The Feverbird's Claw (6 page)

As she crossed the field behind Figt, her thoughts leaped, each one shiny with possibilities. It was as if she were living in one of Grandmother's stories. Song-maker. He must be the son of the earth. “My people walk bravely,” he had told her, and he had surely opened her ears. Now here was this bead, like a blue bit of sky just waiting to be freed and carried. Could Cora Linga send her messengers even here? Hope burned her throat, making her hold her breath. She would do it: trust the boy and ask him directly for help.

But Song-maker seemed to have disappeared. While she walked and waited for him to find her again, she thought about what she would say. She must find the perfect tone.

Gradually she noticed that people were whispering to one another. Their voices sounded dire and urgent. The trees were too close for her to see the sun, so she didn't even know in what direction they were moving. Once or twice she took a cautious step or two to the left or right. Each time Figt whistled, and warriors were beside her in a flash.

Where was Song-maker? Impatient and cross, she glanced around.

They came to a slope where the trees thinned. As people found their way down, they slipped on the rocks. Moralin paused. Figt stopped, too, staring at her with hostile eyes. Moralin ignored the other girl, studying the clumps of people for Song-maker.

How many were spread out on the slope below her? Two hundred? Three hundred? More Arkera trickled past. “Wait,” he had said, but she had been in too much of a hurry. Had he been trying to say good-bye?

Frantic now, she searched the whole area again. The elders must have decided it was time for him to leave. Alive? “I half expect I'll feel a spear sliding between my shoulder blades as I leave,” he'd said. She shuddered.

Figt spoke a word of rough command, and Moralin took a few stumbling steps.

Far below, those in the lead had reached jagged stumps that pointed at the sky. The elders raised their snakesticks, and the wave of people moving toward them stopped as if a river had abruptly dried up. For a moment the air was still and dry as dust. An animal howled.

Every other animal on the slope wailed in answer. Figt flung herself toward the beastie. A child screamed. At that moment something leaped into the sky from behind the stumps.

A wild shriek shivered the air, and the world exploded with sound and fear.
Run.
Anywhere. Away from the glimpse of wings and clawed feet and webbed red skin hung on delicate bones.

The smell of rotting meat choked Moralin. She dashed down and to one side, tripping, falling, hauling herself to her feet, running again. Thick brush grabbed her ankles. She turned even more downhill, scrabbling and slipping toward the trees that would give some cover. Her breath was knife-sharp in her chest. Her eyes blurred with tears.

A rock blocked her way. She didn't hesitate but scrambled over it. Now she was sliding and then rolling into some kind of ravine. A bush at the bottom broke her fall. A huge tree lay flat on the ground ahead of her.

The air was hazy with smoke. Somewhere behind her, the beastie began its low, hoarse barking, frantic this time. The stink grew more powerful, filling Moralin's head.

“Pay attention,” Old Tamlin's voice urged her. The barking turned into a yelp of terrible pain. On hands and knees, Moralin lunged toward the fallen tree. One end was open. She wiggled backward into the hollow log, then reached out and grabbed as much brush as she could reach, pulling it around the opening. Carefully she flattened herself.

After her breath quieted, she could hear muffled shouting and snarls. The skulkuk must be attacking. Long ago in the Delagua city it was the fashion for highborns to keep miniature skulkuks chained in their houses. Grandmother talked disapprovingly of the danger and more than once showed Moralin that one of the old servants had a purple scar on her ankle from a skulkuk bite. When the servant was only a child, she'd let fascinated curiosity draw her too close. Grandmother's mother had saved her life, putting hot cloths on her ankle and ginger on her forehead to soak out the poisons and nightmares.

Shhhh, shhhhh.
Moralin pressed her mouth closed to keep the moan of fear inside. What she had seen was a giant, monstrous version of those miniature beasts. She rested her head against moss, breathing in the smells of earth and old sap.
Calm.
Her enemies would be busy for a while. No one would have time to think of an escaped prisoner.

“Thank you, Cora Linga,” she breathed again and again. She must still be on land where the Delagua had once made their camps. No matter what other horrors were out there, Cora Linga's messengers would help her make her way.

T
HE INSIDE OF THE LOG WASN'T DAMP, AS
Moralin had expected, and Old Tamlin had trained her to lie still without twitching even when she was terrified. Finally the sounds drifting from the outside world made her think the skulkuk must be growing weaker. She could hear the shouts dropping away.

Shivering with joy, she imagined herself already back home, running over the stones to her house. She could clearly see Grandmother and Mother standing by the moralin bush, hugging each other sorrowfully. Now they were looking up. They spotted her and began to cry out with excitement.

She pulled her thoughts back, groping to feel inside the pouch. Not as much food as she would have liked, but she would survive somehow, even if she had to eat bugs. As if it had heard her thoughts, some tiny thing scuttled across her hand. Careful to make no noise, Moralin flicked it off.

“Brains and courage have given the noble Delagua many an advantage against an enemy,” Old Tamlin used to say. He had taught her that if she could be patient enough to wait and then bold enough when the moment came, anything was possible. Old Tamlin knew all about weapons and how to use them, but he said over and over that more important than weapons was a disciplined mind.

Using her fingers as eyes, she found what she wanted. Though the inside of the log was dark, the bead's beauty glistened in her mind. Such a sumptuous blue would tempt many, making the bead useful for trade. But Cora Linga had said, “Use her not, the daughter of the sky.” Moralin put it into her pocket, and drew out the serenity stone. “I told you I would escape,” she said, mouthing the words. She'd find a friendly village. Maybe she wouldn't even need Cora Linga's help.

“Be careful.” The voice in her thoughts was so real she could almost believe the stone had spoken. “Don't say anything rash against the Great Ones.”

Moralin touched her forehead gratefully and felt, against the back of her hand, the brush of something sticky that clung to her fingers: a spiderweb. Cora Linga had said “Go to the web.” Now all three pieces of her riddle had fallen into place, and Moralin was saved.

The elders would be interested to hear that Cora Linga's power still spread so far from the temple. Moralin would give them the blue bead so she would never be tempted to use it. As her time of service began, they would already know her to be someone who had proved herself worthy.

She imagined herself bowing before the tapestry. Her muscles twitched with the longing to burst out of the log and just to run, putting this place far behind. Better not trying to travel until the Arkera were farther away from her. Figt wouldn't be able to think about anything but the beastie for a while. It would be a nasty thing for any small animal to get mixed up with the claws of a skulkuk.

Song-maker had shown her this weakness in Figt. Warm gratitude spread in her chest. If the Arkera elders had simply told him it was time to go, if the warriors had spared him from their spears, maybe she could catch up. She smiled. He could show her how to walk from one corner of the flat earth to the other.

Slowly she relaxed into the cradle of the giant log. Many times, according to Old Tamlin's stories, the Delagua were so badly outnumbered by the fierce and bloody Arkera they thought their enemies must be as numerous as strawhoppers, yet they still managed to win. Now she, too, had gotten away.

Ruuuch. Ruuch.
Moralin stiffened.

Something was rooting through the leaves outside the log. She put her sticky hand to her mouth, feeling hot breath on her fingers.

The rooting became louder, and she thought she could hear
waa-waa-waa
breathing. Something snorted and bumped against the log. Cora Linga, she prayed. Don't let me get this far only to be torn apart by one of the monsters from Grandmother's stories.

Just then whatever it was gave a loud snort and whuffled off, its noises growing fainter and then dying away completely. Praise the Great Ones, she was not to be meat for some monster's belly.

It took all her training to make her breathing steady again. Soon she was deep inside herself. In her mind she soared through the air, practicing her leaps and spins. Old Tamlin was laughing, cheering her on.

“Brave girl,” Old Tamlin was shouting to her. “I knew you would get away.”

What was that? Footsteps. Small, light patters and heavier steps following.

A soft whimper trickled out before she could stop it. Cora Linga. Save me once again. Maybe Cora Linga would send a fog to cover the log and keep her safe from prying eyes. Maybe smoke still hung heavy from the skulkuk's firesome breath.

Something scratched at the brush in front of the log. And then a voice, a familiar voice, began to shout.

H
ANDS GRABBED HER AND PULLED ON ANYTHING
they caught hold of—neck, shoulders, hair. She swallowed the pain and squirmed deeper, but the hands were too strong. She was outside the log. Hands seized her legs and arms and hoisted her into the air. Someone yanked the pouch from her waist, the serenity stone from her hand, the velee from her shoulders. She kicked and bit, but the hands just tightened. As she twisted, she caught one glimpse of Figt before someone pulled a rough blanket over her face.

All that day she was carried, wrapped in the blanket, on the back of first one warrior and then another. She could barely make out muffled voices. It was like being in a great cocoon. For a while, sick with suffocation, she clung to the idea that when they unwrapped her, Cora Linga would have allowed her to sprout great wings, and she would flap off into the turquoise sky, looking down at their startled, upturned faces.

But when they took the blanket off, she only wobbled two steps on stiff legs before a warrior man grunted and unwrapped a leather thong from his waist. He tied her wrists together and then bound her to a small tree. She slumped to the ground. All around, people were eating, but no one brought her anything. Her pouch was gone. The velee was gone. So was the serenity stone.

For the first time she felt despair. Old Tamlin said, “May your eyes show nothing when the enemy is fierce before your face.” But even if Old Tamlin raised a whole army of soldiers, they would never dare come this far from the temple and the protection of the Great Ones. She was hungry and sore and cold. She didn't even have an ugly Arkera blanket to keep the moon away.

How had she gotten it all so wrong? Maybe everything—the boy, the bead, the web—was just chance, after all, and not from Cora Linga. Or maybe she had indeed angered the earth spirits, in a place where they were stronger than the Great Ones. Either way, she was doomed.

After a long time a warrior woman stepped out of the shadows, held out an ugly dress, and motioned for her to put it on. “No.” Moralin shook her head, hoping her meaning was clear. “No, I won't wear any Arkera cloth.” If only Song-maker were here to translate.

As an answer, the woman reached down and grabbed Moralin's shoulders and lifted her to her feet. Two other women walked over. It was clear she would have no choice, and if they took her Delagua dress, she would lose the bead in her pocket. She held out her hand, palm up. “All right.” She pointed at the blanket tied to one woman's waist and motioned for them to hold it up, give her privacy. They laughed, but while they were distracted, she curled her fingers around the bead.

The skin dress was scratchy-rough, and it smelled faintly of tree bark. “Can I have my pouch?” she asked.

“Poouuch?” one of the women mimicked. The others laughed. Moralin pointed, and they knotted one of the small bags around her waist.

Her wrists were tied together, and she was fastened to the tree again. A woman carried her dress away. “Don't,” Moralin shouted, but the woman tossed it into the fire. The cloth flared orange and purple, then shriveled to a black lump. Moralin bit the inside of her lip so hard she tasted blood.

After they left her alone, she peeked at the sky. At least the moon's eye was starting to close. Old Tamlin, who had traveled outside the walls in his youth, said soldiers found their way by knowing the positions of the star animals that crouched in the sky. She knew only the bright spider star of the south in the feverbird constellation.

All chance of memorizing landmarks was gone. What would happen now? The boy had said they wanted her unharmed, no doubt to be a prisoner sacrifice. She took a deep, shaky breath. Old Tamlin said the way of a fighter was not to court death but also not to be afraid if death came seeking, calling your name.