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

by Jeff Posey

  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.”

  “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 p
ossibly 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.”