and fierce, did not turn away. Nor did the old and broken Nunu, or the beautiful and passionate Tolika. And not Maharai. Gidea kicked hard against the two warriors who held her tight. Nunu wept, her gaze set on the bodies of her sons, grandsons, nephews, and her brother Iden.
King Nahas lifted his bloodied dagger, aimed to strike Ouis. But Psal grasped his father’s hand, shouting words Maharai didn’t understand. Raging at first, then kneeling and begging, he stood between Nahas and Ouis, his arms outstretched. Then Ephan also approached the king, pleading as well. Nahas listened in silence. Alternating or simultaneously, the studiers spoke.
When King Nahas answered them, he seemed to argue, question, challenge, defend.
Maharai and the Iden women watched the verbal battle intently, the third moon rising. Then the king spoke a word and Ephan stepped backward, suddenly silent.
Psal, however, continued pleading, his voice growing shrill and shaky and echoing through the Iden longhouse. Even when the king raised his hand and two tall warriors pushed him aside, Psal would not be quiet. Shouting, the king pushed Psal and he turned on his bad leg and fell to the ground. King Nahas uttered another word. Psal grew silent.
The lame prince looked helplessly at Ephan, then at Maharai, then at the Iden women. He didn’t look at Ouis. The king spoke again and Prince Psal raised himself from the bloody floor and opened the Iden doors. Maharai knew then that all was lost.
How beautiful the Wheel Clan language! The king’s words were bright as light, tinkling like water, but Maharai knew them to be heavy, dark, blood-filled words. The king then called Ephan. Ephan bowed to the king then raced toward the granaries where her mother hid unseen.
Now to Ouis’ death.
Sharp blades can slit a throat clean through with one stroke. Ouis did not die quickly, as storytellers who sing praises to swift blades and to pale-skinned warriors would have you believe. Not for me such songs of so-called glorious battles. I’ve seen too much of dark death, and the death of dark peoples to sing songs that praise war. Let white-skinned storytellers exult in blood-letting.
Ouis lay on the ground, his hand clutching his neck, his mouth seeking breath, his pleading eyes turned to his sister. Netophah’s dagger hacked at him as butchers hack at livestock. When he died, he was like meat drained of blood. Lan’s strong hands held Maharai tight. She grasped them and bit deep. Lan winced, slapped her hard across the face, and she felt herself flying toward the bloody longhouse wall. There, fallen, her face and back aching, she watched helpless as Netophah kicked her brother’s hand from the bleeding gashed neck. Then the Wheel Clan heir knelt beside Ouis and took his own blood-stained dagger and cleanly ripped the boy’s throat open.
In her annals, Maharai said she must have shrieked to see this murder, because Tolika later told her she had done just that. However, Maharai writes that if sound or shriek escaped her mouth she did not know, because death had touched her before it touched her brother. It must have, for she had grown numb as she watched his death throes and could neither speak nor breathe.
* * * *
Through the plaited bamboo lid in the little inner storeroom, Ktwala peered. Through the latticework of the barrel’s cover, she saw: the red daubed ceiling of her destroyed longhouse. She heard: the death agonies of her betrayed clansmen—their horror echoed from its walls. Around her, the smell of spices mixed with blood. Her body trembled, she stilled herself. Inside the barley container, tears washed her face. She stopped the sob from rising from her throat.
Loving words, she thought, deceiving words. And yet…his heart seemed true.
In the near distance: booted footsteps trampled the floors of the Peacock longhouse; her brothers’ voices fading, surprised to find themselves suddenly outside of life; the quick rip of human flesh.
In Ktwala’s mind: Ancient stories of prevailing warriors. Triumphant tales told by Peacock Clan studiers of worlds: Blood-soaked enemies their braided hair split from their split skulls. In her heart: Nahas loving words, deceiving caresses. Your children will be as my children. Ktwala’s mind reeled.
Near the barrel, a Wheel Clan warrior was speaking in her language. She drew her breath slowly, quelled her body’s inner trembling. A carved wooden club lay between her cramped legs. She thought: Why do I sit here safely hidden? But sense stayed her hands; she did not rise. Barley fell from between her fingers. I must live and avenge my destroyed clan.
In the gathering room, Nahas shouted in the tongue of the Peacock Clan: “Iden women, you did not know we warred against your Peacock Clans. Nevertheless, your brothers must die. And you cannot go free. Iden women, tell where Chief Iden’s daughter hides.”
Ktwala’s heart pleaded: “My sisters, my aunts, my daughters, do not betray me.” The Peacock women heard her heart and remained silent.
And Gidea said, “Ktwala raced toward the large cliff. She jumped into the river.”
Nahas’ voice: “We will anchor here tonight. If her body is in the river, it will rise up again.”
Away, fading: the weeping voices, the commanding voices. Away, drifting: dying voices within the longhouse. Yet, nearing: footsteps. And soon someone leaned against the locked container, blocked light.
Ktwala heard: two voices speaking in the Wheel Clan tongue. Through the latticework of the barrel’s cover, Ktwala saw: pale hands touching the top of the container, twisting.
She held her breath; the cover lifted, light broke in. From above, the face of the pretty pale studier looked down upon her, his eyes and mouth wide open, surprise in his eyes.
A male voice called him from behind: “Ephan!”
Ephan looked up, away from Ktwala. His eyes squinted toward the unseen speaker. He turned again to Ktwala, smiled in wonderment. Ktwala’s eyes pleaded. Ephan stared at her, silent. He pushed his long white hair behind his shoulder and replaced the container’s cover. The footfalls of the warriors trailed away.
* * * *
Furious, angry, his leg and hip aching, Psal attempted to keep pace with the rising third moon and the Wheel Clan warriors. He felt like one awakening from a Rangi-induced dream. He wished to wake from guilt, from atrocity, from the sense that he had failed utterly to save a good and innocent people. But as he looked around him in the dark forest, the Iden women were bound, struggling, kicking, biting, weeping. It was no nightmare. The home region suddenly seemed harder to navigate and the royal longhouse painfully far away. Before him, Nahas dragged the screaming Maharai by her right arm. In the lead, Kwin struggled with Nunu. Cyrt, Deyn, and Lan struggled with the bound Tolika and Gidea. Behind Psal, the rest of the warriors dragged the other Iden women.
The royal longhouse warriors—intent only on subduing the women and hurrying homeward—were mostly silent, speaking only intermittently to threaten. But Orian seemed unable to stop speaking and railing against Nahas. That Wheel Clan warriors should treat the Iden women as sisters of a marriage alliance! That Nahas should not take the Iden tower! That Nahas should allow the hidden Ktwala to remain inside! He went on and on, annoying Psal more and more as he spoke.
When they arrived at the doors of the royal longhouse, Nahas spoke at last. To Psal, Netophah, Gaal, and his chief captains while the other Wheel Clan warriors took the bound Iden women—all but Maharai—inside. The king held Maharai firmly, even as she kicked him and bit his right hand.
“Firstborn,” the king said. “You, too, Cloud—you’re to keen Ktwala’s tower to follow
