The Next Skywatcher: Prequel to The Last Skywatcher Triple Trilogy Series (The Last Skywatcher, Anasazi Historical Thrillers with a Hint of Romance Book 1) (30 page)

“What do you mean by that?” asked The Builder.

“Our little fortuneteller is right,” said Pók, walking toward her. Chumana almost lost her balance leaning away from a perfect opportunity to stab him in the throat. “Today, the veil of Pók will fall and I will rise in the smoke like a god from the ashes of all of you. This palace will be mine. Tókotsi will crawl on his knees before me. The world has never seen the likes of me.”

He came close to Chumana and turned his back.
Now!
But she quaked.

“You have half your guard and a useless hand,” said The Builder. “You’ll use what little you have to help me, or Tókotsi will see what you’ve done and his Southern Guard will have your head.”

“How wrong you are, you failure of a High Priest. The regular warriors are mine. I trained them. They are as loyal to me as my own guard. And remember, I sent a message four days ago to release the new recruits into the side canyons because they fear no flute player or red-hat trader or children, no matter the magic. Like my regulars, they, too, respect only me.”

“You fool!” said The Builder, raising his arms. “They’ll make a riot. No one will be in control!”

“Oh, I’ll give them a little show, and they’ll do whatever I say,” said Pók. “There is only one way out for you. I’ll allow you to remain Chief Builder if you accompany me to the altar for a ceremony in which you name me High Priest. Then I will turn my warriors on the Southern Alliance. We will feast for weeks on their putrid flesh. I will take their power. I will become the Southern Alliance. Your fortuneteller sees nothing. She is as much a fraud as you are.”

Pók moved fast to circle behind The Builder, which took him a step closer toward Chumana. She exploded like a snake, reaching around Pók’s right shoulder to thrust her hand-arrow at his throat. Her mask twisted, as she had worried it would, blocking her vision. She planted her foot and plunged the knife where she hoped Pók’s throat would be, but felt no connection with flesh and her forearm slammed into Pók’s back. She leaned hard and took another weak jab as Pók turned, lifted his left arm and fell, pulling her down on top of him. Chumana stabbed again as hard as she could, but the arrow missed his neck and the point gouged into the floor. Her mask bumped hard against Pók’s shoulder, twisted, but stayed on her face. She could see only through one eye.

Pók rolled on top of her, pinning her arm that held the hand arrow with his left hand as he straddled her stomach. He breathed hard and grinned. He sank a knee into her abdomen until she released the hand-arrow. Her eyes watered. He pulled her arm under his knee to pin it and picked up the small weapon. “I’ve never seen a piece like this,” he said. He stabbed at Chumana’s mask but swerved his hand to the side and brought it down in a mat of her hair. The blade nicked her ear.

She tried to raise her hands to protect herself, but she couldn’t pull her arms from beneath Pók’s knees. She felt warm liquid pooling in her ear.

A half-dozen guardsmen rushed in at the commotion. They stood and watched.

“So, today you’re not a fortuneteller, but an assassin,” said Pók, a sneer across his face. He set the hand-arrow onto the floor within easy grasping distance, holding his bandaged right hand to his breast. “I’ve always wanted to see what’s behind this mask.” He ripped it off her head, breaking the string that held it in place. Cool air rushed onto Chumana’s face and she felt as if her last piece of protection had gone. Pók would kill her now. She would never see Tuwa again.

“Well, well, you’re far more beautiful than I expected,” said Pók. He caressed her face with the backs of his fingers. He picked up the hand-arrow again. The guardsmen, both Southern and Pók’s, stood rooted. She knew they wouldn’t move to help her. She tried to remember the time she and Tuwa had stood at the ceremonial bonfire the morning the Day Star appeared. She had leaned against him and he leaned back into her. It was the memory that had kept her going in the darkness of the palace these three years.

“Today is a good day for a beautiful woman to die,” said Pók. “With this exquisite weapon, even. Today, you go into the ashes, my dear, and from
your
smoke, nothing will rise.” He raised the hand-arrow above her throat as if to jab. Her eyes watered and she wanted to scream or lash out but she had nothing left.

Pók grinned. “But not right now. You will be an excellent spectacle up on the altar. Your red blood on your bluestone costume. No one will ever forget that. Especially if I take my time and make you die slowly.” He ran his fingers down her cheek again. “No, right now another will die.”

Pók leaned his knee hard into her stomach making her gasp, and then stood. He kicked her twice in the ribs. She grunted and tried to take the pain. Her back felt broken into sharp pieces. She couldn’t breathe. Her eyes watered profusely. She blinked, and kept her eyes on Pók.

With a sudden and casual air, Pók walked to Ráana and halfheartedly stabbed at him but missed. The two Southern Guards made to grab Pók, but he jumped back. “Kill these two,” he said to his men. The room erupted into a brawl as Chumana managed a shallow breath. She saw Pók kick Ráana in his bandaged head and felt that she might pass out, but she forced herself to stay awake and watch.

One of the Southern Guard was quick and killed two of Pók’s Palace Guards before the remaining two of Pók’s men took him down.

Pók turned to The Builder, whose mouth was half-open in shock. He blanched and put his arms in front of himself. “You can’t possibly think you’ll get away with this.”

“But I possibly do because I possibly will,” said Pók. “Especially the way I’ll do it. It will be irresistible. No one will oppose me. Because people always choose life no matter what. That makes them weak and easy to control.”

“What are you going to do?” asked The Builder.

“Not me, us. You are my partner. Don’t you remember? You make me High Priest. I’ll make you the High Builder. You can build. And I’ll handle everything else. We’ll do quite well. If you remember your place.”

The Builder dropped his hands. “What do you want me to do?”

“Nothing you haven’t already done. Dress in your finest High Priest outfit and lead us to the altar. And we’ll need drums. Tell the drum players to be ready. And light the bonfire.” The eldest of the two remaining warriors went to alert the drummers and fire starters.

Four more of Pók’s men entered the room and looked around in surprise. “I’m in full control here,” said Pók. “Leave one here. Go into the kitchen and make the cook take you to the albino woman. If she refuses, kill her and find someone who will show you. Bring the albino to me alive. Do not draw her blood.”

Pók paced the room. He ordered the remaining guard to tie Chumana’s hands. “And put the mask back on her. I’m already sick of her face.” He continued to pace.

Chumana closed her eyes and hoped Nuva could not be found. Please let her be in a quiet dark place where no one will find her, she thought.

But just as two servant boys finished dressing The Builder as High Priest, her hastily repaired mask hanging not quite right on her face, blocking vision with her left eye, she saw two warriors push Nuva into the room, her hands bound at her back. She looked at Chumana and smiled and nodded. Did that mean Tuwa had escaped to safety? In spite of the situation, she felt relieved.

“Is everything outside ready?” Pók asked.

“Yes,” said one of his men.

Pók beamed. “Most Honorable High Priest, now you may lead us to my altar.”

Tuwa sneaked out of the palace
the same way he had entered. The naked girls were still in the room, gray and unmoving, men going at them. When he looked outside, he saw Choovio standing alone, a few loitering warriors side-glancing at him. One of Choovio’s eyes was swollen nearly shut.

“That goon Garr-oos beat you,” Tuwa said.

“I beat harder.”

“They let you go?”

“I let him keep his honor. He let me live.”

“I saw Nuva. And Chumana,” said Tuwa.

“You
saw
them?”

Tuwa nodded, and they began moving toward The Pochtéca and Fat Man, who walked together away from the palace.

“I stayed in the back dark hallways to keep the Fat Man from seeing me, and Nuva attacked me when she saw me.”

Choovio stopped and looked at Tuwa, his face swollen and blackened.

“Yeah, she really attacked me, knocked me over, started kicking me.” Tuwa chuckled. “She’s no Garr-oos, but she bruised me. Then we realized who we both are. She’s built something behind the scenes that will help us. She and Chumana are up to something. Makes me worried for them.”

“Many hands stir the pot,” said Choovio.

They saw The Pochtéca and the Fat Man stop ahead. They slowed and looked away from each other to survey both directions at once.

Tuwa saw Kopavi and Sowi milling among the crowd. People packed into the canyon and more continued to flow in. New trails crisscrossed the grounds and little villages of sleeping mats sprung up, each with a group of old men or women who napped or sat talking. Blending in was easy. People moved around like lines of ants. But warriors stood on low stacks of shaped stones and watched everyone.

“What will they do?” asked Choovio.

“I don’t know,” said Tuwa, uneasy thinking about what Nuva and Chumana had in motion. They could easily be hurt. “Something big, maybe.” Tuwa kept his voice down. “Kidnap The Builder. Something that dramatic. I can’t imagine they would risk doing anything to Pók.”

Choovio reached out, pushed Tuwa away, and began walking. Tuwa knew what he meant. They had been standing and talking together too long. Time to separate and get moving.

He saw the Fat Man walk away from The Pochtéca, and Tuwa casually approached without making eye contact.

“Where is he going?” asked Tuwa.

The Pochtéca smiled. “Good news, my Tuwa. I spoke with Nuva. She told me the woman wearing the bluestone mask is indeed your Chumana. They are both well at the moment.”

“Yes, I know. I followed you inside. I spoke with Nuva, too. And Chumana. Where is the Fat Man going?”

The Pochtéca looked at Tuwa in surprise. A small grin played across his lips. “To get me an audience with Tókotsi.”

“Why?”

“Wait. You really did sneak into the palace, didn’t you?”

“Of course. You went in. I followed.”

“That place swarmed with warriors. You couldn’t just walk in like we did.” The Pochtéca stood closer to him and chanced a short glare.

“Choovio made, well, a kind of diversion.”

“And you really did see Nuva. And Chumana too?”

“Yes.”

They were silent a moment and stood slightly apart as if they both independently decided to take a standing rest there. Others were gathered in clumps, some talking with each other, most silent.

“Anything change your mind about what we’re doing?” asked The Pochtéca.

“The opposite,” Tuwa said. He wanted to clench his fists, but he willed them to stay open and relaxed. He wanted his body language to display a bored young man. “I’m ready to kill that bastard father of mine.”

The Pochtéca said nothing, but took a longer risky look at Tuwa. “You really did see Nuva.”

“He’s coming back,” Tuwa whispered, getting ready to walk away. He saw the Fat Man lumbering toward them. “Where do you think you’ll meet Tókotsi?”

“The Fat Man thinks the Standing Grounds.”

They walked away from each other, The Pochtéca toward the Fat Man, and Tuwa past Choovio as they traded places to keep a close cover. Tuwa saw Kopavi not far away.

Tuwa breathed hard and tried to calm himself. He had spilled what he’d learned about his father to The Pochtéca without even being asked. He wanted to hit himself in the head.
Focus
, he told himself. A swig from his water bladder slowed his racing thoughts. But he still felt tight.

He paced and tried to clear his head, to think. The Standing Grounds. That’s where people gathered to watch Grandfather be the first sacrifice three summers ago. The Standing Grounds. It had been packed then. Like corn planted too close.

Ideas about what Nuva and Chumana had planned swirled through his mind. Something in the council chambers. Something big. But he didn’t know what. He should have had the sense to find out. He looked up at the altar, where crews still worked on the final touches. There were new rock cairns at every switchback up the steep front path, torches protruding from them. An enormous stack of bonfire wood piled at the top. guardsmen in full regalia stood both ready and bored.

Tuwa heard a low whistle and turned. Choovio pointed his chin. The Pochtéca and the Fat Man were on the move. He rushed after them until they stopped at a tight crowd of people straining to see the Summer Council procession slow-stepping from Tókotsi’s camp to the palace. The Southern Guard wore long sashes decorated with the oval-face symbol of Másaw, and hammered tuned sticks against their war clubs in time as they marched. The clicking sound was ear-splitting as they got close.

The Fat Man engaged the help of a couple of regular warriors, who pushed people out of the way. When they broke through into the path cleared for the procession, the Fat Man walked boldly in front of Tókotsi’s entourage. The Pochtéca held back at the edge.