The Next Skywatcher: Prequel to The Last Skywatcher Triple Trilogy Series (The Last Skywatcher, Anasazi Historical Thrillers with a Hint of Romance Book 1) (29 page)

Chumana sat beside The Builder’s
pedestal of stacked mats. No one else had yet arrived. Her heart raced and she gripped the strange hand-arrow with sweaty hands. She couldn’t believe what she must do. What Nuva said she must do. She thought of Tuwa, come back as if by magic. She wanted to see him so badly she couldn’t concentrate. A shiver ran through her. Tuwa. Is here. Somewhere close, maybe. She could find him. They could hide, run away, never come back. But no. She had to stay here and help him. Help him by killing a man. Or men. Could she do that? She felt a wave of tears, but took deep breaths and sent them back down. All she wanted was to see Tuwa again. And the sun. She so missed sunlight. She would do what she had to do. What she could. What she must.

A large man’s silhouette appeared in the doorway. He stood and peered inside. The Fat Man? What would the Fat Man be doing at the palace? She thought he would enter, but a guard pushed him away. She felt relieved he didn’t intrude.

She sat a long time, even stood and paced, clenching the stubby weapon, jumping any time a sound made her think someone approached. She wondered if anyone would bother to come, whether she should wait here or go back to Nuva. Something must be happening to keep Pók and The Builder away. They were late. Very late.

She sat back again and began to feel so dejected she nearly sobbed. She rallied again and paced for what seemed a very long time, asking herself over and over if she could really kill a man. Even if it’s Pók?

A cough got her attention and she looked up to see Nuva making a strange gesture. Chumana didn’t understand. Then a young man rushed around her and came straight at Chumana. She gripped her short arrow, her heart racing. And then she knew. Not so much from his face, which looked very different from the last time she’d seen him, but from the way he moved, the way he stared at her with an open mouth.

She removed her mask as he got to her.

“Tuwa,” her mouth said, though no sound escaped.

“Chumana,” he said. He touched her cheek with the tips of his fingers but came no closer. Chumana wanted him to hug her, to bury her face in his chest, to let him take her away. But Nuva coughed again, and Chumana realized with a flush how much danger they were in.

“Go,” she said to him. “You must go, now.”

“No,” said Tuwa. “Come with me. Let’s go.”

“No,” said Chumana. “Pók will be here at any moment. The Builder, too. There are guardsmen all over the place. You must hide. And leave as soon as possible.”

“I’m not leaving you here,” said Tuwa.

“Yes, you must. You have no choice.”

Nuva pulled Tuwa’s arm. “She’s right. We must go. Now.”

“But,” Tuwa pulled back. “I don’t understand. Why?”

“You’ll find out soon enough,” said Nuva. “Just come with me. Now.”

It pulled Chumana’s heart
from her chest to see him leave. He watched her, didn’t break eye contact, until he was gone. Chumana took a deep breath, looked around to see if anyone watched, and pulled her mask back in place. No one had seen. Or heard. At least as far as she could tell. She sat in a state of shock. Now she had to go through with it. She had to kill Pók. Or one of them. To give Tuwa a better chance to do whatever he planned to do.

She worked the short arrow in her hands and thought about using it. A rushing sound filled the room, so loud she thought her ears would pop, and she kept imagining someone bursting into the room to attack her, but she sat alone and waited until the noisy beating of her heart seemed to overpower her. Finally, a shadow appeared in the doorway. Pók.

He entered the room. Her heart raced. Only one lamp burned and she couldn’t see his expression. She got the hand-arrow ready in her lap. Nuva said to attack hard before he expected it. Go for the side of the throat. She could do that. She would do that. She tensed forward.

But Pók stood back. He seemed not to see her. Chumana realized he muttered a few words as he fidgeted in place. He held his bandaged right hand high across his chest, but his left hand went from his nose to his hair to his injured hand, then waved up and down as if he were making a point in an animated conversation.

“It’s
her
fault they plugged their miserable ears,” she heard him say.

Chumana felt it like a shock wave. He intended to blame her. For what had happened to
his
warriors. If any man walked whom she could kill without remorse, it was this man. Especially since at this moment she hoped Tuwa was escaping out some back entryway. She needed to draw all attention here.

Pók shook himself and visibly relaxed. He straightened his spine and grew a bit taller, and tilted his head back. Chumana had seen this transformation in him before. From near-raving madman to charming diplomat.

“Oh, my dear, I didn’t see you there,” said Pók, striding toward her.

Chumana leaned forward and tightened her grip on the hand arrow. Her heart seemed to stop.

Pók stood too far away for her to do it in one lunge. The same distance he usually kept from The Builder. She wanted him to come closer.

“As Chief Fortuneteller and Ear Whisperer to our beloved High Priest, you must be here early because you know, as I, that Tókotsi will most certainly call here soon.” Pók took a half-step closer, drilling into Chumana’s mask with his eyes. “Or is it a different future that you foresee? One that involves children? Men in garish hats? A grotesque flute player?”

She wanted to gouge his throat out right then, but she would have to take two steps. The lack of peripheral vision through her mask made her hesitate. If he jumped out of the way, and he would not just stand still, she might lose him. He had to come closer.

“Your shadow is not long for this world,” she whispered.

“What?” asked Pók. He leaned forward and cocked his right ear to her, but stepped no closer. “You say my shadow will grow long in this world?”

“Your shadow ends soon,” she said, hissing the s’s. It came out more menacing than she intended. She wanted to attract him closer.

“You make sounds like a snake,” said Pók. He crossed his arms, his bandaged hand held high. “But do you bite like a snake?” He chuckled and took a step back as if from something he feared.

Should she charge him? She didn’t know. She hesitated. He took another step away. She would have to chase him if she did it now. She could throw off her mask to better see. She might have a chance if she did that. But what if she failed? What if he pulled one of his hand knives and killed her. She would never see Tuwa again. She had to see Tuwa again. She relaxed back into her seat. A perfect chance would present itself. She had to be patient.

The heavy pounding of feet announced The Builder. His gray hair was wild and loose, not groomed as usual. He strode to face Pók.

Pók stood straight, eyebrows high. Instead of speaking, The Builder punched Pók in the wound on his hand. Pók doubled over and cried out. Chumana was astonished. She’d never seen him strike anyone before.

“That’s for ignoring my summons,” said The Builder. He climbed onto his raised seat. He leaned to Chumana. “If ever I need a true fortune, I need it today,” he said. For the first time, he had asked her openly rather than in a private whispered conversation. Pók cringed in pain, but watched and listened.

Nuva had advised her to predict the future she most wanted to happen. Beyond that, they had planned only for her plunge with the hand-arrow. As Pók bent over grasping his hand, The Builder stared at her, waiting. She decided to speak it out loud so both could hear.

“The sun will shine bright today, brighter than it has since the Day Star.” How threatening did she want to be? Did she want them to be defensive and on guard? Or overly confident? She decided to worry them. They might be more likely to make mistakes and ignore people trying to escape the palace. “Today the bright light will shine on those who rise to reclaim their birthright, the powerless and hungry, the old and sick, the children with their master who protects them with magic and flute music that will steal your spirits. All who stand tall with arrogance this morning will whimper in fear and pain by last light. You will no longer be High Priest, and all your warriors will fall or run away. All will be put into its rightful place. The old will rise. The young will rise. The powerful will fall. And the earth from the mound that is your altar will be scattered to the six directions. Today, from your ashes new, clean smoke will rise.”

The Builder kept his eyes on Pók.

“Is this certain?” asked The Builder.

“It is certain,” said Chumana.

“Why have you not foreseen this until today?”

“Because it did not become a possible future until today.”

The Builder centered his square body on his seat. “Is there nothing we can do to avert this future?”

“Perhaps,” said Chumana, thinking. What should she do? She remembered Nuva saying they should try to get them working against each other. The Builder against Pók? No, she thought. Against Tókotsi. “Warriors will refuse to take orders. And the Southern Chief will work behind your back against you. But if you recognize the true power and bow down to it, you will, perhaps, be spared.”

The Builder leaned back. “Tókotsi will betray us.” Pók had recovered and stood as his diplomat self.

“And replace me with Ráana,” said Pók. His thumbless hand went to his mouth as if too late to stop the words.

“Ráana is dead. She said so,” said The Builder, tilting his head to Chumana.

“Our fortuneteller is not always so accurate,” said Pók. “I saw Ráana two days ago. Badly injured with bandages over most of his head, but alive.”

Alive! How could that be, thought Chumana. Nuva said the girls were certain the runner said Ráana had been killed.

“Could it be another with bandages?” asked The Builder.

“No. It was Ráana. I am certain.”

The Builder looked at Chumana, then away from her. “Some warriors come back to life after dying in battle. Does he have the same spirit?”

“I do not know,” said Pók. He didn’t mention that Ráana spoke like a girl with missing teeth. If he had a new spirit, it was one of an idiot child.

“Well. We don’t know then,” said The Builder. “But I have no doubt if Ráana lives that Tókotsi will want him as Chief Warrior over you. Especially if what I have heard—not from you, I might add—is true about you losing half your guard. At the hands of
children
.”

“Tókotsi ordered me to bring him the red-hat man alive at any cost,” said Pók. “We would have had him if our fortuneteller hadn’t poisoned the minds of my men with the false fear of flute music.”

“I’m told you had the Fat Man to your quarters this morning instead of answering my call,” said The Builder, ignoring what Pók said about Chumana.

“Yes, yes, if anyone will learn where a trader with orphan children is hiding hereabouts, it will be the Fat Man.”

“You think the red-hat man and his warrior children are here?”

“It’s inevitable that he comes here.”

“And you told him to do what? To bring the red-hat man to you? So that you could take him to Tókotsi? And side with him against me?”

“No, I would have brought him to you.”

“I build the buildings higher and more grand than anyone else dares dream, and this is what I get?” The Builder stood and began pacing, raising an arm with his volume. “What is it you covet from me? I will build this place as high as possible, the gods will be impressed, and then I will die. I threaten no one. You can rise to greatness with me, or I will tumble down everything onto your heads. You and Tókotsi both!”

Chumana had never seen The Builder so angry. She felt grateful for her mask to hide behind.

Stamping at the front doorway made The Builder and Pók turn to see who entered. Two Southern Guardsmen helped a man whose head was half-bandaged. They sat him on a pile of mats. One of the warriors looked at The Builder. “This is Ráana, Chief of the Southern Guard, grandson of Tókotsi, who will be here as soon as he can. He asks that you wait until he arrives to hold serious discussion, and,” turning to Pók, “that the Chief Warrior will delay his report on yesterday until he arrives. That is all. With your permission, we will join your guard outside this door.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” said Pók with a wave of his good hand.

The Builder sat beside Ráana, who hung his head as if he had no control over it. “Can you speak?”

“Un-huh,” said Ráana.

“What’s going on here?”

“Head hurt. Tongue work wrong.” He sounded as if his entire mouth were swollen.

“What is Tókotsi doing?”

“My gwandfather doing what Pók could not,” he said.

“What does that mean?” asked The Builder.

“Capture wed-hat man.”

Chumana’s heart raced again. If Tókotsi captured the red-hat man, would Tuwa also be captured? What should she do?

The Builder looked at Pók, then Ráana. “Where is your grandfather now?”

“Standing Gwounds,” said Ráana, his voice flagging. “With Fat Man and wed-hat man.”

Chumana wanted to jump out of her seat to run into the courtyard and look out at the Standing Grounds, the place where people watched ceremonies on the great earthen altar. If she went onto the roof of the first story, she would be able to see.

“You saw the red-hat man?” asked The Builder.

“He say so,” said Ráana. “I see no hat.”

“Is Tókotsi negotiating an agreement?” asked The Builder, looking at Chumana. She had predicted Tókotsi would work against him.

“Yes. Until he give signal for guard to capture him.”

“We need someone there to hear what is said.” The Builder stood and walked to the door. “They’re just out there. Pók. Send a runner, someone who listens and remembers.”

Pók went outside. For a few moments, Chumana thought he wouldn’t return. She looked at The Builder. Would she have to kill him instead? Could she? As brutal as he encouraged Pók to be, she knew him often as a gentle man, his ambition and passion focused entirely on making the big house bigger. But then Pók came back, stamping sand off his feet before he entered.

“I see them,” he said. “The Southern Guard has a wide circle around them. People are climbing onto the roofs to watch. The Fat Man betrayed me, as I expected he would. But this is better than I had hoped.”