“Do not say so,” retorted Adica sternly. “We have walked a long path together. We cannot let them defeat us now.”
“We must know for certain,” Two Fingers agreed thoughtfully.
“How can I and my companions find Horn’s people without walking into a trap?”
Once Hani’s voice ceased, Two Fingers considered. Alain stared at the niche, with its offerings of pots. Did each one contain a dead infant? Was the thickly burning incense covering the smell of putrefaction? The red paint, like a coating of blood, lay heaviest along the inset stone walls of the niche. Painted figures of women with heavy thighs and pregnant bellies reminiscent of the Fat One danced up and down the walls of the niche, celebrating the innocent dead or protecting them. It was hard to know which.
“The storm may last for days. There are some among my tribe who believe that the Cursed Ones afflict us with harsh storms to break our spirit.”
“What do you believe, Two Fingers? The Cursed Ones know many secret things. Can it be they can weave the weather as well?”
He lifted his mutilated hand in a gesture of surrender. “I know little enough. Storms grow worse each year, so it seems. But I am not sure even the Cursed Ones can work such powerful magic that they can raise storms in a land so far from their own.”
“They have ships.”
“So they do. How does a storm benefit them when they are at sea, unless they can bend each breath of wind to their will?” Again, he made that dismissive gesture, glancing at his young assistant. The woman frowned back at him. Nothing seemed able to break her concentration, or that startling frown. “It matters not, for all will be decided soon enough. The month of Adiru comes to an end. Now the sun stands still—”
“Has so much time passed?” Adica demanded harshly. “When we left our tribe, we had just welcomed spring!”
Was it already summer? Adica had told him that time passed differently when one walked the looms, but how could that happen when only a pair of days had gone by?
“So much time has passed,” replied Two Fingers with a solemn nod. “The time of weaving will not wait for us. It will come whether we are ready or not.”
“We must be ready.” Adica wore that stubborn expression which Alain had learned to respect.
Two Fingers nodded. “If we are to succeed, one among us must reach Horn’s land to see if she yet lives. I will travel there with you.”
“It is hard enough risking my own self,” said Adica. “You must not risk yourself as well.”
“Nay, for I have Hehoyanah to follow me.” He gestured toward the young woman. “She will work my part of the pattern. You cannot be replaced, Young One, since you have no apprentice. Although it is true you have a powerful spirit walking with you.” He gestured toward Alain, marking him with an astute glance. His dimple peeped again as his lips quirked up, but the smile was brief. “I must make sure you arrive safely in your own land.”
Adica’s shoulders stiffened. She yanked at the sleeve of her bodice the way she always did when she was irritated. “So easily do the old sacrifice the young. Does your apprentice embrace her fate gladly, that you have passed onto her so unexpectedly?”
Alain began to step forward, to soothe her, but thought better of it as Two Fingers’ assistant lifted a corner of her veil up to cover her face, hiding her expression. Better not to interfere. This was out of his hands.
Two Fingers gazed on Adica blandly, as if the anger boiling in her heart slipped off of him like water. Yet his voice was not easy. “Do you think the old gladly bury the young?” He gestured toward the silent pots at rest in the painted alcoves. “Do not let your own eyes cloud what you see. I am sorry for the burden the young have been forced to share with the old. But we have no choice unless we choose to let the Cursed Ones win this war and subject all humankind to slavery.”
Such words made Alain nervous. Why did everyone speak so stubbornly about fate and death? Adica was so young that although it was true that all people must expect to die in time, and perhaps untimely, she ought to have many long years to live. With Alain at her side.
The wind whined distantly, like the lost and fading wails of an infant torn from his mother’s breast.
“Come.” This time Two Fingers’ curt smile did not bring out his dimple. “We cannot wait for the storm to falter of its own. We must walk the phoenix path into Horn’s land.”
From a ceramic dish resting in one of the niches, he scooped up a paste of red ocher and brushed Adica’s forehead with the color, marking her. After a hesitation, he did the same to Alain. He veiled himself before the curtain was drawn aside so they could leave the chamber.