Sindak made a deep-throated sound of disgust. “Forgiveness? He wants Sky Messenger to forgive that piece of filth? That’s a bad idea.”
“I thought so, too,” Gonda remarked.
Jigonsaseh said, “Bahna told Sky Messenger that all of his life he’s been hiding from a memory, and that he’s been afraid for so long, he doesn’t know how to stop. He told Sky Messenger that he lived in a prison that he repaired every day. He added new chinking, new logs, and sealed himself in, over and over. Bahna told Sky Messenger that he had to stop it, to escape, or he’d never be able to truly see the ghosts of grief and desperation that haunt this land. That’s why that foul War Chief—”
“That foul War Chief is dead, Matron,” Sindak noted. “How can forgiving him accomplish anything?”
“Bahna says he’s not dead. He says that just as a warrior breathes soul into every arrow he creates, a man can breathe soul into a memory. He said Sky Messenger’s hatred has kept the War Chief alive.”
“How is Sky Messenger supposed to accomplish this foolish task of forgiveness?”
Logs cracked in the plaza bonfire, belching gouts of black smoke and blue-green flames. People yipped and ran a short distance away, then returned, one at a time, to the stew pots. Sparks whirled upward into the falling snow.
“He already has. Sky Messenger and his betrothed, Taya, returned to Bog Willow Village and collected as many of his bones as they could find, then Sky Messenger prayed the ‘piece of filth’s’ soul to the afterlife. He says he forgave the man.”
Jigonsaseh turned and leaned her back against the palisade beside Sindak, staring out at the fire-warmed roofs of the longhouses, still mostly free of snow. Smoke escaped from the smokeholes and curled through the air in blue streamers. The workers had used rolls of bark stripped from the Yellowtail Village to repair the roofs. They were a different color, lighter brown, and created a patchwork.
“All right, let’s return to my original question. In the vision”—Sindak crossed his arms—“when Elder Brother Sun flees into the black hole, where are Sky Messenger and Hiyawento standing? Where is the meadow? Does Sky Messenger think it’s a real place?”
“He does. But he doesn’t know where it is. Why?”
Sindak turned sideways and propped his right elbow on the palisade, facing her. “I want to be there, that’s why. They’re going to need loyal friends.”
After all the summers of war between their peoples she found it a curious statement. Refugees from the White Dog Village battle filled the plaza below: Gonda’s village. “And are you a loyal friend, War Chief Sindak?”
He stared at her, apparently unoffended. “During the battle yesterday, both Sky Messenger and Hiyawento were right beside me. I could have killed them a hundred times. I have never, except in self-defense, lifted a weapon against either man.” He paused for two heartbeats. “Everything goes back to those children, Matron. They were chosen by Power. And you and I both know it.”
When she didn’t respond, he gruffly shoved away from the palisade, glared at Gonda, and walked to the closest ladder, where he climbed down to the crowded plaza.
Jigonsaseh watched him until he rejoined his warriors, then she turned her attention back to the campfires on the distant hills, wavering through the veils of snow.
She propped her elbows on the palisade and finished the dregs of spruce needle tea in her cup. It had gone stone cold. “How did the Council Meeting go?”
“They’re all terrified beyond the capacity for thought. No decisions were made.”
She handed his cup back. When he took it, their fingers briefly overlapped, which she found comforting. Over the long summers since their marriage ended, their enmity had faded and transformed into a deep friendship that she cherished.
“Sindak says Atotarho may have sent half his warriors away to punish the three Hills villages that opposed him.”
Gonda paused as though thinking it over. “Do you believe it?”
“I’m not sure it matters. He’s speculating just like we are. We won’t know anything until daylight tomorrow.”
Fourteen
The sloping hillside in front of Zateri descended to the west, flattening out into a broad gently rolling plain. For the most part, winter-gray oaks and maples covered the plain, but here and there red veins of willows stood out, tracing the paths of creeks and rivers that flowed into Skanodario Lake. In the low places, mist created shimmering white spots.
She glanced back at Kwahseti and Gwinodje. They stood with their war chiefs, surrounded by a few warriors asking questions. They had donned their white ritual capes, and the folds of the painted leather shone in the bright light. The color of the wolf paws painted on their capes defined their lineages. Kwahseti’s white cape had red paws for Yi’s lineage. Gwinodje’s had black paws for Inawa’s lineage. Zateri’s white cape had blue wolf paws. All of her life they had symbolized Tila’s lineage. With the death of her grandmother, however, they now symbolized Zateri’s lineage. While the other matrons endeavored to extricate themselves, Zateri gazed out across the vista.