“No, what is at issue is how silly a young woman can be about such things. One day she’s frantic to have a man, and the next she hates him. That’s why they should have no say whatsoever in the men chosen for them.”
“But Sky Messenger is a traitor! You said so yourself.”
Kittle lounged back on the warm bearhides and gave her daughter a half-lidded stare. “It’s almost inconceivable that you are one of my daughters. How is it possible that I could have produced a woman this stupid?”
“Insulting me will not help, Mother. We need to—”
“You, of all people, should understand that this has nothing to do with either Taya or Sky Messenger.”
Taya, who still had her eyes downcast, shifted slightly. Thank the gods that the girl had Kittle’s face, from her large dark eyes and long eyelashes, to her sweet full lips and perfect nose. Taya’s waist-length hair, glossy and jet black, fell over her narrow shoulders like a shining blanket. Hopefully she did not have her mother’s rodent intelligence.
“So, Granddaughter,” Kittle said to Taya, and the girl could not suppress the shudder that went through her. “What do you have to say to me?”
Taya’s eyes instantly filled with tears. When she choked back a whimper, Kittle grabbed her wrist, and squeezed until her nails bit into the girl’s flesh. Taya let out a pained yelp. “If you cry I will pick up that piece of firewood and beat you across the back.”
Taya struggled to control herself. Kittle released her and leaned back. Her female descendants had to learn very early that displays of emotion were unacceptable. Tears, especially, made them appear to be weak fools, and women who might one day hold power in the Standing Stone nation could not afford such indulgences.
Taya wiped her eyes on her cape. “Grandmother, I know my obligations. I will obediently marry whomever you choose. But why Sky Messenger? Am I being punished?”
“If I were punishing you, you would not have to ask. You would feel it in your broken bones.”
“Then … why?”
“Why? You are such a spoiled child!” Kittle waved a hand through the smoky air. “You used to swoon over him every time he returned from a war walk. Only last summer you flew in here clutching some trinket he’d brought you and danced around shouting that you loved him. Can true love die so quickly?”
Yosha said, “It always has for you, Mother. Stories of your whoring filled my youth. I recall once—”
“Recall later. Right now we’re talking about your overprotected daughter. Or did you forget that?”
Taya glanced between them. “Grandmother, that was before he betrayed us! I don’t wish to marry him now.”
“My dear girl, you must have been standing right outside listening when his relatives were here or you would not yet know about the marriage plans.” Taya’s face flushed in a silent admission of guilt. “Did you not also hear his mother say that he’d had a great vision that could save this nation?”
“Well … yes, Grandmother.”
“Then you did not believe it?” Kittle picked up her cup of walnut milk and sipped it, watching her granddaughter over the polished wooden rim.
Taya sat impassively. She appeared to be studying Kittle’s expressions and gestures, which made Kittle smile to herself. The girl, thank the gods, was smarter than her mother. Already she had learned that revealing her true feelings to Kittle was like baring her breast to a stiletto. Better to study your opponent for a time before responding. You wouldn’t get wounded nearly so often. Kittle took another drink of milk and waited to see what conclusion her granddaughter arrived at.
“I wasn’t sure what to believe, Grandmother.”
Kittle set her cup down on one of the hearthstones. “Nor was I. That’s why I rescinded the death sentence.”
Taya’s delicate black brows pinched. She was thinking, assessing the implications. Remarkable.
Yosha said, “Mother, stop taunting her and just tell her why you—”
“Close your mouth while you still have teeth.”
Yosha’s jaw hung open like a clubbed dog’s before she clamped it tight.
Kittle’s attention returned to her granddaughter. Taya’s eyes moved over the rear longhouse wall that stretched like a dark leather blanket. The scent of wet elm bark was fragrant, suffusing the fire-warmed air. Painted suits of wooden body armor, woven from slats of hardwood, leaned against the wall on the top shelf. Constructed by a master woodworker, they were strong enough to deflect an arrow. Above the armor hung an enormous False Face mask. Shagodyoweh gowah, the great Protector, cured sickness. His massive bent nose and wide mouth were both expertly carved. Long black hair framed the oiled face. Tied to the top of the mask was a tiny medicine bag filled with tobacco from Kittle’s own sacred garden, dried over a basswood fire, then pulverized. Before rituals, she removed a pinch and burned the tobacco as an offering. Such masks required constant care and frequent use or they could cause illness. She’d known one woman whose mouth had started to grow crooked because of an unhappy mask that had not been danced in in a long while. Kittle listened to the cries and coughs that spanned the longhouse, then glared at the Great Protector. Half the village was sick, many dying. Refugees from decimated villages crowded her plaza. Shagodyoweh seemed powerless to fight the witchery that afflicted the world.