Violet Bead glanced around to be sure they couldn’t be overheard. “I’ve been thinking about it myself. The father of my children was almost caught the other day. He was slipping himself inside some Fish Clan woman. Her husband went looking for her when his supper wasn’t cooked. He even looked in the granary where they were coupling. Fortunately, she’d been wise enough to pile the corn so he didn’t see them.”
“It will happen eventually. It always does.” The Sky Hand People vigorously punished loose behavior among married people. Men were merely humiliated until they outlived it; but women were disfigured, often outcast, and sometimes killed for infidelity. Heron Wing studied Violet Bead from the corner of her eye. The woman liked the trappings of wealth and status that came from being Smoke Shield’s wife, and having a house so close to the great mound. She also liked the affection and attention of men. More than once Heron Wing had observed shadowy male figures slipping into Violet Bead’s house late at night. Assuming she survived discovery, and could induce Smoke Shield to divorce her, what would she do? Heron Wing had little doubt that she would join the professional caste of women who freely sold their services. Even in their chaste society, such females enjoyed a certain stylish status, if not respect.
Violet Bead shot her a knowing look.
Heron Wing said softly, “One of the curses of being raised with everything is that you never understand that not everything can be yours.”
“Are you speaking of yourself, or him?”
Heron Wing ignored the slight, attempting to mislead Violet Bead’s thoughts. “Young and beautiful as you are, it wouldn’t be long before someone was talking to your mother about another marriage.”
“So, why haven’t you pressed him to divorce you?”
Because I am a trophy more than a wife. “There are benefits for my clan,” she lied.
“I hate politics.”
“Unfortunately it crawls into your bed along with your husband when you marry the man who will be high minko.”
Violet Bead asked, “Are you sure it’s just the prestige that keeps you together?”
“Meaning what?”
“Nothing.” Violet Bead was staring at the river, her beautiful face expressionless as a dance mask. “I have to get back. There are dishes to clean.”
Heron Wing watched the woman turn and head back through the crowd.
Divorce. The word sounded so alien, so impossible.
Why had she ever married Smoke Shield? Ah, the foolish decisions of youth. When Green Snake left, she should have severed all ties with the Chief Clan. Better that Breath Giver had never blessed the young with passion. It led them to wrong choices.
Heron Wing bent down and collected Stone’s hand. Her son’s fingers were grimy with the black soil. Despite her reluctant hopes, the past continued to cling to her like old spiderwebs.
In the Dream, Old White stood before a burning building, flames racing into the sky. The fire roared, searing his face and hands. Step by step he backed away, turning to run into the night. At the sight that greeted his eyes, he stopped short, seeing the high Azteca temple. The firelight cast the great pyramid’s stone sides in a crimson light. Only as he looked closer could he tell that the stones seemed to be moving, writhing and swaying in time to the leaping flames.
Not stone. Bodies. The whole thing was made of blood-smeared bodies. Each had a gaping chest that opened and closed like a bloody mouth. They turned horrified faces toward him and fixed agonized gazes on his.
Behind him the fire seemed to eat into his flesh, pushing him ever closer to the hideous temple. One by one, the bodies began to reach out, blood-caked fingers like claws in the night.
“No,” he whispered.
He tried to raise his hands, only to find them weighted. He gasped at the sight of his right hand. The war club it held was heavy stone, gleaming wetly with blood. Desperately he sought to loosen his grip, but the blood seemed to have welded it to him like glue.
He started to raise his left hand, to use it to pry the other free, and stared in horror at the beating heart it held.
“Gods!” He jerked awake, feeling the heat at his back. Scrambling away, he discovered that in his sleep he’d rolled next to Silver Loon’s fire. His blanket was smoldering.
Cursing, he flung it off, rose to his feet, and stomped the smoking fabric into submission.
“What’s all this?” Silver Loon asked, sitting up in her bed and blinking.
“Bad Dream.”
“Nothing new for you. In the old days, I actually stooped to drugging you when I wanted a full night’s sleep. A little crushed nightshade in your tea.”
Old White muttered and stared at his blackened blanket. Rays of light were streaming through gaps in the thatch. Morning had come.