The Broken Land(91)
When she lifts her gaze to look at me, I see desperation, and it occurs to me that my own qualms about this journey have made me impatient and callous. Seeing her first burned village has probably stirred up her fears.
“Yes. All right, Taya. I’ll come—”
“Thank you.” She runs forward and throws her arms around my waist. The setting … the smell of war … her arms … memories of the war trail overwhelm me, memories interlaced with pain.
I am with her … exhilarating, striking more deeply than anything else in my life. At the end, I’d known exactly what I wanted … and did not. Exactly who I was, and was not.
“Sky Messenger, if you need to watch the main trail, I can sleep right here beside you. That way, you won’t have to sleep with me. But I’ll be close to you. I’ll be able to hear you when you move.”
The empty wasteland inside me yawns wider. I ask, “Are you cold?”
“Freezing.”
Against her hair, I say, “Perhaps I can find a way to warm us both up.”
Thirty-four
Cord held the door curtain aside for Jigonsaseh to enter the Turtle Clan longhouse. When she ducked past him, he caught the scent of pine needles, and found it strangely powerful. On the war trail, he had spent many summers sleeping on soft beds of pine, spruce, or juniper needles. The fragrance brought back those days, and with them the odd comingled thrill of victory and the despair of friends lost on long-ago battlefields.
“My chamber is on the right,” he said as he let the curtain fall closed behind him.
She politely waited for him to remove his black cape and hang it on a peg on the wall, then followed him into his chamber. The space was small, fifteen hands across. He hosted so many visitors that benches lined all three walls. His belongings were neatly stowed in baskets and pots beneath the benches. His niece had arranged the wooden trays of food and cups of tea in the center of the floor mats, then spread soft hides around them.
He extended a hand. “Please, sit.”
Jigonsaseh gracefully removed her white cape and knelt on the deer hides. He couldn’t help but stare at her. She wore no jewelry, just a simple tan doehide dress that conformed to her slender muscular body, and red knee-high moccasins. She had seen thirty-nine summers pass, and though a few silver threads glistened in her short black hair, she was as beautiful as he remembered. Her small narrow nose and full lips were perfectly balanced in her oval face, and her jet black eyes … a man could get lost in those eyes. A long time ago, he had considered it, but it hadn’t been the right time for either of them. And now? Their peoples were at war.
Cord sat down across from her, removed the lid on the tea pot, and dipped a cup into the warm liquid. When he handed it to her, their fingers touched for a lot longer than he suspected either of them intended. She gave him a tight smile and drew the cup away.
As he divided the walnut bread between the two bowls, he said, “How were your harvests this year?”
“Poor. And with all of the attacks on our people, our remaining villages are flooded with refugees. I doubt our supplies will last the winter. Which, as you well know, means we will be forced to take what we need from our enemies.”
He blinked. Revealing such vulnerabilities was not a wise military strategy. She knew better, so he wondered why she’d said it. “I had forgotten how frank you are.”
She sipped her tea, and a shiver went through her. After many nights of camping in the open, the cold must have settled in her bones. He knew from experience that it would take a long time for her to get truly warm. Slowly, she replied, “I’m sorry, I did not intend—”
“Don’t be. I’m sick to death of all the deception and political maneuvering. It’s good to hear honest words.”
She shifted positions, turning slightly away so that she could bring up her knees and prop her cup atop them. From this side view she looked even more slender, almost frail. It touched something inside him, some illogical masculine need to protect—as if legendary War Chief Koracoo needed anyone to protect her. He suspected many men before him had felt this same protective urge and were now dead because they had hesitated when they’d had the chance to kill her.
“I appreciate your willingness to hear honest words. May I ask you some questions?” The glimmering light from the longhouse fires reflected in her dark eyes.
“Certainly.” He handed her the tray of walnut bread and dipped himself a cup of tea.
“How were your harvests? Will you need to attack us this spring?”
His brow furrowed. Thoughtfully, he set his tea cup down. “Matron, the fever took a great toll on our villages. We do not have the number of mouths to feed that you do. We have enough food, I think.” In a low earnest voice, he added, “But understand that if we are attacked and our food stores taken, we will have no choice.”