The Broken Land(49)

On the shelf above her sleeping bench sat a special pot. Small and precious, it contained a lifetime of moments: a dried flower brought to her by her oldest daughter, eyes alight, when she’d seen five summers; a tiny, crudely carved finch, her youngest daughter’s first attempt at woodcarving. And so many other things. She often took the pot down, especially of late, to handle each item, and remember those smiles and the love in those young voices.

She’d had a grand life, taken care of her people well, and made more than a few enemies. By and large, there would be more people who mourned her when she was gone than there would be people who celebrated her death. At least, she thought so. Perhaps more importantly, she had never been irrelevant. People still came to her for advice. They still listened to her every word. What more could an old woman ask?

A rush of cold wind swept inside as someone ducked through the longhouse entry. Her chamber curtain fluttered. Soft voices whispered.

Tila straightened and called, “Granddaughter? Did you come to see me?” Perhaps Zateri had changed her mind.

Zateri called back, “Yes, Grandmother, but we can wait. If you’re in bed, we’ll—”

“No, come in child. I’m just sitting here sipping broth.”

Zateri pulled aside her chamber curtain and ducked inside, followed by War Chief Sindak. The sight of Sindak prickled her bones. He reported to Chief Atotarho, not Tila. Something had happened.

Tila gestured to the far end of the bench. “Sit down. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“Sindak came to me, Grandmother, and asked me to intercede on his behalf, to arrange a meeting with you.”

Tila clutched her cup tighter, preparing herself. Over the past thirty-three summers, she’d become an expert in tones of voice. This was bad. “I am agreeable to meeting directly with the war chief. What happened?”

Zateri must have just bathed. Her long black hair and smooth skin gleamed. Sindak, however, appeared to have just come in off the trail. Dust coated his cape and hooked nose.

They seated themselves, and Zateri said, “Grandmother, Sindak received curious orders several days ago—orders regarding the Sedge Marsh Village. Were you aware of that?”

Tila frowned. “What do you mean? What orders? He was ordered to destroy the village and return home. That’s all.”

Sindak shoved dirty shoulder-length hair behind his ears. “The day after we returned home, Chief Atotarho told me to select a small party and return to take care of the dead.”

“What do you mean? They were traitors. No one was to care for them.”

Sindak’s thin face hardened. “I know those were the council’s orders, High Matron. However, the chief ordered us to return, gather all the bodies and belongings, and burn them; then he ordered us to bury them.”

“Did he give you a reason?”

Sindak leaned forward and propped his elbows on his knees. “He said it would prevent the survivors from recognizing the bodies of their loved ones and Singing them to the Land of the Dead.”

“But you think it was more.”

“I do.”

It was at times like this when her sickness took its greatest toll, for the pain made it hard to think rationally. In the old days, she’d have been two steps ahead of him, knowing before he did what he was going to say next. But tonight she could barely concentrate on his words.

“I’m feeble, War Chief. State your suspicions.”

Sindak laced his hands before him. He had a thin face and dark brown eyes that always looked a little sad. “I think we may have been ordered to burn everything in an attempt to hide the truth.”

Tila brought her shaking cup to her hands and sipped the warm broth to still her nerves. “Go on,” she said, and took a long drink.

Zateri exchanged a glance with Sindak, and he nodded to her. Zateri said, “Grandmother, the survivors say that everyone in the village got sick and died in just two days. When Sindak’s war party arrived, there was hardly anyone left alive to fight them. Doesn’t that sound like witchery to you?”

Tila sat perfectly still, appraising the information. “We all agree that Sedge Marsh Village had been witched. The council even considered, as part of extenuating circumstances, that the elders may have had their souls stolen and that’s why they betrayed us. Are you accusing someone of doing the witching?”

Zateri folded her arms beneath her cape and seemed to be hugging herself. “Grandmother? Is it possible that the fever is worse than we know?”

“Well, we’ve heard stories for moons. Every visitor brings a new version. Apparently it’s been especially bad among the People of the Landing, but the Flint and Standing Stone peoples have been hit hard, too. But I don’t see what that has to—”