their parents would stop working for us. No. Better you capture them and we’ll trade them for labor. If you need food, raid the farmers like you usually to do.”

“New recruits are not as patient as my regulars,” said Pók. “If you want to protect yourself from children in the canyon, these are actions we must take.”

The Builder looked at the woman behind her mask, who shook her head and signed
no
. Pók grinned. He loved this.