People of the Weeping Eye(109)

Morning Dew was vaguely aware of this as she cast occasional glances out the doorway. She sat like a statue, thankful for every breath, every heartbeat that she was spared what everyone seemed to believe was inevitable. She had used that time to reflect.

On a full stomach, with her body clean and her long black hair combed to a sheen, a part of herself had returned. Once again she could think, and Heron Wing’s words that morning had taken root. If I am not amusing, challenging, or difficult, he will grow tired of me.

She had known men like that. Seen them, full of joy with some new adventure, or love, and then watched that excitement fade as it grew commonplace. Her beautiful dress, the red fabric clean, the pearls replaced and the quillwork bright, lay folded atop one of the sleeping benches.

If only I had donned something else that morning.

But as Heron Wing had said, no one could reverse a river’s flow.

She waited until Wide Leaf stepped outside, then asked softly, “Why did you help me?”

Heron Wing—inspecting her son’s breechcloth for holes—raised an eyebrow. “Power ebbs and flows. As you have so recently discovered, fate can change in an instant. Once, years ago, it might have been me who was carried off during the worst of the Yuchi raids. I don’t know the ways of Power, of fate, and why things happen, but they do. I once knew a man who was the exact opposite of Smoke Shield. I try to live my life in a way he would approve of.” She smiled wryly. “And perhaps it is because I just don’t like my husband.”

“Thank you.” Her voice still sounded small.

“Morning Dew,” Heron Wing added, “you are a slave. But remember that you are also a matron. There are things you owe to yourself, to your clan, and your people. To be a good matron, a woman must use all the talents at her disposal. She must be responsible, first and foremost. Especially to herself. I have given you the best advice I could.”

“I have thought about that.”

“Good. I hope you have more courage and intelligence than your brother.” She raised her eyes, meeting Morning Dew’s across the low fire.

Morning Dew swallowed hard.

“Greetings,” a voice called from outside. “It is Thin Branch. I come with a request. The war chief would see his slave.”

Morning Dew gasped in spite of herself. Her heart began to pound.

“If you will wait, Thin Branch,” Heron Wing called, “she will be right with you.”

“Of course,” he said easily.

Heron Wing placed the piece of clothing to the side, standing and rounding the fire to pick up the dress. “It would be easier to dress if you were standing.” She said it so reasonably.

Morning Dew swallowed hard, climbing weakly to her feet. She fumbled at the brown dress as she pulled it off. Heron Wing exchanged it for her repaired red dress. Morning Dew’s hands shook as she tried to pull it over her head. It took her two tries, but she tugged it down over her hips.

Heron Wing straightened it on her shoulders, then took a tortoiseshell comb and did her hair, fluffing it so that it spilled down her back, full and glistening.

“You are a matron, and a woman,” Heron Wing insisted. “Remember what I have told you.”

“Yes.”

“Go do what you must.”

Morning Dew nodded, hating the way her muscles trembled.

She stepped through the door, seeing Thin Branch standing with two muscular young men. He obviously expected to have to drag her again.

No. I will walk on my own. She swore that, and somehow managed to walk past him with her head up, teeth clenched to keep her chin from quivering. She took the lead, heading toward the plaza, walking along its northern edge. Thin Branch and the guards followed close behind her. She could see the high palace, the last of the sunset having bled away to leave it purple in the light. By taking the route she picked, she could avoid the squares, could avoid Screaming Falcon’s glazed eyes.

Behind her, she could hear Thin Branch’s footsteps. It seemed but the blink of an eye before she stood at the foot of the long stairway. She hesitated, heart pounding, breath short in her lungs. When Thin Branch stepped up and placed a hand on her arm, she shook it off, and took the first step.

She had never climbed anything so high. Her mouth was dry, lungs half out of breath at the top, but she forced herself to step through the gate and into the yard. The guardian posts, with their eagle heads, seemed to glare at her. Above them, the palace rose to a high point. She started forward, trying to muster enough saliva to swallow.

At the great door, Thin Branch hurried past her to take the lead. With knotted fists she followed him through the great room with its crackling fire. She barely registered the tripod seat with its cougarhide coverings, or the huge Seeing Hand with its single staring eye hanging on the back wall.