The Great Mother of the Narwhal Clan leaned forward, her gnarled hands gripping the twisted wood of the chair arms. “So. Send him out, then. Who seeks to court our Elliania, our Narcheska of the Narwhals? Where is the warrior bold enough to seek the mothers' permission to bed with our daughter?”
I am sure those were not the words Dutiful had been told to expect. His face was the color of beetroot as he stepped forward. He made a warrior's obeisance before the old woman and spoke in clear Outislander as he proclaimed, “I stand before the mothers of the Narwhal Clan, and seek permission to join my line with yours.”
She stared at him for a moment and then scowled, not at him, but at one of the young men who had borne her chair. “What is a Six Duchies slave doing here? Is he a gift? And why is he trying to speak our language and doing such a horrible job of it? Cut his tongue out if he attempts it again!”
There was a sudden silence, broken by a wild whoop of laughter from someone in the back of the room, quickly muffled. Somehow Dutiful kept his aplomb, and was wise enough not to attempt to explain himself to the incensed Great Mother. A woman from the Narcheska's contingent stepped to the Mother's side and stood on tiptoe, whispering frantically to her. The Mother waved her off irritably.
“Stop all that hissing and spitting, Almata! You know I can't hear a word when you talk like that! Where is Peottre?” She glanced around as if she'd misplaced a shoe, then lifted her eyes and scowled at Peottre. “There he is! You know that I hear him best. What is he doing way over there? Get here, you insolent rascal, and explain to me what this is about!”
There would have been a sweet humor to watching the old woman order the seasoned warrior about if his face had not betrayed such worry. He strode over to her, went down briefly on one knee, and then stood up. She lifted one rootlike hand and settled it on his shoulder. “What is this about?” she demanded.
“Oerttre,” he said quietly. I suspect his deep voice reached her old ears better than the woman's shrill whisper had. “It's about Oerttre. Remember?”
“Oerttre,” she said, and her eyes brimmed suddenly with tears. She looked around the room. “And Kossi? Little Kossi, too? Is she here, then? Come home to us at last?”
“No,” Peottre said shortly. “They're not here, neither one of them. And that is what this is about. Remember? We talked about it in the garden, this morning. Remember?” He nodded at her slowly, encouraging her.
She watched his face and nodded slowly with him, and then stopped. She shook her head once. “No,” she cried out in a low voice. “I don't remember. The alyssum has stopped blooming, and the plums may be sour this year. I remember we spoke of that. But . . . no. Peottre, was it important?”
“It was, Great Mother. It is. Very important.”
She looked troubled and then suddenly angry. “Important, important! Important, says a man, but what do men know?” Her old voice, cracked and shrill, rose in anger and derision. Her thin hand slapped her thigh in disgust. “Bedding and blood-shedding, that is all they know, that is all they think is important. What do they know of the sheep to shear and the gardens to be harvested, what do they know of how many barrels of salt fish for the winter and how many casks of sweet lard? Important? Well, if it's important, let Oerttre handle it. She is the Mother now, and I should be allowed to rest.” She lifted her hand from Peottre's shoulder and gripped the arms of her chair. “I need my time to rest!” she complained piteously.
“Yes, Great Mother. Yes, you do. And you should take it now and I will see that all is handled as it should be. I promise.” And with these words, Elliania emerged from the shadows at the top of the stairs and hurried down to us. Her lightly shod feet seemed to skim each riser. Half of her hair was pinned up with tiny star pins; the rest flew loose to her shoulders. It did not look intentional. Behind her on the stairs, two young women started to follow her, then halted in horror, whispering to one another. I suspected they had been readying her for her appearance, and she had bolted free of them when she heard the raised voices.
I recognized her bearing more than her form as people parted to let her through. Like Dutiful, she had grown taller in the months since I had last seen her, and all her childish plumpness had melted away, replaced by woman's flesh. As she came past the row of her female relatives, I was not the only Six Duchies man who gasped. Her gown covered her shoulders and back but left bare her proudly uptilting breasts. Had she rouged her nipples, to make them stand so pink? I wondered, and felt my flesh stir in response. An instant later, I had flung up my walls and, Guard your thoughts, I chided Dutiful. He must have heard me, yet he did not flinch. He stared at the Narcheska's bared breasts as if he had never seen a woman's breasts, and in all likelihood, that was possible.