“I’m wondering if perhaps Chief Atotarho hasn’t decided to fight the war on two fronts at once,” Sindak said.
Tila scowled and sat back on the bench. “I don’t understand.”
Sindak continued, “The Ruling Council of matrons has consistently forbidden attacking other nations unless we are attacked first. Which means that for many summers we’ve had a sort of undeclared truce with Bur Oak and Yellowtail villages. What if someone decided to use witchery, instead of warfare, to kill them, and their allies? Thereby circumventing the matrons altogether?”
“Let us be clear that by ‘someone’ you mean your chief. Is that correct?”
Sindak didn’t drop his gaze. He bravely nodded. “Yes.”
Accusing the chief of witchery could be construed as treason—and Sindak knew it—unless the accuser had evidence.
“That is a fanciful notion, War Chief. Do you have any proof?”
He lightly shook his head. “No, High Matron.”
“Then, if you wish to pursue this line of thought, you had best find some.” She extended a long skeletal finger to point at his heart. “And it had better be irrefutable. Do you know why?”
Zateri leaned forward and answered, “Yes, Grandmother. Because accusing our chief of witchcraft before the Ruling Council will split the nation.”
Tila gave Zateri a sober look. Her granddaughter had a good political mind. It was too bad she refused to be high matron. “That is correct. The accusation will force people to take sides. Most of the nation will set themselves up against you, War Chief Sindak.” Tila paused to see the effect her words had upon him. His level gaze never wavered.
“I understand, High Matron.”
“Good. I don’t want to hear another word about this until you have ample evidence. Now, leave me. I’m tired.”
Zateri rose quickly, kissed her cheek, and said, “Good night, Grandmother.”
“Good night, child. Kiss my great-granddaughters for me.”
“I will.”
Zateri and Sindak quietly ducked beneath the chamber curtain and vanished into the fluttering firelight.
Tila gulped the rest of her broth and set the cup aside. Gingerly, she stretched out on her side on the sleeping bench and watched the fire shadows dance upon her walls while she thought. She knew, as all the matrons did, that Chief Atotarho had often been accused of being a cannibal sorcerer. But he was a powerful man, hated by some for the strong positions he took on the war. And though she often disagreed with him, he had served their people well.
Though, as her eyes blessedly fell closed and the pain started to dim, she had to admit that she had, on occasion, wondered whether or not he had a hidden agenda … and if witchcraft was part of it.
Twenty-one
Sky Messenger
I stand beside Taya in the crowded plaza. Though it is cold, the storm has broken and sunlight pours down from the clean blue sky. Where it warms the bark walls of the four longhouses, or the shabby roofs of the refugee quarters, streamers of mist rise. People have been arriving all day, coming in from the allied Standing Stone villages to attend the betrothal feast for the granddaughter of High Matron Kittle. Jewelry sparkles around every throat and wrist, cut from shell or rare stones. A few priceless copper gorgets decorate the chests of the highest-status attendees, mostly the village matrons, chiefs, and wealthy Traders. Men and women mill around eating fish stew from bowls, or happily chewing cornmeal cakes, which is all the high matron can afford to serve and hope to feed the village for the remainder of the winter. The refugees are especially delighted by the feast. A welcome relief from the despair of losing their villages and loved ones, it also means that every person will have a full belly today.
I straighten my new cape. Made of finely tanned buckskin, it has a buttery appearance, like smoked amber. The symbols of my clan encircle the bottom of the cape: red bear claws, alternating with black bear tracks. While traditional, a betrothal cape was a lavish and unnecessary expense for my clan. I would far rather that they’d used the leather to make a cape for one of the ragged children running across the plaza.
Taya’s new cape is even more luxurious. The doe hide has been painted sky blue and hung with figures carved from antler: tiny prancing fawns, bucks standing on their hind legs with their hooves flashing, a doe placidly grazing on invisible grass. Taya’s mother twisted her long hair into a bun at the back of her head and secured it with a polished tortoiseshell comb. If it weren’t for Taya’s scowl, she’d be very pretty. I suspect she may be grieving. As I glance around the plaza, I study all of the young men who stare at Taya. Were any her suitors? Probably. Did she love one of them?