caught Orian’s gaze. “If the unborn child is a boy,” he said, “I have determined it will become a steward in our clan. Furthermore, these Iden women must be allowed forty-nine days to grieve for their brothers.”
Orian stared at Psal in the torch light, spoke to Nahas. “My king, in the old days, kidnapped women quickly forgot their lost clans and were quickly bedded. Why should we treat these enemy captives with the honor and respect due to women of nobler clans?”
“Orian,” Nahas said, “I have had your fill of advising me.”
But Cyrt grasped Orian by the collar. “Enough! I am tired. I desire sleep. Not your rambling about the golden days of the old king’s rule. Continue and you will find yourself anchored in the dark climes. I will personally see to it.”
“Orian,” Lebo said, “our Nahas still remembers the old strife when Wheel sub-clans fought each other. But few here are honorable enough to speak of it. You are not of the king’s sub-clan. Nor were you reared in the royal longhouse. Nor were you part of the king’s marriage tribe. You might try to remember that.”
Orian lowered his head. “I did not wish to dishonor Nahas.”
A tiny rivulet of tears streamed in the white clay on Maharai’s face. Psal forced himself not to look at it. “Nahas, Ktwala is a chief’s daughter and intelligent. If she is in the tower as we believe, she will not leave it. She knows the Wheel Clan does not easily cast aside towers. And if I set her tower to follow in our wake, she will see the pattern and know her tower is not truly night-tossed. I have listened to the Iden tower and it desires to enter the cold climes soon. If it follows its desired path, it will. But we battle the Peacock Clans in clement region Therefore—”
Ephan interrupted him. “Nahas, this sudden love of yours…consider…the morning may have been full of loves, but hatred swallowed the night. This woman whom you say you love, for whom you keep an oath to her sisters, tomorrow search the tower and find her. Or, are you fearful of looking her in the face? Are you fearful of being shamed in the woman’s eyes?”
How bold this King’s Favorite is! And how patient this king toward him! Psal awaited the king’s response.
But Netophah answered for the king, “Father wills to break Ktwala’s will,” he said. “And remember your place, Ephan. Favorite you may be, but do not think too highly of yourself. If you would rebuke the king, rebuke him privately.”
“Truly, Ephan,” Lebo said, “if you had questioned the old king as you now question his son, you would not live to see the next day.”
“I have not finished speaking.” Netophah touched Lebo’s shoulder. “As you already know, Ephan, Peacock Clan women fear isolation. If Ktwala travels alone, her heart will be broken and remade toward her new clan.”
Ephan persisted. “But if she travels alone—”
“The Voca will not touch one in our wake,” Nahas answered impatiently.
“That was not my worry,” Ephan said. “Outlaw longhouses abound. Many of them without towers. Therefore they cannot be tracked.”
“Psallo, Ephan”—Maharai spoke suddenly—“I wish to see my mother.”
Netophah glanced at her, but spoke to Ephan. “Chief Bukko is Psal’s near kinsman and a trustworthy ally. Let our studiers send a message to his tower with the Iden harmonies. He will befriend her. There is no need to tell the Voca. They will see our wake and understand she is under the protection of our truce.”
The meadows were already tainted with bloodshed and treachery and the double moonlight had grayed the sky. Blood red clouds streaked above the Nahas longhouse. As Psal entered the royal longhouse, his own tower raged at him because of the Wheel Clan treachery.
CHAPTER 13
STUDIER’S GAME
Psal pushed past the Wheel Clan women into the studier’s room and immediately began vomiting. Daris picked up the nearest chamber pot—a clay one from the sick room already half-filled with blood and urine. An unfortunate choice, which only added to Psal’s nausea. Psal retched once, twice, hoped the vomiting would stop. It didn’t. His body could not stop shuddering or cramping or forcing acrid liquid up his throat.
Ephan hurried to the rampart, but even after the final horns had blown, he lingered there. Then the third moon rose to full height, he descended. He positioned the torch in its place and asked Daris if the Iden women had been securely locked away in the holding cells.
“They’re in the chambers near my mother and the other comfort women,” Daris said. “Kwin guards them.”
Ephan’s eyes met Psal’s. “Kwin will be gentle to them.”
“They’re weeping and calling us murderers and betrayers,” Daris said. “Better—”
“You understood them?” Ephan asked.
“In war, one understands words like ‘murder’ and ‘betray’ quite easily,” the child answered, and glanced at Psal.
“Even so. Well-learned.” Ephan put his hand on Psal’s shoulder. “Don’t blame yourself, Storm. Nahas didn’t listen to me either.”
Psal’s stomach heaved again and he grabbed the half-full chamber pot. The blow he had received from his father had brought blood to his nostrils. Blood mixed with salty mucus still trickled down his lips and into the pot. He swallowed hard against something rising in his chest.
“I’m not the Firstborn. Obviously.” Ephan removed a pouch filled with ground white seeds from his studier’s sack. “But as a studier, and his adopted son, I should have been heard.”
“Everything is always so obvious to you,” Psal said, “living as you do in the clouds. And no! No Rangi.”
Ephan popped one seed from the pouch into his mouth. “The Rangi is not for me but for you.”
“Did you really think you would persuade Nahas by mentioning Samat’s Unfleshed Ones?”
“I saw them, Storm. We are their tools, mindlessly led, used at their will.”
“Not now,” Psal said, his voice, throat, and stomach wary.
“Later then?” Ephan asked, almost pleaded.
No, not later either. The debate with Nahas, the cries of the murdered male children—Psal’s ears had grown tired of words and of hearing. Only one thing he cared to hear: Cassia’s night-tossed, half-destroyed tower. “Yes,” he said. “Later.”
The curtained screen of the studier’s room was being pulled aside: Lan. He glanced sideways down the passageway then entered.
“Firstborn,” he said, looking askance at the chamber pot. “Your brothers await you near the hearth. And do not fear. Strange as it may seem, your pleas touched their hearts, struck deep. You challenged the king’s action as a true studier.” He gave Ephan a playful push. “And this one’s talk about the Unfleshed Ones.…Who knew our brothers had such guilt and superstition in them?”
“Guilt,” Ephan remarked. “But they
