The Feverbird's Claw Page 11

  “You still call them by that name? It means ‘snake,’ you know.” He gave her a close look. “They revere snakes, but they do not want to be called snakes.”

  “You said, ‘I half expect I’ll feel a spear sliding between my shoulder blades as I leave.’”

  “They did give me a scolding for getting talkative with a prisoner. One of the warriors sent me on my way with a good shove.” He grinned. “But they also gave me extra salt for the two days when I translated for you. The reward for my season’s work of translating was the first I brought to my people.” She saw a familiar pride flick in his eyes.

  Her head wobbled. Stay alert, she told herself, but it felt so good to sink back, to shut her eyes.

  A sound of barking came from far away. She sat up on the mattress and looked around for the beastie, but apparently it had been a guest only in her dream. “Hello?” she called out hopefully.

  Song-maker was quickly kneeling at her side. His hands cupped a bowl of red clay, thin and delicate, with leaf patterns painted along the rim. He helped her drink. Sweet goat’s milk.

  She wanted to say thank you, but awkwardness kept the words back. “Where are—”

  “Your friends? They, too, slept and slept. Now they are practicing walking again. Ready to try?”

  He helped her up. She took an unsteady step forward, grimacing at the pain of unused muscles and at the word “friends.” The clothes she was wearing were made of soft white cloth and reminded her of the tunic and pants from the fighting yard.

  “This is the smoothest way.” He guided her out the mouth of the cave and onto a small terrace of stubby grass.

  A baby goat looked up, green clumps hanging from its mouth, and shouted maaaaa, running to its mother. Moralin and Song-maker laughed.

  He helped her over the terrace wall and down to a path that ran along a gulch between high, misshapen walls. This place looked as if the Great Ones had played here long ago, molding the soft rock into weird shapes, swishing the red with streaks of white and deep scarlet. Over there they had mounded the clay to look like a wildcat’s paw. A few steps ahead, swirls and lines made a strange pattern, some Great One’s gleeful giant painting.

  She was so intrigued that she forgot to feel her stiffness. After a bit the walls widened, and high above them the sun smeared the rocks with orange. Soon they passed a fissure cloaked in shadow. It looked like an ominous secret passageway, but at the far end she caught a glimpse of a building carved right out of the rock. Someone had painted rust-colored goats that ran on spindly legs over its pillars.

  How did Song-maker know her language so well? The Delagua city must not be as completely closed as those in power insisted. She wondered if one of her people had sought refuge here and become a teacher.

  Song-maker left the main path and led her through a small passageway that wiggled and finally dipped toward a wide, oval mouth. They walked into the tunnel. In the dim light she saw a painted herd of animals with flapping ears and thin legs. “Get ready,” he said.

  She frowned. Ready for what?

  When they stepped out, the green—after so many days of yellow and red—made her eyes water. If she looked up at the cliffs, she saw nothing but reds and oranges and browns, but at their feet lay a bowl of green with a blue pool cupped at the bottom. A spring must bubble under these rocks. The sides of the bowl had been carved into terraces, planted with hundreds of trees and bushes.

  “This is where my mother and brothers work.” Song-maker’s voice was proud. He helped her down narrow steps shaped out of the soft rock.

  “So many plants.” She paused by a small tree. Something about the smell reminded her of home, and she felt a powerful longing rise in her throat.

  “My mother’s father cultivated this garden. At the cave mouth where travelers unpacked and shook out dirt, he noticed that strange plants sprouted. He started to inspect each bundle.”

  “Why sift dirt for something so tiny?”

  Song-maker hesitated. His face turned grave. “Because the Arkera and Delagua both forced us to bring them tribute. Always food and animals. In bad years … our own young.”

  He had used the snake name, she noticed.

  “Our backs groaned with work, but we still starved as we carried our food to others.” He paused and then burst out, “What could we do? If we stopped giving what they demanded, we knew our enemies would leap on us and tear us to pieces. People huddled in their caves and thought of nothing except the terror that might strike if the crops failed or sand trapped our roaming animals.”

  She didn’t know what to say. Tribute always came to the strong. It was the way of the world. “What about fighting back?” she finally managed to ask.

  “Some argued for that. My mother’s father proposed another way.” Song-maker dropped to his knees. “What if we had things only we knew how to grow? Things the powerful would want?” His fingers brushed a plant. “These roots, for instance, turned out to produce yellow dye that pleases The People. Using such things we have been slowly tipping the scale from tribute to trade, especially with the Arkera.”

  A shout made them look back to the cave opening. A young boy hopped down the steps and gave something to Song-maker. Moralin stared with curiosity at the lines and pointed marks on the thin bark.

  He turned and started back up the stairs. “Enough talk. Your friends are back.”

  What kind of magic had told him this? She hurried after him, eager to ask. But his mood seemed to have turned dark. He didn’t stop until they had gotten back to the room where she had left her things. “Wait here.”

  Glad for the rest, she sank down on the mattress. It was filled with sweet-smelling straw, and she curled into it. So … soft …

  Wetness woke her up. A river of wetness. A slopping, warm tongue. She put her arms around the beastie’s neck and pulled herself back to a sitting position.

  Figt stood looking down at her. “Kadu? You are well?”

  Moralin stretched her arms over her head. Her feelings were as tangled as thread.

  “We survived the sand waste.” She had never heard Figt’s voice this way, bursting with amazement. “Now the city is only four days from here. Get up. Let’s go.”

  “How great is my joy,” Moralin said. She was excited. Wasn’t she? “Since we are close,” she added, “it will not hurt to wait a bit longer. A few days.”

  She tried to ignore the puzzled, pained look on Figt’s face. There was no reason for the other girl to be so eager, she told herself hotly. She went on, “We have need for great caution and careful planning. I gave my word, but there are many dangers in the Delagua city besides me.”

  Figt drew herself up. “I am one of The People. I am prepared to die.”

  “Yes. Well …” A bit sheepish, astonished at her own desire to stay, Moralin chewed her lip. Song-maker had much he could show her. Of course once she was home, all other wonders would be nothing.

  Figt was quiet for a while. Then she said, “I think thee has forgotten that dangers are here, too. My people talk of places that draw strangers in and they never want to get home.”

  Moralin tensed. How could she have stopped thinking clearly? She thought of Song-maker’s dark mood and the way he’d said, “We have been slowly tipping the scale from tribute to trade.” Prisoners were something to be given in tribute. Some prisoners could even be used in trade. She scrambled to her feet and scooped up her things.

  Figt looked at her with approval. “Hurry. Maybe they won’t expect us to try to escape so soon.” The beastie made three circles around Moralin, barking.

  Figt moved to the door and looked out. “No guards that I can see,” she said. “Can thee walk?”

  “I’m fine. Does thee have thy knife?”

  “The strawhopper eaters took it. I have my blowpipe.” Figt pointed to an opening at the back of the cave. Moralin followed her through the low door, and they were in a corridor lit by candles. But they had walked for only a little way when the ground became slick and
hard. The beastie slipped and scrambled, trying to keep its balance. The click of its toenails was the only sound.

  “How do thee know this is the right way?” Moralin whispered.

  Figt paused. “I—I thought it was.”

  “Look.” Moralin pointed with amazement to baskets, heaped with green fruit.

  Figt gave her tunic a tug. “My people tell stories of people trapped forever in strange places because they tasted the food.”

  Grandmother had told such a story, too. And Moralin had already eaten. Frightened now, she started to run. Above the sound of her footsteps, a weird singing rose. She put her fingers in her ears. Maybe they also used music to lure people into wanting to stay.

  The tunnel twisted. As Moralin dashed around the corner, she saw an opening ahead. She slowed, gasping. Figt pushed past her.

  “Wait.” Moralin grabbed for the back of Figt’s tunic. They were too late. She remembered the look on Song-maker’s face as he told her of the years of tribute. Remembered how he could make bark and black paint speak. He must have let the guards know they were escaping. One now blocked the gate.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY

  “WE ONLY WANT TO REACH THE OUTSIDE world so we can go home,” Figt called.

  The guard replied calmly. “Those who walk bravely say the whole world is ever anybody’s home.”

  “May we go then?”

  Moralin could feel the fight rising in her shoulders. In her mind’s eye, she saw the guard pulling out a knife, leaping toward them. To her astonishment he simply stepped to one side.

  A few minutes later they were standing on the coarse grass in front of the cave. From the smell of the air Moralin could tell it had rained today. Dry season must be over. A path led off to the right. Why was she hesitating, feeling a strange heart clench of loss when her heart should be full of joy and relief?

  “Look.” Figt held out a piece of the thin bark with black lines on it. “A map. Song-maker also gave me food and other supplies.”

  “But why, then—”

  Figt walked away. “Come on,” she called back, her voice commanding.

  Moralin followed, dark resentment swelling. Careful. She loosened the fists out of her hands.

  The path wandered calmly through the strange and twisted rock formations she had glimpsed when she and Song-maker were on their way to the place of the spring. She could spot openings in the cliff face. They were framed with carvings, and black goats grazed on the small aprons of land.

  Luckily she and Figt saw no one. Once, though, they heard a child whimper. Two voices, one male, one female, hushed it. Did both mothers and fathers live with children in these caves then? How strange.

  Even when there were no more dwellings, the smell of fruit and some kind of tart vegetable floated from gardens that must be hidden nearby. Here thin waterfalls spilled over the cliff face.

  Figt studied the map. “Easy to become lost.”

  Moralin said nothing.

  After a while Figt took out bread and fruit, which she ate greedily and shared with the beastie. She offered some to Moralin, who refused.

  The beastie ran from side to side, sniffing at roots of occasional bushes and once digging frantically in a hole where a small animal was probably hiding. It didn’t stop until Figt whistled. Then it bounded after them.

  Moralin seethed as she walked. Why had Figt tricked her into thinking of the cave people as enemies? Why should an Arkera be so ready to walk to her death in the Delagua city? Did she think entering with a highborn would give her some protection? What would the other girl say if she knew the Great Ones were angry with Moralin and would be sure to doom this journey? In fact probably the nearer they got to the temple, the more danger there would be.

  The thought made her forget Figt and think about her own worries. Was there any way to regain favor with Cora Linga? The Great Ones help those who use their own strength. She made a silent vow. From now on she would use only her own strength.

  Four days, Song-maker had said. How long until she saw something she recognized—perhaps one of the sacred hills? It was odd to try to imagine herself truly back home. Her awa clan would already have been in the temple service for a long time by now. Well, if she could just make amends with Cora Linga, something would work out. She was Old Tamlin’s granddaughter.

  Calmly she tried to make her plans. Later, if they ran into patrolling soldiers, what story could she say? The first step must be to try to find the jamara tree. Then?

  In the afternoon, walking under stone-gray clouds, they clambered over lumpy foothills and found themselves free of the red rocks. Far away Moralin saw a mountain with smoke drifting out of its head. “The people say skulkuks once lived there,” Figt said. “Ancient eggs can still be found in the caves, so old their shells have turned to rocks.”

  A wondrous idea. The breeze fluttered the cloth of Moralin’s tunic. For one wild moment she thought that instead of going to the Delagua city, they could turn aside and find one of these rock eggs. What was wrong with her? Soon you will see your family, she thought, scolding herself. Yes, seeing her family was all that mattered.

  “Now the skulkuks live in that other place of broken trees.” Figt had put on her expressionless warrior voice. She pulled two white cloaks out of her bag and gave one to Moralin.

  “Why did your people try such a dangerous thing?” Moralin settled the cloak around her shoulders. Was she shivering from the chill in the air or from the memories of the village in flames? Could she ever pay a trader or someone to find out what had happened to Ooden?

  Figt didn’t answer. Ahead, the path branched. She took out the map. “Why take that creature, I mean,” Moralin insisted. The wind caught Figt’s cloak, making it float. “That was rock-stupid.”

  Figt faced her. Her cheek twitched. “Any danger was worth the chance to get inside the Delagua city. Because of what thy people do to mine.”

  “And thy people?” Moralin’s voice rose. The wind gave a sudden soft groan. “Thee did not see my friends killed and left by the path. All people do these things.”

  “The cave people seem honorable,” Figt said stubbornly.

  Thunder grumbled softly. Dark clouds were crawling toward them. The sky looked just the way Moralin felt inside. “Thee lied to me.” Now Moralin’s voice was trembling. “They had given thee things for our journey.”

  “I saw thy eyes.” The other girl spit the words at her. “I was not going to come so close to my brother only to have thee lose heart.”

  Moralin flushed. Figt might just as well have straight out called her a coward. Before she could stop herself, she grabbed the map and ripped it in two.

  Figt gaped at her.

  Moralin was instantly full of fire-hot shame. How could she endanger their trip this close to home? “I’m sorry.” She held out the two pieces. But as Figt reached for them, the wind caught one and whirled it away. Moralin leaped. It skittered a few steps ahead. A patter of rain thumped wet fingers on the path, flicking up dust. Moralin caught the bark. As she handed it to Figt, she saw the black paint on her hand.

  They took shelter under a tree. At least the cloak was warm, Moralin thought, slumping under it. “So, what does thee really know about these cave people?” she asked Figt finally.

  “My mother told me a little.” Her voice was not angry anymore, but sad. “I like to think of the way her eyes looked as she spoke of them.”

  “Does thee remember her face?” Moralin flushed, wishing the words back inside her mouth.

  Figt looked at her. “You don’t need to say ‘thee’ to me if you are going to ask this question.”

  “I thought ‘you’ was …” She tried to think of the word for “impolite.”

  “Yes.” Figt scooped up a stick. She threw it hard, and the beastie bounced off into the rain. “But close friends also use it with each other.” For a while she was silent. Then she said, “My mother was not born one of The People. She was taken in as you were.”

&nbs
p; In bad years, Song-maker had said. Our own young. “Perhaps she grew up in those caves.”

  “Yes,” Figt said thoughtfully. “Her voice was the sound of water. I kept remembering her while we were there.”

  Moralin thought of her own elegant mother. What would she say when she saw her rumpled daughter?

  “After she died,” Figt went on, her voice tight with pain, “I was given to my aunts, but I ran from them many times. I was happy to begin training to be a warrior. Until …”

  The wet beastie ran up with a small creature in its mouth. “This mighty hunter,” Figt said softly. Her eyes glistened.

  Moralin waggled her hand, palm down, in understanding. There was nothing to say, but the gesture hung there between them until Figt looked away.

  Eventually, Figt began to play the gourd she carried. Moralin reached out, and Figt let her try it. Seeing that Moralin couldn’t coax any sound at all from it, Figt finally smiled a little.

  When the rain stopped, they stepped out. Moralin pointed toward what looked like a city of dark stones. “I think this is the way.”

  Figt hesitated.

  “I’m sure.” Moralin was surprised by the firmness of her voice.

  Soon rocks stood on either side of them like giant, impassive people. Moralin was about to say that perhaps they should turn around, but before she got the words out, Figt gestured to one of the rocks. A whistling sound rose from a small hole in it. The beastie growled and sniffed.

  At the bottom of the slope, something glistened as if a piece of sky had slipped out of place. Moralin imagined giant sky fish flapping around, breaking a hole for the sky to soak through.

  What did she know of the lands around the city? A swift river lay to the east, but people could not use it for water in dry season because … she felt dizzy, remembering.