know Peacock Clan history well,” Rain said.
“Old Jion taught me.”
“Well, then, know this. Nahas has a good heart. Not a weak heart, mind you, but a good one. He will not harm your mother. I will tell you how good your future father’s heart is. Sometimes he has even allowed non-warriors to marry.”
Maharai didn’t think that was particularly good.
“If the women are past the age of child-bearing, and if a man wants her.” Rain offered Maharai a round wooden platter filled with small red fruits and fermented salted meats.
The platter’s engraving elicited a gasp of delight from Ktwala who immediately praised it.
“Soon, you Iden women will learn this craft also,” Rain said. “You’re our queen now.”
“What happened to the king’s other wives?” Maharai asked. “Did they die in the war? Or did he tire of them and give them to others? And how many did he have and who did he love better? He has two sons and an adopted son but I see no wives.”
“Ruanna was a primary wife,” Rain said. “She belonged to Nahas alone. He loved her greatly. She was Netophah’s mother. Hinis was the wife he shared with his brother. Psal was the child of that bound three.”
“So Psal may not be Nahas’ son?” Ktwala asked. “He might be the son of Nahas’ brother?”
Rain straightened her back. “That hardly matters, but you will understand our ways soon. This is how the matter went. Ruanna could not bear little ones at first. In the meantime, Nahas and his brother had made an alliance with a Macaw clan and both men married Hinis. After Psal’s birth, Ruanna became pregnant with Netophah. After Netophah, Tanti. Then Ruanna died. A terrible, sudden death. Then Nahas’ brother, Psal’s other father, died. Then Nahas’ other brother died. Only Nahas alone of his five brothers survived. Those were terrible times, but with Hinis’ help, Nahas retained his kingship of all the Wheel Clan. Because of Hinis, Nahas rules many of the fertile regions of Odunao. And what chief in our clan or any clan can wrest it out of his hands?”
Maharai frowned. “Mother, don’t marry into this family that has such bad luck.”
“We will bring them better luck,” her mother said. “And enough of your questions.”
“Hinis and four of the king’s children are all dead,” Rain said. “Killed at the beginning of the war.”
“Who do you war against?” Gidea asked. “You speak of the war but you do not tell us who your enemies are.”
“An evil scattered clan,” Satima said.
“That is what you said before,” Gidea responded. “Has this evil clan no name?”
“They have a name but we do not speak it. Among our people, to speak the name of our enemy is to empower them.”
“Ah,” Ktwala said.
But Maharai said, “Old Jion never told me about this particular belief of yours.”
“Did Old Jion know all the wisdom and beliefs of the Wheel Clan?”
“He said he did,” Maharai answered.
“Our Nahas wants peace during the rest of his reign,” Satima said. “A complicated, scheming power-hungry woman would be burdensome. Give him a simple woman with simple joys, one who will sleep at his side and help his mind to rest, and our king is happy.”
“My mother is very simple,” Maharai said, and smiled because her mother’s sweet simplicity had been apparent to the king.
Once more the conversation began to turn to war; Maharai stood up. She tugged at her mother’s braid. “Mother, I wish to see what the men in our longhouse are doing.” True, but she also wanted to see Netophah, whose gentle soft touch continually played in her mind.
Rain answered before Ktwala could. “The people of our clan also believe that when clans become allies, the men of both clans should be left alone to understand each other. The women, also, should learn each other’s ways. This is also the belief of your own clan, is it not?”
“True,” Ktwala agreed. “I remember the old days. Before the elders in our longhouse argued and left us night-tossed. We would visit a Ruined City in the Grassy Plains. There our women would feast with Wheel Clan women. How we would laugh and sing into the night free from the world of men!”
“Those days are long gone.” Rain glanced at Maharai. “Girlie, stay here.”
No, I don’t like this old woman at all. Psal was in one of the corridors. She had heard his voice earlier. Lan had also walked in that direction. She looked at Ouis who sat on his mother’s lap. “Rain, if I can’t go outside, may I explore your longhouse? Since I’ll be living in it?”
Permission given, Maharai strolled toward the corridor on the left. I will explore one corridor, she told herself, then I’ll return to the gathering room, and walk down the other. The smell of pharma and death grew stronger. She entered a large room where warriors on blood-stained sleeping mats stared unblinking at the ceiling. She had seen death before and understood that the warriors were preparing to die so she smiled down at them, and stroked or kissed their foreheads. In the next room, a smaller one, a young warrior lay half-awake, one of his arms missing.
“You have only one arm?” she asked him in the Peacock language.
Surprisingly, he understood her. “Psal removed it.”
She kissed his cheek. “One arm is as good as two if you practice well. Don’t worry.”
He smiled and she rose, bade him goodbye, and continued walking down the passageway.
With the exceptions of Netophah’s and the king’s chamber, the Wheel Clan used painted or embossed curtained screens instead of doors. Behind one of screens, Maharai heard Psal’s voice. Tip-toeing toward it, she peered over it into a room where metals, stones, gems, tools, bottles, clay jars, and parchments cluttered shelves and baskets. Inside were the two studiers she had seen earlier. Psal was lying with his back on a wheeled mat, his dagger on the ground by his side. His trousers were pulled up to his knee and he was rubbing his leg, a strange shriveled thing. The pale girlish studier stood in front of a window looking out at the darkening night. They turned to her as she entered and exchanged surprised glances.
“Girlie, are you lost?” Psal asked in the Peacock language.
“Only little children get lost. Does your leg hurt?”
He picked up his dagger and sheathed it. “Girlie, I understand that you Peacocks are an inquisitive people, but—”
As he struggled to get up, she held her hand over his unruly black curls and ran her fingers through them until he pushed her hand away. The other studier, whose name she couldn’t remember, held an open clay container which smelled like the odor that lingered around Psal.
“We’re brother and sister now,” she said to Psal. “Yes, yes, we are! You and I and Ouis and Netophah. We’re brothers and sisters.”
The boys glanced at each other, and the pale studier approached Psal with the cup.
She examined the pale studier. “I suppose you’re our brother as well, since you’re the king’s adopted son. What did they call you?”
“Ephan.”
“Oh, yes! Oh, yes! Ephan!”
They looked at her in silence, and she suspected they considered her a nuisance. She grabbed the clay cup from Ephan and looked inside it. “Should I rub my brother’s leg with this?”
“It’s Emon bark soup,” Ephan said.
Maharai held the cup before Psal’s face. “Drink it all up. Now!”
Psal’s staff was leaning against a window. She pressed the cup into Psal’s hand then walked toward