The Feverbird's Claw (16 page)

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.”

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.

Grandmother had told this story only once. Servant girls had clutched one another. Moralin had wrapped her arms around her legs and, full of delicious fear, stared up at Grandmother. “People kept getting killed by rocks. Was it the way these rocks were formed?” Grandmother had asked, not waiting for an answer. “Or did monstrous animals sleep under the rocks? Animals that shifted their weight and grumbled a warning when footsteps disturbed their sleep?”

Figt pulled the blowpipe from her pack. Another whistling rose in the rocks. “Let's go back.” Moralin turned and saw a rock sliding toward them slowly, the way sand slid down a dune. The beastie snarled.

“Run,” Moralin shouted. What could a blowpipe do?

Figt and the beastie bounded down the path. Moralin dashed after them. Here the water sounded like a legless creeper rustling in the bushes. Behind her she thought she heard the mutter of something waking up. Ahead a fallen tree stretched across the river. Figt reached the trunk, scooped the beastie up, and ran across on agile feet.

A rock rumbled by and splashed into the river, showering Moralin with drops. “Hurry,” Figt shouted. Panting, Moralin scrambled onto the wet tree and took five unsteady steps. Behind her, a blow made the tree shake. She grabbed a bare branch, trying not to think about the snarling water below.

A second rock hit. Moralin stood salt-still, feeling the log shudder. The beastie barked wildly from the other end, and Moralin turned to look behind her. A huge rock was rolling down the hill. She forced herself to move, running with little sideways steps. In the moment she leaped off, she felt the jolt and heard a giant cracking sound. The two pieces of the broken trunk slipped slowly into the river, where the swift current dragged them away.

She fumbled her way up the bank on legs of twisted string. Dark was falling quickly, and she could barely make out a grassy knoll. To the left, rocks formed a sheltered spot, but she didn't want to be anywhere near rocks tonight. She flopped down, put her arms around the beastie, and pulled it close. After she could talk again, she whispered, “You hero,” in its ear.

“The People say this river is guarded by a monster,” Figt said. “I thought it was a tale. Lucky we are that it is only the start of the little rains. And for the tree.”

Moralin was glad the other girl said nothing about being lost, even though it was obvious they were.

W
HEN THE FIRST LIGHT TOUCHED HER EYELIDS
, Moralin rolled over. The beastie licked her face and wiggled to its feet. She crawled up the knoll and looked around. Then she buried her head in the beastie's fur.

Behind them the river gurgled and hissed like some unfriendly creature. Ahead was a high, sheer cliff. This piece of land where she and Figt had slept was cradled between the river and the cliff. They could drink from the river, unless the water was bad. But they would have no food.

Back at the bottom of the knoll, she clutched her cloak and pulled sleep around her. This time she dreamed of terrible things: figures reaching milk-white fingers for her, stones crashing toward her head. She woke up moaning.

Grandmother had always said that Moralin would bring trouble onto herself if she didn't learn to control her anger. Now she had. Worse yet, Figt was right; she had not wanted to leave the caves. Why?

Since she was a child, people said, “You have Delagua blood and courage and wisdom and strength.” Always Delagua. Mother would use herself as an example. As a highborn married to a royalborn, she almost never saw her husband, who had his own duties and responsibilities. She lived patiently in his mother's house, far from her own family. Did even shadows ever complain about all their work? The Delagua were the most noble and wise.

She remembered Song-maker's words as he knelt by the plant of yellow dye. What if there was another way to be strong? What if …

No. She shoved the wicked thoughts away and took out a piece of fruit, bit into it, and listened to the way her teeth squeaked on the skin. Better enjoy the sweet juice blooming in her mouth. This food in their pouches was the last they would ever eat.

After a while Figt rolled over, stood, and climbed the knoll. Moralin braced herself for a scream of anger. But Figt just sat up there and played notes on her little gourd. The beastie ran around, stopping to roll back and forth in the dirt.

“Cora Linga,” Moralin whispered, “are you close enough to hear me? I have been so unworthy.” Nothing answered except a slight wind ruffling the river.

She was staring blankly, smoothing the beastie's fur, when Figt came back. “My plan is ready.”

Moralin felt silver hope spring in her. It quickly died. What could help them now?

“I see I can make a way up the cliff.” Figt motioned, and they climbed the knoll and stood looking at the frowning rock face. “The People have long known the ways of climbing.”

“Ooden told me.”

“And it is true.” Figt wrapped her cloak around her waist and tied it.

Moralin shook her head.

“You did it once.”

“That cliff was not as tall as this one. There were holes for my hands and feet.” And I hadn't yet disobeyed and angered Cora Linga, she added silently.

Figt sat down and took off her sandals. She turned them thoughtfully in her hands. “But not impossible.”

“For me, impossible.”

Figt looked at her with curiosity.

Moralin fought the shame that pooled in her chest. Why speak of this? Maybe Figt would have pity and stay. Let the three of them die here together on the ground. Ah. She hung her head. Song-maker was right. They were her friends.

“This is my story,” she said. For the first time in her life, using words and gestures, she did her best to show what it was like to be scooped up and hauled, wiggling and screaming, down the stone streets, up the wall. “Someone … held me out over the wall. I think it was a woman. She was going to drop me.” Moralin choked and stopped.

“But you were a child then.” Figt's voice was matter-of-fact. “You must do this now and get home.” Figt tied her sandals together with a leather thong, humming.

Moralin tossed a small stone toward the water. Why was Figt so hard-hearted? She thought about Mamita sitting at the loom, singing as she wove the starbright threads. Would her own mother recognize her now? With her arms and legs strong and burned by the sun, her hair wild and matted?

She forced herself to study the cliff. Just doing that much made her sick. “No,” she said. “I can't.”

Warrior-calm, Figt reached for Moralin's sandals.

“I also know the Great Ones want us—me anyway—to fail.”

Figt tied the sandals around her waist beside the cloak. “This cliff says I may climb.” After a moment she added, “You gave me my life.” Though she didn't say the words, Moralin knew what she meant. “I can save yours.”