stepped. The two sides were connected by a single rope, the infamous Bridge of One Thread.
As Hawk circled around the mountain, Finnadro saw something hanging from the overhang on the far western summit. Captives filled a dozen wooden cages that swung in the wind. These were no trapped birds but men and women whose tattered rags were green and brown. Fury filled him. These were his people, captured no doubt during the recent war and perhaps on other raids before that. He seethed with rage all over again and wished his Lady had done anything other than command him to forgive his enemies. How could he work with Orange Canyon when his own people were trapped like swallows in a hunter’s snare?
They landed in the center of the settlement on the western mount in a rectangular plaza, long and narrow, recessed in three deep steps, surrounded by buildings and walls made of small, gray stones. The roofs were thatched over gables graven with the leering beaks of predatory birds. Carved spiders and wooden webs decorated the corners. The paint, weary from wind, showed black, orange, and white wherever it remained unchipped.
Amdra and Finnadro slid off Hawk’s back. Hawk changed back to human form, knelt before Amdra, and let her tie a blindfold around his eyes and knot the leather ties between his gauntlets behind his back, so he stood as one bound and enslaved. Which he was, yet he was also of their own tribe, and Finnadro felt awkward standing free, with his dignity respected, while his enemy humiliated her own tribesman so casually. Again, he felt loathing for Orange Canyon rise in his gorge like acid.
“Come,” said Amdra. “You can drink and refresh yourself before the Offering.”
He followed her into the yard behind one of the stone buildings where he found a cistern. Amdra disappeared inside, but Hawk, still blindfolded, knelt in the yard. Finnadro washed his face. It was amazing how dusty one became from flying. He also drank. But it bothered him to see Hawk just kneeling there. He dipped the bowl into the cistern again and brought it to Hawk, holding it to his mouth.
“Thirsty?”
“Finnadro?” Hawk asked in surprise. Then he sounded suspicious. “What’s that?”
“Just water.”
Hawk accepted the drink. “Thank you.”
When the bowl was empty, Finnadro set down beside the clay cistern.
“I know you wonder why I didn’t take my freedom when you gave me the chance,” said Hawk.
“I don’t wonder.”
“Then you know about…?”
A baby wailed inside the house.
“Your son? Yes.”
“You really are like her,” Hawk said wonderingly. “You can taste thoughts.”
“I’m not like her. I taste emotions.”
“Not much difference.”
“It’s all the difference in the world. I can’t hurt people. I’d have to eat the same pain.”
“But you kill if you have to.”
“Exactly. If I have to.”
Amdra ducked through the small door into the yard. She had changed into formal Zavaedi finery, with a bird mask and long feather cape over a dozen wool skirts, amber and orange and white and pumpkin, that reached below her knees and swirled around her like a tree’s autumn canopy. She had a ewe on a leash; it staggered after her, burdened by a swollen belly. In her arms, she carried a baby.
“Hawk,” she said.
“Please, Amdra. Don’t do it.”
“Hawk!”
Hawk slipped his wrists from the leather straps and removed his own blindfold. Finnadro raised his eyebrows. Now he felt foolish for offering the water.
Hawk frowned at the pregnant sheep. “What is this? The offering must be a lamb.”
“None of the ewes have dropped their lambs this year.”
“ None? ”
“A poor omen,” she agreed sourly. “Worse, we’ll have to tear the lamb out of her belly to make the offering, which will kill the mother too. Imagine all the families that must slay a ewe to sacrifice a lamb, and you will see that the herds will be dangerously thinned. But the Great One says the Paxota cannot be delayed.”
As Hawk circled around the mountain, Finnadro saw something hanging from the overhang on the far western summit. Captives filled a dozen wooden cages that swung in the wind. These were no trapped birds but men and women whose tattered rags were green and brown. Fury filled him. These were his people, captured no doubt during the recent war and perhaps on other raids before that. He seethed with rage all over again and wished his Lady had done anything other than command him to forgive his enemies. How could he work with Orange Canyon when his own people were trapped like swallows in a hunter’s snare?
They landed in the center of the settlement on the western mount in a rectangular plaza, long and narrow, recessed in three deep steps, surrounded by buildings and walls made of small, gray stones. The roofs were thatched over gables graven with the leering beaks of predatory birds. Carved spiders and wooden webs decorated the corners. The paint, weary from wind, showed black, orange, and white wherever it remained unchipped.
Amdra and Finnadro slid off Hawk’s back. Hawk changed back to human form, knelt before Amdra, and let her tie a blindfold around his eyes and knot the leather ties between his gauntlets behind his back, so he stood as one bound and enslaved. Which he was, yet he was also of their own tribe, and Finnadro felt awkward standing free, with his dignity respected, while his enemy humiliated her own tribesman so casually. Again, he felt loathing for Orange Canyon rise in his gorge like acid.
“Come,” said Amdra. “You can drink and refresh yourself before the Offering.”
He followed her into the yard behind one of the stone buildings where he found a cistern. Amdra disappeared inside, but Hawk, still blindfolded, knelt in the yard. Finnadro washed his face. It was amazing how dusty one became from flying. He also drank. But it bothered him to see Hawk just kneeling there. He dipped the bowl into the cistern again and brought it to Hawk, holding it to his mouth.
“Thirsty?”
“Finnadro?” Hawk asked in surprise. Then he sounded suspicious. “What’s that?”
“Just water.”
Hawk accepted the drink. “Thank you.”
When the bowl was empty, Finnadro set down beside the clay cistern.
“I know you wonder why I didn’t take my freedom when you gave me the chance,” said Hawk.
“I don’t wonder.”
“Then you know about…?”
A baby wailed inside the house.
“Your son? Yes.”
“You really are like her,” Hawk said wonderingly. “You can taste thoughts.”
“I’m not like her. I taste emotions.”
“Not much difference.”
“It’s all the difference in the world. I can’t hurt people. I’d have to eat the same pain.”
“But you kill if you have to.”
“Exactly. If I have to.”
Amdra ducked through the small door into the yard. She had changed into formal Zavaedi finery, with a bird mask and long feather cape over a dozen wool skirts, amber and orange and white and pumpkin, that reached below her knees and swirled around her like a tree’s autumn canopy. She had a ewe on a leash; it staggered after her, burdened by a swollen belly. In her arms, she carried a baby.
“Hawk,” she said.
“Please, Amdra. Don’t do it.”
“Hawk!”
Hawk slipped his wrists from the leather straps and removed his own blindfold. Finnadro raised his eyebrows. Now he felt foolish for offering the water.
Hawk frowned at the pregnant sheep. “What is this? The offering must be a lamb.”
“None of the ewes have dropped their lambs this year.”
“ None? ”
“A poor omen,” she agreed sourly. “Worse, we’ll have to tear the lamb out of her belly to make the offering, which will kill the mother too. Imagine all the families that must slay a ewe to sacrifice a lamb, and you will see that the herds will be dangerously thinned. But the Great One says the Paxota cannot be delayed.”
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