Sound carried on the evening: the distant chopping of an ax, shouts between men on a work party, dogs barking, and the shrill cries of children playing. A collection of distant drums sent their rhythms into the darkening sky, and the lilting of a flute could be heard coming from one of the society houses immediately north of her palace mound.
Night Shadow Star was staring thoughtfully at the Council House, where its roof protruded above the protective wall.
“Morning Star always plays a deep game.” She took the tea, barely sipped, and cupped it in her slender hands.
Fire Cat seated himself on the step beside her, letting his hands dangle as he propped his elbows on his knees. “Anytime he plays a deep game, Lady, it seems we’re the ones who are at risk.”
She smiled slightly, her face soft in the twilight. “You and I, Red Wing, are both playthings of Power. We may not live long, but in the short time until our deaths, it will be interesting.”
He chuckled at that. “So I have noticed. Ever since the moment I saw you walk out of the rain that night. You had to be a Spirit. No human woman could be that beautiful.”
“Is that what you thought? Then you were obviously delusional and barely in possession of your souls. I remember that night, too. Only I remember being naked, cold, and wet. Shivering down to my bones. And completely enraged that I had to spare your miserable life.”
“You can always order me hung back in a square, Lady.”
She looked sidelong at him, dark eyes large in her triangular face. A tease of a smile played at her lips; her hair was curled back, leaving shadows in the hollows of her cheeks.
“I will keep such an impossibility in mind, Red Wing. Though, given what we’ve been through, I can’t imagine the sort of betrayal that could break my trust in you.”
He took her hand, lifting it to his lips. “When I swore to serve you that night, I thought I was binding myself to First Woman. I could conceive of no higher honor than serving the goddess herself. Turns out I was wrong. Serving you has been an even higher honor. My body and souls are yours, Lady.”
He saw her eyes close, saw the familiar tension in her lips, the rise of her shoulders as she drew a reassuring breath. She shifted her hand, grasping his and giving it a powerful squeeze.
“If we were in a different world, Red Wing…”
“But we’re not, Lady. You serve your lord, and I serve you. Short as our lives may indeed be, we shall both continue to do our duties.”
With a faint shake of her head, she asked, “How can you always remain so noble?”
“Because all I have left is my honor, my word … and you.”
From behind the Council House wall across the way, the sound of a pot drum was followed by singing. “They’re deep into the ritual now, Fire Cat. The Keeper and tonka’tzi are going to have their work cut out for them when it comes to building a relationship between themselves and Rising Flame.”
“You think Morning Star did that to keep the Four Winds Clan at each other’s throats?”
“Just the contrary. It may be that Rising Flame was the only choice that could have saved the Four Winds from murdering each other.”
“You think?”
“We’ll see, won’t we?”
Shock
The muscles in my thighs are trembling, and I have a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I am standing side by side with the Morning Star, and he holds my hand as the bent-faced warrior wraps a beautiful yellow blanket around our shoulders.
I stare out at the room in a sort of daze. My blood, Powered by draughts of black drink, is surging in my veins. My skin tingles, draped as it now is in shell beads. A striking yellow cloak made of meadowlark breast feathers hangs from my shoulders. Colorful patterns have been painted on my arms, breasts, belly, and thighs. A feather headdress has been set upon my head, and my braid has been undone, my hair combed out, and left to fall in waves down my back.
This cannot be happening to me!
It’s like a voice is screaming inside my skull.
Though my stomach is packed with food from the feast, I want to throw up. I can glance wistfully at the great double doors all I want, but between me and the freedom they represent are Strong Mussel’s feasting warriors and a host of Morning Star’s attendants. Were I to strip off my wedding raiment, leap the fire, and charge full-out, I would have no chance. Those doors might as well be halfway across the world for all the good it will do me.
To the right, a withered old soul flier—his face a mass of wrinkles—stares up at the roof with opaque white-blind eyes and sings some Cahokian blessing song. I haven’t understood a word the old priest has said, but with each wheezing utterance, have felt my slim hold on hope slip away.
The old man pauses, takes a deep breath, and shouts, “Aho!”
The Cahokians cry “Aho!” in unison, and a cheer goes up that is picked up by the Sky Hand warriors.
“Come,” the Morning Star tells me, tightening his grip on my hand. He turns, leading me toward the door in the back of the room.
I walk on legs that have no more feeling than stone; my frantic heart thumps against my breastbone. Tickles of fear and revulsion dance along my bones.
I am married!
I can’t seem to grasp that reality.
When I married Straight Corn, it was with joy and anticipation. I couldn’t wait to lay with him, wrap my arms around him, and invite him inside me.
Now I can’t even manage to swallow, as if my throat has gone dry and my tongue is a hard knot.
I walk into the Morning Star’s personal quarters as if in a daze, and barely register the lamps whose wicks float in hickory oil. The carvings, the shimmering of copper and shell inlay, and the fine fabrics—they all seem part of an incredible dream.
A small altar supports a remarkable paint palette and facial paints of all colors. A rack on the wall holds an array of headpieces of copper, feather, and fine furs. Resplendent feather and fur cloaks, maces, a remarkable composit sinew-backed bow and quiver, and other exotica clutter the tops of fantastically carved wooden boxes. To the side of the door, on a special display, are the Morning Star’s famous copper lances and different colored chunkey stones.
Morning Star removes the blanket from our shoulders, folding it and laying it on one of the fantastically carved wooden boxes. Then he turns to me, placing his hands on my shoulders as he stares into my eyes. I tremble as I fall into his gaze, feel his Power. His face—white with black forked-eye designs—seems to expand. To fill the entire world.
His quick fingers untie the meadowlark cloak, and it slides down my back to the floor. Next he lifts the feather headdress from atop my head, taking a moment to run his fingers through my hair.
After that he removes the shell necklaces that were carefully draped around my neck during the ceremony. I am shivering as he loosens my skirt and lets it drift down my legs.
My jaws are locked, each hammering of my heart like a pestle pounding inside me.
And then I am lifted, laid upon the soft bedding. He carefully arranges my hair, as if to create a swirl on the soft bearhide robes.
I hear a cry, strangled deep in my throat, as I realize that he, too, is naked. When did that happen? Why don’t I remember?
A moan dies inside me as he climbs onto the bed.
On his knees, he leans his head back and whispers a prayer. His arms are raised, palms up, as if in supplication. My gaze fixes on his erection, so hard and straight.
“Even if you have to endure the Morning Star’s embrace…” Two Sticks’ words come floating out of my misty memory.
Straight Corn is coming.
I am married!
He shifts to cover me. Somehow, I manage to spread my knees apart and expose myself. I bite my lip, expecting pain.
Instead, he sings softly to me, running fingertips down my forearms.
I blink, glance curiously at him, and he tells me, “We have no reason to rush, yes?”
I see reflected lamplight in h
is dark eyes. And he concludes, saying in accented Moskogee, “The night is filled with the beat of sacred wings.”
Nineteen
Seven Skull Shield puffed out a frosty breath as dawn’s pale luminescence spread along the eastern horizon. This time of year the Keeper’s palace lay in the shadow of the Morning Star’s mighty mound and high palace. Only in summer did it receive the sun’s blessing as it rose above the eastern bluffs.
He kept his blanket clutched closely about his shoulders as he ambled down the Keeper’s steps and onto the avenue. In his hand he clutched a gourd cup, and he sipped at the morning gruel that he’d dipped from Dancing Sky’s cook pot at the central fire. The woman hadn’t been paying attention. But then, there was a lot of that going around. The Keeper herself hadn’t come home until late last night, and as usual, had been asleep on her feet. She hadn’t even noticed that Seven Skull Shield and Farts had made themselves at home on one of the sleeping benches in the rear. This, too, would pass.
But until it did, Seven Skull Shield was delighted to enjoy the Keeper’s largess, fine food, and warm palace.
Farts scratched anxiously at a flea and flopped down with a hollow thumping of bones as he watched Seven Skull Shield slurp his soupy breakfast.
Music carried on the morning air, flute and drums supporting male voices as they sang a song of greeting in one of the society houses just south of the Keeper’s. A dog barked; he could hear the soft, repetitive thud as someone pounded corn in a log mortar. At this unwholesome early hour? And somewhere off to the north along the banks of Cahokia Creek an infant kept bawling.
“I should be going,” he told Farts. “Probably ought to head back to the canoe landing. See if I can find out what happened to Winder.”
He wagged his spoon at the dog, seeing a sharpening of the beast’s brown and blue eyes. “It worries me. You see, Winder was my best friend. He and I, we didn’t have family. We just lived in the shadows, sleeping where we could, stealing this and that, doing odd jobs for a meal. The two of us? We knew every backway through River Mounds City. Knew every loose section of wall where we could wiggle into a warehouse or workshop during the winter.”
Farts uttered a half-whine of understanding. Or else he was asking for what was left of the hominy gruel in Seven Skull Shield’s bowl.
On a hunch, Seven Skull Shield said, “Come on. Before we do that, let’s go see how that Quiz Quiz is doing. Last I saw, he was looking pretty poorly, but hanging on.”
And one thing was for sure, if Seven Skull Shield ever decided he was going to steal anything from the Surveyors’ Society, he wasn’t going to be foolish enough to hang around to conduct any silly ceremonies. No, indeed, given what he’d already watched them do to Sky Star, he’d have his butt planted in the first canoe out of the landing and headed downriver.
He rounded the corner of the Morning Star’s mound and nodded to the guard. The warrior, looking cold and tired, didn’t so much as narrow an eye in return. The usual collection of litters, porters, and runners huddled in little groups at the base of the Grand Staircase as they waited on the pleasure of masters who’d spent the night at the Morning Star’s. Word was that they’d had another wedding up there last night.
Even in the twilight, youths were grading and smoothing the Morning Star’s chunkey courts in preparation should the living god decide to play.
Traders and vendors were trickling in, setting up their wares around the Grand Plaza’s peripheries. A few were already squabbling over space.
As the sky turned from indigo to violet and Cahokia seemed to appear out of the gloom, he made his way east past the great mound and stopped. Squinted.
Yes, that was the Surveyors’ Society house on its low mound where it stood back from the Avenue of the Sun. The square where the Quiz Quiz had hung now stood empty.
So, had Sky Star’s endurance flagged? Or had some passerby been overly enthusiastic with a knife or club? Maybe the Surveyors’ Society had tired of his suffering and shown the dying man mercy?
Walking up to the square, Seven Skull Shield could see the dark stains on both the ground and bottom log: dried blood. Here and there were sticks with charred ends where people had used them to burn the captive. And there, too, were pieces of the ropes lying discarded on the ground. Okay, so they must have grown tired and killed the war leader before—
Seven Skull Shield frowned as Farts hitched his leg and peed on one of the support logs. He bent and picked up one of the short pieces, staring at the frayed ends. Obviously it had been cut with a rather dull edge, since it was partially frayed where it had been sawed at. Probably with a chert or quartzite blade.
Surveyors revered rope. It was, after all, one of the sacred implements of their society—the tool used for their precise measurements.
Farts was licking at the blood, and Seven Skull Shield kicked him away. It was hard to tell given the hard-packed earth, but it looked like Sky Star had been dragged out from the square before the marks vanished.
At that moment a man moved the society house door to one side, stepping out on the veranda. He glanced at the eastern horizon, yawned, and scratched his sides. Only then did he turn and glance Seven Skull Shield’s way, taking in the empty square.
He started, then charged forward, leaping down from the waist-high mound and drawing to a stop, eyes wide as he stared at the square and demanded, “Where is he? Where is the Quiz Quiz?”
“You didn’t take him down?”
The man rushed past Seven Skull Shield, staring up and down the avenue as the light turned pink on the horizon. “Someone has taken him!”
Seven Skull Shield winced, rubbed the back of his neck, and said, “Phlegm, pus, and piss. You go tell your people. I’ll go tell the Keeper.” He paused. “But first, you go check. Is the Surveyors’ Bundle safe?”
At the mention, the man’s eyes flew wide. Arms flailing, he charged back into the society house to emerge a moment later and call, “It’s here!”
“Guard it! They might try for it again!”
With that Seven Skull Shield cursed, turned, and called, “Come on, beast.” As he trotted headlong for the Keeper’s he couldn’t help but remember the look on Winder’s face.
Tell me you had nothing to do with this.
Twenty
Clan Keeper Blue Heron watched Seven Skull Shield’s broad back as he and his foul-smelling dog trotted out between the guardian posts and disappeared down the staircase. She could think of a great many ways to start a day that were better than being awakened to learn that a coveted prisoner had been taken from the Surveyors’ Society square.
“It shouldn’t be your problem,” Dancing Sky said as she stepped up from behind and handed Blue Heron a cup of steaming sassafras tea.
“Don’t those silly surveyors keep a guard out? Even Five Fists details a guard when the Morning Star has prisoners in the square. If just to keep a family member from sneaking in and hurrying the job along in the name of mercy.” She tested the tea, found it too hot. “What’s the matter with those people?”
“They live by their sticks and strings and arcs,” Dancing Sky said with a shrug. “Maybe they’ve fallen so deeply into the study and computations that they’ve lost sight of reality.”
“They did let the Quiz Quiz walk in and lift their most sacred Bundle. At least they didn’t let that happen again.”
Blue Heron thought back to the expression on Seven Skull Shield’s face. The thief had been worried about the missing war leader. It was more than just the possibility that the Quiz Quiz might have held a grudge—something that would drive him to strike back at the thief who’d nabbed him. Whoever had cut Sky Star down and carried him off had rescued a man more dead than alive. A man incapable of seeking revenge himself.
No, this was something else, and it was not the first time Seven Skull Shield had been hiding something where the Quiz Quiz were involved.
As if I didn’t have enough to worry about.
Like Rising Flame taking over the
matron’s duties. The pus-rotted gods alone knew how that was going to work out. And why had Night Shadow Star so firmly declared herself for Rising Flame?
That was Piasa’s doing.
The realization sent a shiver down her spine. She should have recognized it the moment Night Shadow Star had stalked out of the Council House. The scary part was that both the Morning Star and Piasa apparently wanted Rising Flame as matron.
Why?
“Gods,” she muttered to herself. “Why doesn’t anything make sense anymore?”
Even as she said it, a messenger, his staff in hand, appeared at the staircase. He bowed before the guardian posts, trotted over to Blue Heron, and dropped to a knee, touching his forehead.
“Clan Keeper Blue Heron, Clan Matron Rising Flame requests your presence in the Four Winds Clan House to discuss security arrangements for the clan. The matron requests that you share breakfast in order to discuss the clan’s business in a more relaxed circumstance. Formal dress is not required.”
“Yes, yes. Now go.” She waved the messenger away and scowled up at the brightening morning sky. “Piss and spit.”
Dancing Sky watched the messenger’s rapid escape. “Pity. I had the girls make a most wonderful hominy.”
“How do you know it was wonderful?”
“The thief had second helpings.”
“The thief would take second helpings of boiled water if he thought he was getting away with something.”
She frowned again. “What are you getting away with, Seven Skull Shield?” She turned. “Dancing Sky, send word to Columella. Ask her if Flat Stone Pipe’s spies can keep an eye on the thief.”
“You suspect he’s up to something?”
“He wouldn’t be Seven Skull Shield if he wasn’t.”
Instead of using the litter, Blue Heron walked across the plaza to the Four Winds Clan House and hobbled up the stairs. She made her obeisance to the guardian posts and, to her surprise, was stopped at the door.
“Who comes?” the guard, a Fish Clan warrior, asked.
Moon Hunt Page 17
