“She stood on green ferns, the sun burning her shoulders. The wind carried the scent of silver sage and star flower as she slipped to the ground and drank from the still pool between the rocks, offering murmured thanks to those spirits who guard the precious water. The sky curved in a vault of blinding turquoise from horizon to horizon, cut only by the glint of wings. Her heart moved, carried aloft like those swift, beating wings. He would come for her. She would wait. She touched the painted fi...gures on the nearby rock. The same patterns covered the fine clay bowls she built before the walls of her father's village. Always she worked with clean strokes, color balancing color, line matching line, lest her pictures bring shadows and disorder to those who looked upon them. Her pots were traded for turquoise and precious parrot feathers from the far south. Her father bargained carefully, swollen with pride at his daughter's work. But if he knew she waited here for a man, he would drive her from his walls with his own hands and lay his curse on her blood.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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