“I know!” Sudden, vehement, Sivan shook off Maloh’s caress. “I know. But I also know there has been interference enough. I dare do nothing more until I have spoken to my brother. And”—with a heavy frown—“my father.”
AS THE t’rešalt lingered to a distant shadow within the massive hedge, Tokela expected—hoped—his overburdened senses would dull.
If anything, they heightened.
Amber light fingered across the darkness, giving plenty of light… too much. Tokela staggered down the hillock, came to the next copse of trees and stumbled to a halt, leaning against one of them. His hands rose, of their own accord, to press behind his ears… and that was where he felt it the most, a strange, hot, tight-stretched sensation of not-sound, of… pressure. Tighter. Harder. Pain…
“N’da.” Until he heard it, Tokela hadn’t realised he’d spoken aloud, and he nearly laughed… as if he could stop such a thing with a small, quavering voice?
But.
It stopped.
As if he’d finally pulled from River’s depths a too-full weir, with all the water pouring from the netting to leave trapped swimmingKin, glittering and gasping…
His own breath came just as thick and rasping. Any predator walking or flying would hear, take advantage. Tokela swallowed, clenched his fists. One step, unsure but steady. Then another. Several more. Each one grew stronger. Each one made the strange pressure/pain ebb. By the twentieth step, Tokela was able to walk with eyes high, hands once again swinging his strides.
But those hands were clenched, and it was not his normal, ground-eating tread. He couldn’t fully replace hesitancy, couldn’t fight the surety:
Things were different.
Every sound resonated, every shadow loomed large. Moss and bracken wafted up where he trod, an invasion of bruised green-wet. The surround cupped itself close and lingered, uncanny. Earth and Sky made Their Dance ever closer, pressing against his heart to set it wildly thumping, and They uttered sounds like… like… whispers.
Was this what his dam had felt? Was this what had taken her Spirit?
Tokela forced his heart calm, his gait steady. Again, to totter like a wounded buck—alone—was asking for more than a loss of Spirit. It was no more than the aura of the forbidden places, the Chepiś’s interference. It was what they did, twist Grandmother’s children into beasts. Like the beasts whose talons now lay in his pouch.
The latter trickled satisfaction through his being, and his senses, given something to do—namely avoid darkling predators and stay alive—set themselves to just that.
Tokela stopped at a small pond to wash away the oddling blood as best he could. It nevertheless hung in his nostrils past all reason. He avoided a pack of wolfKin by just knowing, somehow, where they were before he’d so much as noticed their passage; the same with a huge, dusky wildcat that crossed his trail and kept going. The predators knew, somehow: he was no longer so easy.
And so he passed, from deep woods into scattered settlements and small clearings, toward the glow that lit Sky above River.
Ai, how could he have forgotten? It was Silver Roe Moon, and his People were setting the greeting Fires of First Running in the Mound’s wide stone bowl. He’d likely been missed.
Growling to himself, Tokela slipped into the newer copse edging the crest of Talking Bluff. Sure enough, voices raised in song reached upward from the great bowl, underlain with the purling beat of the great drums. Fire lit thisdark all copper against pitch, crackling with the sweet-spice scent of gifted wood from other Lands, and hovering higher as Tokela approached the drumheights, larger sibling to the blaze flickering, small and cheerful, in the drumKeeper’s small kiln.
Thisdark’s drumKeeper was thankfully dozing, an elder with gnarled hands laced across his chest.
Tokela slung his discarded leggings and boots over his injured shoulder. It no longer gave pain, just a slight sting of reminder that he veered from. As he crept past the drums, bare feet silent against the cool, carven stones, he passed his fingers in quick, mute blessing over the glowing embers…
Jumped in his own skin as Fire leapt upward and licked, soft heat, at his palm.
Tokela scooted for the stair, descending it headlong to slip into the shadows of the outer bowl. Best that he avoid any festivities thisdark, take the back tunnels and head downRiver, stay in the wykhupeh ’til dawn.
The outlying places were dark, uninhabited, save for one where voices carried upon the mists. Only partially hewn into the cliff, remainder constructed of bark and withies, clay and living roof, the longhouse’s round windows betrayed the warming light of gleaming-stones. This particular common space was set apart, large enough to contain a literal pack of males, residents and guests alike.
Of course, the oških would have left after the stories, to prepare for the upcoming Suns and their own games, their own Dances.
It wasn’t the only time Tokela had passed the males’ den in his Moonslit wanderings, or paused to take in the flickers through the woven scrims. Particularly after the first time, when he’d received the wyrh tree, was tested—and failed. But it was the first time all the sounds tingled across his nerves like busy fingers: snores wafting outward as well as muted laughter and voices.
Perhaps his hearth-mother was right in this much: he should be here, regardless of what bodytalk he didn’t yet have, because of what whispered in his heart.
Perhaps the doing would undermine the tiny and strange voice that kept telling him: Wait, not yet. Not yet.
Another, very different voice registered—a mewl, almost. Tokela alerted, then smirked as he saw several figures huddling in the shadows of the overhanging trees next to the longholm. Ai, there was always that at festivals, too. Mere good manners to turn your eyes from partners rutting each other—whether adults in a family den or, like now, oških playing.
There were not merely two, but three of them, a tangle of dusky shadows, skin against skin beneath Moonslight. Tokela often passed by such things, aloof and unmoved more often than not. But thisnow, thisdark…
Thisdark, awareness blossomed into abundance. As if every groan and judder probed deep, scraping a just-this-side-of-raw pleasure along his nerves, making heated promises he wanted to see kept. Heat from their breath and bodies made vapour trails upward into the dark; it teased at Tokela’s nostrils, made him shift and quiver and tighten his grip on the limb until bark creaked.
There might not be anyone Tokela fancied as playmate, but his too-tight clout was no longer so fussy.
“What are you doing here, ehšehklan?”
The ugly midLands sneer—half-breed, not wholly of People—growled rough from behind him, and rougher hands shoved him, hard.
It would have been nice, Tokela considered as he ate dirt, if his hyperaware senses had warned him of this.
Mordeleg a’Hassun was a distant cousin from midLands. And he’d expressed an inexplicable hatred for Tokela since his arrival three Moons previous.
Lithe as stoatKin, Tokela rolled away as the other oških bent to grab him, nearly escaped.
Nearly. Mordeleg caught hold of the leggings over Tokela’s shoulder, yanked. Tokela winced, expecting pain—when there was nothing he twisted and grabbed belatedly for his leggings. It did little good. Mordeleg backed away, clutching his prize. For someone so stout and formidable, in truth he was a clumsy fighter. Nevertheless, he could pin Tokela to the ground for a sound beating. Had done, once.
“Give me my garb!” Tokela hissed. He didn’t want to be caught out again. He particularly didn’t want the entirety of the oških den to know he’d been gawping at a tangle, or nosing in their place.
“You want them”—Mordeleg hefted the leathers with a smile—“then take them.”
The smile wasn’t pleasant, and Tokela wasn’t fooled. Yet surely he could dart in, take his things, and twist away before Mordeleg could so much as blink.
Surely not. Mordeleg waited until Tokela came into range, then flung the leathers against his face. As Tokela reco
iled from the slap, Mordeleg grabbed him, yanked him off balance then twisted his injured arm up behind him. Hard.
Again, it stung, but not as it should.
The oških rutting each other in the corner didn’t so much as look up.
“What are you doing here?” Mordeleg hissed in his ear. “You’ve no rights wandering here, ahlóssa.” And before Tokela could so much as try to struggle, Mordeleg was pushing him forwards.
Towards the oških den.
“Let me go!” Tokela growled, digging his heels in. “I’ll say nothing if you just—”
Mordeleg gave a derogatory snort, yanked Tokela’s arm farther between his shoulder blades and propelled him forwards. Mordeleg was twice Tokela’s size, so choices were presently limited.
Still, the tangling oških paid no heed.
Tokela envied them.
And ate dirt for the second time thisdark as Mordeleg yanked back the hide covering the door of the oških den and shoved Tokela through it.
“LOOK WHAT I found, sneaking about.”
Mordeleg sounded triumphant—and looked it too, Tokela considered, sloughing a dark glance towards his tormentor.
A heavy silence answered. Tokela rocked up to his hands and knees, curious despite himself. He’d never actually been in here. The den was little different from any other—larger and more cluttered, certainly, but with Fire stoked low in Ša’s pit at the central place of honour, gleaming-stones to light dark corners, rumpled blankets, woven mats, and rows of bedshelves carved into sandy stone towards the back cavern.
The inhabitants themselves made the difference—a threatening one, at that. In various states of undress, the small semicircuit stood, crouched, were seated. In the shadowy den they resembled more a pack of wolves than anything.
Yet Tokela had just faced down a pack of unnatural creatures in Šilombiš’okpulo. He’d the claws of one tucked in his pouch to prove it. Lowering his chin, Tokela glared beneath his forelock at those silent, Fire-flicked faces.
None of them would dare beat ahlóssa with impunity—despite Mordeleg’s tendencies. Though there were tales about what youthful trespassers had, in the past, been made to suffer for going where they shouldn’t.
“He was spying on us!” Mordeleg threw Tokela’s leggings and boots down beside him, then gnarled his fingers into Tokela’s forelock and yanked his face up. With that grip, and a harsher one on one of Tokela’s arms, Mordeleg hauled him roughly to his feet.
Almost as one, the surrounding oških lurched forwards. “That’s enough!” one oških barked, rising from the Fireside.
“You presume much with that ‘us’, midLander,” another growled the threat. “Leave him be. Or is ahlóssa all you can manage to challenge and best?”
Mordeleg’s glared at Tokela, who answered with a snarl and yank of arm, freeing himself from the harsh grip. Mordeleg gave a threatening lurch, and Tokela backed, reaching for his knife.
“No live edges in-den!” Another older oških smacked Tokela’s hand away from his weapon, not unkind but firm. Tokela peered up at him—ai, another towering a’Naišwyrh; he was surely tired of looking upward thisSun—and it was indeed a glare, one he couldn’t halt had he wanted to.
A smirk tugged at the oških’s lips. Keeping narrowed eyes on Tokela, the oških addressed Mordeleg with barely concealed scorn. “Hunh! This ahlóssa has more edge to his blade than you could ever wish for, midLander!”
Laughter all around.
An ugly flush flaring from neck to cheek, Mordeleg turned on one heel and stalked to the back of the room.
“Was he the one who blooded you?”
A small thrill of trepidation—they’d smelt it, after all—but a hand merely placed itself on Tokela’s shoulder, turned him further into the light of the gleaming-stones. Another set of disapproving hisses bounced off the curved den walls as the gathered oških viewed the scratches on bare arms and legs. Tokela shook his head, looked closer at his unlikely benefactor. The oških had a half-shaven head with twistlocks hanging unbound, bespeaking the pledge to achieve his own den, his own property and rights to full adulthood—including, likely, espousing a fem he’d set his sights upon. He was tall and muscular, motions economical and sure in himself—little wonder he seemed to be leader here.
“Or did you just tangle with a too-tall tree, little one?”
“Little one” had been difficult enough coming from Chepiś. Tokela nearly blurted out what exactly he had been doing thisdark, stoppered it just as quick. Stay silent, be thankful his wounds had so quickly healed, that uncertain light disguised any unnatural remnants. Darksight had its own limitations.
Another oških came forwards. He was chuckling, broad figure blocking Fire’s light and arms crossed over his chest. “A’io, you’re not long away from joining us, I’d say. You’ve stones enough for it, even if they’ve not dropped yet.” He grinned, sudden. “Or maybe they have, a’io?”
“Either way,” the leader shrugged, “you’ve not yet claimed your indigo. We’ll say nothing to hearth-chieftain of thisdark, and you’ve no bond to us for that word, but you’ve no rights to be here and you know it. Any more than that one”—he jerked his head at Mordeleg’s hunched silhouette—“has rights to make rough with ahlóssa. In any fashion. Go on.”
Tokela grabbed up his clothing. Mordeleg’s furious gaze heated his spine as he slid out from the shadowy, heat-dank oških den and into dark’s embrace.
“THERE ARE empty places over there.”
The oških tipped her head in a demonstration her hands, busy with stitching a leathern belt, couldn’t make. Several dark strands escaped her head wrap and fell into her eyes; she blew at them, exasperated. Another oških leaned forwards and tucked the loose hair behind the first one’s ear.
“Ai, poor Saltha can’t tie her own hair without a playmate’s help!” another crooned, then squawked as the second oških merely lifted a foot and calmly booted the mocking one off her stool. The others seated at the banked-down hearth—about two fours of oških busy with like tasks—laughed.
Anahli watched it all, bemused. The second oških eyed her up then bent down to whisper something into the first one’s ear, garnering a return flush of cheek.
“Any empty place?” Anahli asked, thankful Inhya had been called away as she’d deposited Anahli on the top doorstep of the communal dwelling—some emergency in the cooking dens, it would seem. The fem oških den a’Naisgwyr hollowed deep and cozy, nearly half into the far side of the great Bowl; Anahli could hear River running through the open front windows, and see the Bowl spreading out beyond the back wooden decking.
“Depends on whether those rumours about dawnLanders are true.” The first oških—Saltha—grinned.
“Which rumours are those?” Anahli grinned back.
“At least give her time to settle her things before you tease her into play!” an older fem with a bright ochre headscarf scolded, snagging Anahli’s rucksack and swinging it over one shoulder.
Saltha, grin still tilting her lip, went back to her belt-mending. Clearly disappointed the entertainment had come to an end, the other fems bent to their own tasks; mostly Dance finery, Anahli saw, glad she’d tended her own before they’d set off towards dawn. Several also polished the long, curved wooden staff used for stickball. She’d forgotten to bring her own, squander it! It took time to break in a good stick.
“This way, friend,” the ochre-coiffed fem gestured. “I was told to hold a bedshelf for you, as you’re staying on even after First Running. A good thing, too, as there’s not much space what with all the guests. You’re to replace the little brother, aren’t you? Your sire—wait, your tribe holds to damline, a’io, and your dam is espoused to hearth-chieftain’s brother, isn’t she?”
Anahli tilted her head in affirmation.
“Then be welcome…” the fem hesitated.
“I’m called Anahli.”
“I’m called Čayku.”
Čayku led on and inward, past several tunnels burrowed de
ep into the stone. The noise from the hearthside quickly deadened as the rocks narrowed into a passage then another den, better for sleeping. There were some occupants doing just that. There were gleaming-stones set here and there in pots, radiating warmth. The space was just enough akin to the winter caverns where Anahli’s own tribe stayed, save here they’d bedshelves carved into the walls instead of round, well-padded sleeping pits within the flooring. Most of the shelves were adorned with bedding or clothing, personal possessions, or charms that hung from the ceiling or sides. The one Čayku gestured to—an upper one in a back corner—was bare and hadn’t been used in some time, but it had been dusted, and piled with fresh rushes.
“We made it ready for you.”
Anahli answered with a polite gesture known from dusk to dawn: fingertips from forehead to heart. Čayku returned it and smiled—and ai, but was she lovely when she smiled. Of all the possible picks from this den, Čayku seemed the least silly-giddy at the prospect of a new denmate. Which intrigued.
Another burst of laughter sounded from the oških at the hearth.
“I’m sleeping, here!” came a growl from a bedshelf across from Anahli’s.
“Stop drinking that midLands horse piss and you’ll not need to sleep so much!” someone else retorted.
Čayku snickered as the sleeper growled a little louder and once again disappeared beneath the furs. Čayku tossed Anahli’s rucksack onto the bedshelf. “I’ll leave you to it. If you need anything”—again, that lovely smile and a’io, it was an invitation—“come find me.” The smile quirked. “A long time since I’ve enjoyed a new Dance partner.”
Anahli watched her go; Čayku would have been right at home in a duskLands courting Dance; her skirts promised the graceful sway she would impart to fringes and fans. Tempting, to follow, but Anahli merely felt tired and dispirited. The bedshelf, however novel, however graciously prepared, seemed in retrospect a cold and lonely hollow when compared to the sleeping pits a’Šaákfo: the comfort of family all together, or the more-impassioned companionship of the oških wintering caverns, with the hot springs and several playmates.
Blood Indigo Page 10