She had ordered them to stop for one hand of time to allow the litter-bearers and the walking wounded time to rest in the warm meadow, and to give her the time to speak with matrons Gwinodje and Kwahseti. They would reach Riverbank Village tomorrow, and had no idea what they would find. If they were lucky, Kwahseti’s messenger had reached the village first, and her people had packed up and moved to Canassatego Village. In that case, they would find just an empty village, a place to rest for a time before they themselves continued on to Canassatego Village. But if Kwahseti’s messenger had not arrived in time … if Atotarho’s warriors had reached Riverbank Village first, they would find it burned to the ground and the slaughtered bodies of their relatives strewn across the forest.
Zateri shivered in the cold breath of wind that swept the hilltop and rustled through the bare-branched maples. Old autumn leaves whirled around her. If Riverbank was gone, it meant her own Coldspring Village was also probably gone. And she had no doubt but that her father had told his warriors to be especially destructive. Since Atotarho knew that cannibalism horrified Zateri, she’d already begun preparing herself for a burned-out husk of a village filled with gigantic piles of half-eaten human bones.
We live in an age of madness.
She looked at Hiyawento. Two paces away, he sat cross-legged in a patch of sunlight, gently rocking their sleeping daughter in his arms. They’d cut Kahn-Tineta’s long hair in mourning for her dead sisters. As Hiyawento gazed down at her pretty face, her mouth opened slightly, revealing her missing front teeth. She could tell from Hiyawento’s expression that he longed to touch her, to stroke her chopped off hair, but didn’t wish to wake her.
Hiyawento’s gaze shifted to the beaded belt he’d been stringing just before Kahn-Tineta had crawled into his lap. After the deaths of Catta and Jimer, he’d started gathering fresh water shells, white and purple, grinding them into long cylinder-shaped beads, and stringing them on thread made from twisted elm bark. Almost finished, the belt was completely white except for two tiny human figures near the front ties. They were deep dark purple. As he studied them, silent rage twisted Hiyawento’s features.
A chill went through Zateri. No matter what role Ohsinoh had played, ultimately his baby daughters had been taken from him by Atotarho. The need for vengeance was consuming his soul. So far, he had managed to contain it, accepting that they had to get their warriors to Canassatego Village. But when they’d accomplished that, when he knew Zateri and Kahn-Tineta were safe, his inner dam would burst, and he would leave his enemy’s world in flames.
Kwahseti and Gwinodje separated from the group of warriors and walked toward Zateri’s fire with their heads down in quiet conversation. Their war chiefs, Thona and Waswanosh, trailed a few paces behind them. The war chiefs made a strange duo. While Waswanosh was of medium height and slender, Thona was the tallest and most heavily scarred man in the Hills nation. The scars on his face and burly arms resembled tangles of white cords. He was known for his skill with the war ax. Waswanosh’s skill was battle strategy. Together, along with Hiyawento’s brilliance at tactics, they made formidable leaders.
As Gwinodje and Kwahseti neared her position, they both gave her worried looks.
Kwahseti apologized, “Forgive us for taking so long. Our warriors are concerned about what we will do tomorrow.”
Zateri didn’t have to ask what she meant. The word if hung in the air like a granite boulder suspended over their heads. “As am I. That’s one of the things I wish to discuss with you.”
As the matrons seated themselves on woven willow mats spread around the fire, Zateri added another branch to the flames. She waited until Kwahseti had dipped two cups of tea from the pot nestled at the edge of the flames and handed one to Gwinodje. “Zateri, shall I dip one for you also?”
“No, I’ve had my fill, but thank you.”
Zateri waited a few moments longer, giving them time to get settled, then she lifted her voice: “Come. Let us bring order to the world.”
Gwinodje and Kwahseti respectfully bowed their heads, waiting for Zateri to finish the opening, as her Grandmother Tila had done for more than thirty summers. Midday sunlight streamed through the wind-blown branches. Kwahseti, Gwinodje, and Zateri sat in a perfect triangle. Their white ritual capes signified their ohwachiras, or maternal lineages. Since the deaths of Zateri’s two aunts, she was the only female left in Tila’s direct line. It was a daunting position. Their ohwachira, kinship group, could trace its descent for thousands of summers back to a common ancestor. In the case of the Wolf Clan, that descent traced back to the Creation of the World, and a great woman leader named Dancing Fox who had bravely led their clan through a dark underworld and into this world of light.