“Isn’t that your granddaughter?” she said to Feather Cloak. “She is too young to begin weapons training!”
“She has earned the right of an apprentice, to carry the shield and arrows of a veteran.”
The girl did not even look at Secha. She stood perfectly still and straight, gaze bent on something behind Secha’s back which she watched as does a hawk, sighting prey.
“Your own son has also chosen the path of the warrior’s shield carrier, I think,” added Feather Cloak. “Would you wish otherwise?”
“He is older! Of proper age!” Secha scanned the line of march but could not see his familiar, beloved face. “Is he with you?”
“He is with the garrison at Flower Garden. There is still much work to do to cleanse the city so people can live there properly.”
Secha was not sure if she was pleased, or disappointed, that he had been chosen to remain behind.
“The Flower Garden garrison plans to conduct raids into the north,” added Feather Cloak, smiling in her sharp way. “We hope to capture more of the eastern ironworkers to teach our smiths the secret of iron. There is plenty of chance for your son to fight.”
“All of the young ones will fight, now that you are Feather Cloak.”
“Humankind must have no chance to rest.”
“So it seems.” Secha knew better than to open this argument again. After all, she was the one who had lost. “Where do you mean to go?”
“We are marching to war,” said Feather Cloak in her usual blunt, careless style. “The Pale Sun Dog is come to help you weave a new path.”
She indicated the man riding in the fifth rank. His hands were bound, and he was trussed up on the horse in the most demeaning manner possible. The blood knives taught that real people walked on their own feet, and did not rely on the strength of the Horse people’s mute brothers to carry them. Naturally, everyone but the most stubbornly traditional could see the advantage of horses, so they had begun to capture and breed their own.
The Pale Sun Dog had a red flush on his face, as though someone had slapped him, although it did not fade. Skin singed by flame might sheen in such a manner, but who was foolish enough to play with fire?
“You have bound his hands,” remarked Secha.
“We found him beneath the Mountain-of-the-World’s-Beginning. We think he was trying to help the Bright One to escape, but we stopped him before he could cause any trouble.”
Secha smiled. “How long do you think you can hold the Bright One as your prisoner, in the heart of the world?”
“There is no entrance or exit except the hidden way that the blood knives guard. It opens in the ceiling above the cavern floor. Anyone coming out of the heart of the world must be lifted by rope.”
“So you mean to kill her.”
Feather Cloak said softly, “I need her alive until I am done with the Pale Sun Dog. She will be hard to kill, but she is trapped. If the blood knives cannot control her for their ritual, then we can always let her die of thirst. The gods will be pleased to be offered any manner of sacrifice in the Heart-of-the-Mountain-of-the-World’s-Beginning, even if her blood is not spilled.”
“How came the Pale Sun Dog to know of the Bright One’s presence there?”
Feather Cloak did not look at him as she smirked. “The same story. A weak-minded woman sought his favor by telling tales.”
“What became of her?”
“The blood knives took her. Her crime will be measured by the gods, and she will receive a sentence.”
Secha shuddered. “According to the stories, that is how the blood knives acted in ancient days.”
Feather Cloak shrugged. The matter, out of her hands, no longer interested her.
The Pale Sun Dog lifted his bound hands to brush at a fly that had landed on his chin. When his fingers brushed the reddened skin, he winced as at a sting. He saw them talking, but his gaze wandered. He looked away, into the distance, and seemed to be dreaming, distracted, lost.
“Why should he help you, now that you have bound him?”
“He still wants that woman, and he knows I have her.” She looked along the path that led over the rise to the crown. “Best we make ready.”
“Where are you going?”
“We are going to kill a sorcerer, at the habitation the Pale Ones call Novomo.”
The Ashioi had found the crown complete, except for one stone fallen where the ground had broken away in the hillside beneath. Over the last months, and with great effort, this stone had been raised. Ridges of earth marked the remains of a ramp used to lift it. Charred logs had been rolled away from post holes; plain wood could not sustain weaving because the threads of starlight set it smoldering.
