The Broken Land(120)
Pedeza bowed. “Good day, High Matron. Sleep well.”
“I’ll try. Be careful going home.”
“Yes, we will.”
Pedeza took Kahn-Tineta’s hand, and they walked away down the longhouse.
When they were out of sight, Tila curled into a tight ball and fought to keep the pain at bay. She felt like sharp fangs were ripping at her organs. If only she …
Something caught her attention. Tila focused on the door curtain. In the slender space where the curtain rested against the door frame, one eye gleamed. It was large and shone with an unearthly light. It seemed to be fixed upon Kahn-Tineta and Pedeza. Then it turned to Tila. It watched her for a time.
When the man ducked beneath the curtain and into the house, her gray brows knitted. He wore a plain buckskin cape with no clan symbols. White and black paint decorated his triangular face. “Who are you?”
He had a strange manner about him. As he searched the house, only his eyes moved. His tall body seemed to be carved of wood.
“I asked for your name.”
“Yes, I heard you.”
With the silence of a big cat stalking prey, he entered her chamber, walked to her side, and pulled the hides up, as though to keep her warmer. Then suddenly he pressed them over her mouth and nose and whispered, “It’s me, Grandmother, your long-lost grandson.”
Horror flooded Tila. She fought, thrashing about with the strength of a newborn, trying to suck air into her lungs so she could scream. She was so weak, it didn’t take long.
The cold black shadow of Sodowego fell upon her, and the darkness came like a soothing whisper … .
Forty-eight
Conversations filled the cold night, meshing oddly with the war songs that drifted lazily across the hills, moving with the dark shapes of thousands of warriors. The smoky air was sweet with the smell of squash baked in ashes.
Zateri watched War Chief Sindak rise from where he’d drawn the battle plan in the thin layer of snow on the ground and scan the seven people standing in Zateri’s small circle. His gaze remained the longest on war chiefs Thona, Waswanosh, and Hiyawento, clearly judging their emotions—then his eyes flicked to matrons Gwinodje and Kwahseti, took in Chief Canassatego’s expression, and finally came to rest upon Zateri.
“Does everyone understand?” Sindak propped his hands on his hips. He’d pulled his black hair back and tied it with a cord. The lines around his deep-set eyes resembled dark chasms in the firelight. Behind him, a blanket of campfires rose and fell with the hills, stretching to the star-spotted eastern horizon.
“Oh, I think we understand perfectly,” Matron Kwahseti said with a thin smile. Gray strands of hair fluttered around her oval face.
“Good. Sleep well.” Sindak bowed and walked away.
Zateri crossed her arms beneath her cape, waiting before she spoke, giving herself time to digest what had just happened.
“I don’t believe it,” War Chief Thona said through gritted teeth. The white ridges of scars crisscrossing his indignant face resembled writhing amber-colored worms. “Does he think we will stand for this?”
Kwahseti’s attention had fixed on Sindak as he made his way across the huge camp, talking to warriors, sharing jokes, occasionally slapping a man on the back. “It seems that Chief Atotarho doesn’t trust us.”
“It’s an outrage.” Thona straightened to his full height, towering over everyone else in the circle. “We should—”
“No.” Kwahseti put a hand on her war chief’s muscular shoulder. “Be calm, Thona. Emotion only clouds our thoughts, and we must all think straight tonight.”
Thona tried, but continued to seethe.
War Chief Waswanosh from Canassatego Village hissed, “This is unacceptable. How dare he tell us to stay out of the fight!”
“That’s not what he said,” Zateri softly reminded. “He said Atotarho wishes to keep our forces in reserve until we are needed.”
“In reserve?” Waswanosh growled. “He ordered us to stay in camp. To remain behind when everyone else marches off to the fight! It is an insult!”
Chief Canassatego gave them a resigned smile. He had seen fifty-seven summers pass, and had once been a renowned war chief. A long gray braid snaked over his shoulder, looking like a silver snake against the black-painted hide of his cape. As his smile faded, his wrinkles rearranged into somber lines. “Well, War Chief Hiyawento, it seems you have your wish. We will not fight the Standing Stone People.”
“Not fighting isn’t the same as making peace. The only way we will ever be safe is if the fear of attack vanishes for both our peoples. We must end this war.”