The Broken Land(92)
“Yes, that’s how it works, isn’t it? You strike us. We strike you. The Mountain People strike us both, and it goes on and on. Sky Messenger is right. This has to end before there’s no one left to fight.”
He studied her. She looked tired. He picked up his tea cup and let it warm his cold fingers before he said, “The question is, how? Every time my people move their villages to a new location and get settled, someone attacks us. We end up running for our lives. Our war strategy is based upon that fact. We don’t want to run any longer. In fact, we won’t. This is good bottom country. Our crops grow well here. We plan to keep it. That means we have to kill anyone who tries to take it away.” The subtle question in his comment did not escape her notice.
“Chief, I assure you I will vote no if anyone in the Standing Stone nation suggests attacking a Flint village. I give you my oath.”
That intrigued him. He pulled his head back in mock amazement. “It eases my souls to hear you say that, but we both know that food is the greatest of all tools for manipulation.” He paused. “And High Matron Kittle is not a friend to the Flint People.”
Jigonsaseh took a bite of her walnut bread and ate it slowly, apparently relishing the flavor. “This is excellent, Cord. Please give your niece my thanks.”
“She will be delighted that she pleased you.”
Cord bit into his chunk of walnut bread and took a moment to enjoy the sweet flavor. Made from a mixture of acorn meal, walnuts, and bear fat, with a pinch of wood ash for leavening, it tasted wonderful.
They ate in silence for a time. When she’d finished her second piece of bread, she dusted the crumbs from her hands and softly said, “These are not easy times. I pray people hear Sky Messenger’s vision and heed it, for I fear we are on the verge of destroying our own world.”
He lightly stroked the fine wood grain of his bread bowl. “The Flint People will lay down weapons two instants after the Standing Stone People do—which will be three instants after the Hills people do, five instants after the Landing People do, and one full day after the Mountain People do, since they are the least trustworthy.”
She smiled at that and lifted her hand to cover a yawn.
“Shall we cut this short? You look very tired. We’ve prepared a chamber …” When he started to rise, she reached across to touch his sleeve. He could feel the chill of her tanned fingers through his shirt.
“I’d much rather talk with you, if you don’t mind.”
A tingle went through him. He lowered himself back to the hides. “I don’t … but I’d appreciate it if we could abandon the war talk. I haven’t seen you in so long there are many things I’d prefer to discuss.”
“I am agreeable to that.”
“May I ask about your family?”
“What do you wish to know?”
He paused for only an instant, but it was uncomfortable. “Have you remarried?”
She smiled. “No. After Gonda and I parted, I had two children to raise, and my duties as war chief, which entailed many nights on the trail. When I returned home I wanted to spend what few moments I had with Odion and Tutelo. And, truly, there was no man who interested me. Which perhaps says more about me than it does them. And you? Did you remarry?”
She sounded like she was genuinely interested. “I remarried ten summers ago. She gave me a strong son. But we divorced two summers ago. I have not had the strength to consider another marriage, though my clan keeps insisting. As I’m sure yours does.”
“With regularity.”
He laughed softly and saw the lines around her eyes crinkle in return. “And Gonda? A Trader once told me he remarried and moved to White Dog Village. Is that correct?”
Her smile faded. She looked away. “It was. White Dog Village was destroyed by the Hills People—”
Cord sat forward. “Blessed gods, when?”
“Five days ago.”
Cord stared down the length of the longhouse, absently noting the movements of the people as they cooked supper or washed their children’s faces. Two dogs wrestled three compartments down. “Is Yellowtail Village overrun with refugees?”
“Yes, and Bur Oak Village, too.”
He turned his cup in his hands. Somehow, they had circled around each other and returned to talking about the war. They fell silent, gazing at each other, both of their faces lined with concern. A small connection of warmth grew between them, like hands reaching across time and clasping tentatively, then strengthening. When he started to feel it in all the wrong places, he dropped his gaze and frowned into his tea cup. In the pale green liquid, his black roach of hair appeared faintly purple.