“Too many.” Našobok nuzzled the callused fingertips. “So you’ll need me, after, in truth. Or Aylaniś. Or both of us, depending on how high Fire is blazing behind your eyes.”
“I don’t want to wait so long,” Palatan purred against Našobok’s chest, then raised his head. “I need you now.” Fire… Ai, there was plenty behind his eyes; he could see them in Našobok’s, overcast Sky mirroring Forest gilt. “It’s been nearly three turnings of Hoop. Three. Can you not know how much I’ve missed you?”
Našobok didn’t answer, just cupped Palatan’s face in his hands and ran them back through his hair, fingers teasing his nape, tracing a soft breath from forehead to chin.
How much I’ve missed you.
How long it’s been.
How they could give each other everything—except the thing they each needed the most.
Almost painful, this; conjuring too many ghosts, too many memories.
Palatan broke it with a nip to his lovemate’s nose. “So. What’s the point of waiting?”
“Never any point to waiting for anything,” Našobok chuckled. “See? I told you it was useless for me to put on leggings thisdawn.”
“Hunh.” Palatan was making his way down Našobok’s chest, a brush of breath and dart of tongue and ai, teeth there, right there; Našobok gave a small, shivery jerk. “As I recall,” Palatan murmured, tonguing where his teeth had grazed, “you can drop your leggings and clout in the time it takes me to count a four of heartbeats.”
“And I can strip you from yours even faster—”
“Promises, prom—Yai!” Palatan gave a yip as Našobok grabbed the back of his clout and tugged.
“Threats, Horsetalker. I’m Riverwalker, wyrh-chieftain a’Ilhukaia. I don’t promise, I threaten—”
“Rotten fish entrails! Another several heartbeats and you’ll be rutting like oških. Will you never grow up?”
Palatan whipped about with a snarl on his lips—he knew the voice as well as Palatan. More.
Sure enough, Nechtoun a’Naisgwyr strode closer, broad arms crossed over his even broader chest, a mighty frown on his face. Worse yet, behind Nechtoun was Galenu a’Hassun. The latter bore a distinctly self-important smirk, groomed impeccable—and inappropriate, considering the damp chill of dawnLands—in colourful midLand sandals and flowing lightweave garb. Even his ivory hair had been slicked back into a perfect trebled knot.
Palatan refused to be impressed. “You’re not giving us what consideration you’d give oških,” he gritted between his teeth.
“And standing there with his old playmate,” Našobok murmured against Palatan’s ear. “Eh, but they stopped rutting long ago, so there’s the difference, no doubt.”
“No doubt.” A soft return grumble.
“Because you’re not oških anymore!” Nechtoun persisted, gruff. “Or maybe you are. Hunh. Council will be called soon.”
“But not yet.” Icily courteous.
“That’s my lovemate,” Našobok whispered, hiding a grin. “Heel him.”
Palatan considered kicking him. Unfortunately, such energy drained into another attempt as Palatan met Našobok’s gaze—that of trying not to laugh.
Galenu was aware of it, using an annoying midLands pastiche upon manners; pretending he wasn’t looking even though he surely was.
Nechtoun had never been known for his sense of humour—particularly when facing the one who’d once been his youngest son. His lip quivered over his canines. “So. As new-made Alekšu, you’d rather give due to an outlier than attend Council with the Tribes he’s scorned?”
That did it. Palatan started to rise; Našobok grabbed his wrists, murmured, “Don’t.”
Palatan blinked at him.
“If you get up you’ll drop your clout.”
Another blink; Palatan couldn’t help it. A smirk ticced at Našobok’s lip. “I told you I could strip you faster than you could breathe.”
Palatan peered at him. Raised an eyebrow.
Then dropped his forehead to Našobok’s chest and let out a huge snort of laughter.
Nechtoun growled, “What’s so funny?”
And that set Našobok off. Which, in turn, made Palatan laugh all the harder. Nechtoun was glowering at them as if they were indeed oških begging a good hiding, but there was, sudden-faint, a grin lurking behind.
Galenu openly laughed.
“All of you are past ridiculous,” Nechtoun growled when they finally subsided. “Surely the wyrhling doesn’t want to be late for what Council he is allowed to attend.”
“Usually I’m absent,” Našobok’s riposte was blithe. “Would late be so different?”
“Hunh. I suppose I should be grateful you keep decent company when you are allowed here.”
Palatan gave a brief tilt of chin, tacit apology accepted.
“We’ve done what we can,” Nechtoun grumbled, jerking his chin past Galenu. “I’m heading back.”
Galenu’s smile had lessened only a bit. He gave a courteous gesture, not only to Palatan, but Našobok.
A’io, there was simply no telling, with Galenu a’Hassun.
Našobok returned the gesture politely enough, but wary. And no blame for that—he’d often claimed Galenu a likeable old scoundrel, but trust him? No farther than he could throw him. Less, actually. Galenu’s dam was sister to Palatan’s, and Galenu took after her: slight, shortened with age. Našobok could probably throw him a good distance if he tried.
Palatan hid a smirk in one hand.
Galenu’s smile broadened as he turned, ostensibly to leave. Instead, once Nechtoun melted into the trees, he spoke. “Wyrh-chieftain, I’ve a shipment. Interested?”
Ai, so that was it.
“I’m always interested in good trade.” Still wary, Našobok pushed back onto his haunches.
“Could be perilous.” Galenu’s grin widened, as if he knew he’d thrown proper bait.
And he had. Palatan knew it, too, giving a light, indulgent snort whilst propping his chin in one hand, waiting for it.
Našobok leaned forwards. “Peril can make salt sweet or lave it into a wound. Where to?”
“We’ll make talk later. After, of course,” Galenu lifted both eyebrows, peered at Palatan, “you’ve… uhn… finished with this youngling.”
Palatan’s lip curled, but he flicked a glance to Našobok, stayed quiet.
“YOUNGLING. I’VE three winterings more than you, and that old khatak calls me youngling.”
“I love it when you make rough Rivertalk at me.”
Palatan merely threw back a glare, kept walking. And fuming.
Našobok seriously considered finding Galenu and smacking him upside his flawless hair knot. If the interruption hadn’t already scuttled a perfect opportunity, condescending remarks had definitely sunk it.
Ai, well. Never good anyway, to rush through a rut. They’d waited, as Palatan had said, three turnings of Hoop. One more Sun would make the next all the better for anticipation.
Lots of anticipation. Našobok had surely had his share of rutting in those past summerings, but none of those were Palatan. None of them were pissing-mad, all-puffed-up Palatan.
It would be easier to walk with a very large tree branch stuffed down his clout.
“I thought you showed considerable restraint.” Našobok made it light.
“Difficult, to answer insult with your clout around your ankles.” Palatan, too, was starting to grin. “I only hope you and I can grow so old together.”
“I hope we’re still… rutting like oških, was it?”
Palatan laughed. “That, too. Ai, it’s well to forgive any edges an elder would wield. Wisdom often outweighs any slight.” His mirth turned insubordinate. “But not all. Make sure old Galenu tenders his trade in advance if he hires you.”
“No worries there, believe me.”
“But your sire…” Palatan’s grin slid into a snarl. “I can’t easily forgive the way he treats you. I despise it.”
“Not half as much as
he does.”
“I can’t imagine disowning one of my children for anything. He loved your dam past all reason.”
“He never forgave me for hurting her.”
“You’d no choice.”
“More of one than some.”
Palatan flicked a glance at him that lingered, musing. They wended the pathway approaching the main lodgings, silent amidst the murmurs and stirrings of the great lodge.
Našobok finally ventured, quiet, “You are Alekšu, now. You don’t have to attend beside me. In fact, it might do you many favours if—”
“Don’t let such talk soil your tongue!” Palatan snapped. “I’ll never speak to you with half the contempt your own blood does, and you do us no honour to even think I would.”
“I don’t think you would,” Našobok pointed out, still calm. “That’s the point. You wouldn’t hurt me, and it could only help ease your path—”
“It would hurt me.” Unspoken was: and you. You know it would.
Try as Našobok might, he couldn’t help the flutter of gratification. Still. “It might help convince Galenu—and those like him—that you’re no youngling playing oških games.”
Silence. Then, “Oathbrother. As you say, I am Alekšu. My spouse is chieftain of horseClan. I have four offspring in my tipo, twenty-four clean-limbed mares grazing ’round, and two stallions to keep them healthy and in foal. I have claimed tribute against uncountable challengers. I have you.” A smile curving his lips, Palatan gave a light slap to Našobok’s cheek. “I do not crave the regard of Galenu a’Hassun.”
And there was nothing for Našobok to make in reply, except take that hand and bring it to his cheek.
8 - Birth
Things were always better after a swim. Even this time, with everything… there.
River took him in, and where Tokela likely should have been shivering-sick with the sensation of Her—so close, so present—instead She gave comfort. She cradled him, enveloped him in a soft, thick hum that blocked away everything else.
He could have hung there, weightless underwater, forever. He waited, smiling and slowly twirling, until the red-black began to beat behind his eyes and his lungs, bereft of breath, began to seize and beg.
But he kept waiting. Finally, he surfaced akin to one of the air-breathing water-horses, with a blow and heave into starved lungs. Thrice after he submerged, sinking to the bottom of the secluded cove; thrice he came up, and on the last one his Spirit lay quiescent, clear.
Sane.
The coming of dawn found Tokela high in the weeping tree wykupeh he and Madoc had built with their own hands. Sun peeked through the trees to finger his eyes open and warm his cheeks, sending healing slats of roseate and gold over his battered body.
He hadn’t slept. First he’d spent some time tracing, in the dust of the wykupeh’s wooden flooring, his memory of the t’rešalt. Then, with shaking fingers, he’d sketched the faces one at a time, lingering upon Sivan’s.
Once finished, though, the lines had reminded him of the sketch Inhya had taken.
The sketch that had begun all this.
He’d obliterated the drawings in a single, vehement swipe and collapsed onto his back. He lay there through the remainder of Moons-passage, the sounds and smells of First Running’s firstdark gathering faint echoes off the great Mound and into the woods, with a dart here and there until they faded, mute.
All the while, Wind fingered the weeping tree branches and nuzzled Tokela’s hair, whilst River sang Her unending song below.
It eased his heart, somehow, even as it roused him no less than watching those oških tangle in the shadows. River had always sung to him, but normal: a wordless hiss against the shoreline; a drag of foamy, copper-blue skirts to dress the craft skimming Her; a soft and utter stillness on a Windless Sun’s passage to bely what burgeoned beneath. Normal. When he was young, Tokela had imagined his parents’ voices in River’s every crest and ripple. She had soothed him—or tricked him, he still was not sure which—and claimed him when no one else would.
But now it seemed She, like a tiny ahlóssa learning to make talk, was trying to tell him something important.
More like he was the babe, not understanding what She needed to say.
Talk. Elementals… talking. To him. Forbidden, to hear such things. Not normal, not at all.
Had it ever been?
The light warmed his skin. Tokela squinted against Sun’s rising until his eyes saw nothing but white burn, then rolled over and contemplated the ghosted tracings against his eyelids. He’d rewrapped his clout snug, to ensure what was beneath it would behave for once. Not that it seemed to help. Even light seemed raw and rousing upon his skin. He contemplated donning his tunic, turned Sun-spackled eyes to where it, with his boots and leggings, were flung aside.
Not that it would help. Sun soaked through anything, eventually, be it leathers or clouds heavy with wet.
Or maybe it wasn’t Sun, but his injuries. They were healing, still too quickly.
All of it, running swift along his nerves; not only the Chepiś’s healing power but his own heart’s drum. If he had dreaded going before his hearthmother so physically marked, he now truly dreaded going before any of his people, because… because…
What had Chepiś done to him?
For they had done, must have. Had Shaped something in him just as they’d Shaped that tree to cover them from Rain’s fierceness. Had opened him in some fashion and claimed him—ihšehklana, half-breed—yet in the end had refused the claim. Had tossed him—little fish, of course!—back to his People with this… this whatever-it-was. This thing that had seduced his dam, taken her Spirit, and… made him.
Shards seemed to light behind his eyes, edged brilliant-keen, hot as SkyFire following heavy storms, and Tokela curled up on the hard wooden poles of the wykupeh flooring, palms hard against his temples. He gritted his teeth, nose to knees, gave a strangled-silent orison to Wind and River to make it stop, just make it stop.
He didn’t expect an answer. Yet something deep within him responded, gave silent, strange-familiar command: Not thisnow. Not yet.
And the shards sheathed themselves into darkness.
“There you are! Finally!”
For a half breath, Tokela wasn’t sure who—or what—had spoken. With a shudder, then a lurch and heave forwards with a prop of both hands against the flooring, Tokela peered over the ledge.
Only the grassy cove, the rocks, trees bending over River… but a scent unmistakable, and familiar.
“Where have you been?” Madoc’s voice confirmed from below. “I’ve been… everyone’s been… looking…” Punctuated with small grunts of effort, climbing the rope.
Tokela fell back, a small groan escaping his chest. He’d intended to be gone before Madoc came. He needed time: to compose himself, to figure out a way to hide what surely must be stippled upon his skin like the inked-thorn pricks of permanent Marks.
Too late. Rubbing at his eyes, Tokela sucked in a deep breath of mist-laden air, looked about him. There was nothing remarkable in the furs pulled from the corners, or his clothes strewn across the flooring… his tunic and leggings! Rinsed free of blood stains—his own and the blue-black ichor of the shigala—yet they still might betray him. Tokela gave them a panicky kick into a dark corner. And sent another orison to whoever would listen that he did not look as changed as he felt.
Wind breathed on his cheeks, and below River purled, satisfied.
A thatch of umber rose against tree boughs and Sky, framed in the open front of the wykupeh. Madoc’s unruly mane always welcomed summering’s return by streaking tawny. It refused to heed either oil or confinement, rippling wild about his Marked cheeks and making good attempts to escape the tight-wrapped ahlóssa braidlock.
With a grunt Madoc swung sideways, found the burl-and-branch front stoop of their hideaway. Bare toes grabbed, leather leggings creaked. Madoc’s tunic, the hue of grass and splashed with Sky tones, caught on the burl. Freeing it carefully, Madoc c
lambered up the rest of the way. Two steps in, he halted, eyeing Tokela.
“You look dreadful.”
“And may the Moons light your path as well, little brother.” Tokela rubbed the heel of his hand over his face, pulled his knees towards his chest, and laced his forearms around them. Slid a swift glance Madoc-wards.
Of course, not even wry affection swayed Madoc on a mission. Eyebrows twisting up into his forelock, arms crossed, he fairly radiated disapproval. Tokela rolled his eyes, started to growl how he was not of a mind to tolerate yet another lecture from Mound-chieftain’s Son.
Instead, those razored shards scraped against Tokela’s skull, sparking behind his eyes like to the flickers of the t’rešalt, as if Madoc’s ire curled about Tokela’s nape like intimate, intrusive fingers…
Tokela buried his face against his knees and clenched his fists against his shins, hard. One fingernail gave an unintentional scrape to a still-healing gash; the sting of it wrested him from oddling fugue.
“I was sleeping,” he muttered against his knees. “Trying to, anyway.”
Silence, then a quick thump of feet over to where he sat. Callused hands gripped at his own, gave an insistent tug.
Tokela took in a deep breath, then slowly raised his eyes. Almost a dare—can you see? is there anything to see?—but Madoc’s gaze, glinting slightly in the faint illumination of the wykupeh, reflected nothing of recoil. Of Shaping. Of Other.
“If you didn’t want me to find you, then you came to the wrong place.”
Tokela gave a soft snort. “Is it my fault I slept too long?”
“Granddam Giltha’ailiq always used to say we end up taking the path meant, whether we want to admit it or not.”
“So now I wanted you to bellow like a herdbeast and wake me.”
It was Madoc’s turn to snort. “I waited for you. Where were you lastdark?” That he would ask yet again unless answered, Tokela had little doubt.
“I went hunting.” The feint came easily; Tokela was well used to them by now.
“Ahlóssa aren’t supposed to hunt alone after Sun-goes-down.”
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