People of the Weeping Eye(111)

He backed away, slapping her hard. The force of the blow knocked her onto her side. She blinked at the hot sting in her cheek. Gods, how she wished she could just cry, let herself sink onto the mat, and sob like a wretch. Somehow, she propped her arm under her, straightening to see the rage on his face. She clawed her hair back, turning her other cheek, waiting for his blow.

He chuckled, tossed the stiletto to the side, and crawled back to his place. “This is not the way I imagined it would be.”

“Tell me what to do.”

“Fill my bowl.”

She ladled cornmeal, roast rabbit, and some squash as he pointed to the dishes. Then she sat, eyes focused on his muscular chest as he half lifted the wooden bowl. “Go ahead,” he said. “Eat.”

At his order, she helped herself to several of the bowls, taking small bites. “This is very good,” she told him.

“I ordered the best.”

“I thank you for sharing it.”

His probing stare carried its puzzlement. Finally he said, “You’re not what I expected.”

“What did you expect?”

“That woman I saw last summer in White Arrow Town.”

“I am no longer that same woman.”

“So, who are you?”

“Your slave.”

“Please look into my eyes when I’m talking to you.”

“Is that better?” The effect was like looking into the eyes of a lustful cougar. After the first moments, she began to see the thoughts racing there.

He asked, “Tell me, how do you think your husband is going to die on the square?”

She knotted her fists, saw his smile at her discomfort, and made herself relax. “He will die well. He’s a strong man, and will do everything he can to make sure you know it as you burn, beat, and cut him.” Gods, how could she say this so matter-of-factly? “He knows what is coming, and will make it a contest between you and him.”

He reached under his bed, withdrawing a long slender object the length of his arm. A narrow sleeve of weasel hide encased a slim stone sword. Smoke Shield held it up, inspecting it in the light. “Only the finest flint knappers can make these. Do you know what it is?”

He held it up in the light. The blade had been chipped from a single piece of stone and was as long as his forearm. Firelight gleamed in the riffled surface. The handle had been crafted from a section of human arm bone, and was engraved with intertwined rattlesnakes, their sides spotted with circles that represented doorways into the Underworlds. She suddenly realized that the dark stains in the binding were from long-dried blood.

Smoke Shield ran a finger down the deadly length of stone. “It’s only made for one thing: the ritual execution of prisoners. A blade this long is too brittle to be used for anything else. I have been keeping it handy.” He smiled into her eyes. “I think I’ll use it on your husband.”

She had seen such a thing before. Biloxi had used the White Arrow ceremonial sword on the day he was made high minko. He had killed a Biloxi that he had allegedly taken captive on a raid. From that act, he had received his name.

“I think I’ll slice off his penis and balls first.” His measuring eyes were on hers. “Would you like them when I’m done? You know, a sort of memento of the times he lay with you?”

To keep from screaming, she bit down on her tongue. “You can give me whatever you wish.”

“Is this hard for you?”

“He was my husband. What do you think?” The trembling started in her gut, a sickness that grew and expanded.

“Then perhaps I’ll make you come with me. Knowing him as you do, you can tell me what his weaknesses are.”

Blessed gods, what do I say? A scattered thought landed, and she said, “If you order me to, I will.” She struggled to keep her breathing normal. “Actually, it will help him to endure. Seeing me, he’ll want more than ever to prove his bravery.”

She could sense the disappointment behind Smoke Shield’s eyes. “What about your brother?”

She gave him a dead stare. “He will die poorly. There is nothing I can do to change that. I will weep, and my heart will break; but he is who he is.”

“And you?”

“I have recently discovered that I, too, am who I am. Isn’t that true of all of us, War Chief? You will be what your souls make of you?”

“You sound like my wife.” He carefully slipped the sword back into its sheath and replaced it beneath the bed.

“Is that good or bad?” she asked as he picked up his bowl and scooped the last of his meal from the bottom.

“Bad,” he mumbled though a mouthful of food.

“Then I will say no more.”