Blood Indigo

by Talulah J. Sullivan

“So you keep telling me.”

  “First Running has started, you know.”

  “I know.”

  “We have things to do, as hosts. Grandsire was looking for you lastSun. Aška looks for you thisSun.”

  Tokela dreaded facing Inhya. Would she know by looking? Could she tell what Chepiś had done, even if he wasn’t sure exactly what had happened? She’d seen it before, after all, with Lakisa.

  Those Chepiś had known his dam. The Matwau had known her name. They’d—

  “Even the Spawn came after me, looking for you. See how popular you are?” Madoc folded his legs and settled down next to Tokela, leaned against him as if he were a favourite cushion.

  Kuli just got up Madoc’s nose, and that was all there was to it. Usually Tokela tolerated the expletive. But thisnow, with all that had happened?

  It wasn’t funny.

  Tokela noticed Madoc was giving him a surreptitious onceover, and held his breath.

  “Tokela, you look like you lost a battle with a prickly hedge.”

  Tokela let the breath out. “In darkness such things happen.”

  “Where do you go?”

  Tokela shrugged. “I’ve nothing more to say.”

  Madoc didn’t like to honour that prerogative; but this time he did, onto fresh game. “Anahli came lastSun, with Aunt Aylaniś and Uncle Palatan. I heard she’s to stay, and the Sp—" Madoc snuck a look Tokela’s direction, seemed to ken the word wasn’t welcome “—Kuli’s supposed to be going back home.”

  “Maybe he’ll stay here instead, with his sister,” Tokela teased.

  “Maybe he’ll stow in the wyrhling’s hold and leave that way.”

  Tokela jerked upright. “Našobok’s here?”

  Madoc treated him to another disapproving tilt of nose. “What do you care? He’s outlier.”

  “You make talk like your father.”

  “Our father”—very pointed—“is Mound-chieftain. How else should we be? It’s the way, Tokela. The wyrhling—”

  “Našobok.” Just as pointed, with ire flickering deep in Tokela’s chest. Even if he wasn’t sure why he was angry, save for the faded memory of a nigh-grown oških bothering to sit with an ahlóssa after River had taken Tokela’s parents. Našobok had sought him out. Had sat with him, quiet and unassuming.

  Had been rendered outlier not long after.

  Yet, every First Running he was here, he still sought Tokela out.

  “Uncle Palatan and Aunt Aylaniś acted like they were overjoyed to see him. Like he’s Clan.”

  “Maybe he is.”

  “He can’t be. He’s outlier. It’s the way.”

  “Except when it isn’t, Madoc. DuskLands have their own ways. Every tribe does.”

  Madoc grumbled acceptance of this, but kept shaking his head. “Everyone made too much talk about it. I don’t think Anahli liked it, either.”

  Tokela grinned. “I think you fancy Anahli.”

  A stammer, and a flush. “She’s oških! She’s fem!”

  “A’io, out of your league. Best stay with your own, little brother.” Light, teasing…

  Manipulative.

  But it made Madoc laugh and lean against him again. “I am with my own. And not your ‘little’ brother for much longer, I think.”

  True enough. Plump solidity was beginning to angle lanky and unfinished. Already Madoc’s nose brushed Tokela’s chin when they stood together. Of course, Tokela’s growth had been—

  Stunted? Prevented, somehow? Disallowed, until…?

  Whatever the cause, it wouldn’t be long before Madoc would pass him up.

  “See. I have grown more than you.”

  Tokela answered Madoc’s self-important smirk by smirking right back and darting a quick hand outward. Madoc gave a yip and rubbed his cuffed skull.

  “Hunh, see? You’re not so big I can’t pound you.”

  “You wait.” Madoc kept rubbing. “Soon I’ll be grown enough to put your face in the dirt and hold you there!”

  “N’da,” Tokela replied, serene, “you won’t.”

  “Will.”

  “Not likely.”

  “Very likely.”

  “Big trees fall the hardest, Madoc chieftain-son.”

  Madoc made a half-hearted pass at him, somewhat hampered by the close surroundings. Tokela easily ducked.

  “And move slowly.”

  Still grinning, Madoc laid his head against Tokela’s shoulder. Tokela smiled, rubbed his knuckles against the bright tangles. This was more like it: normal, comforting, quieting the hollow, breathless buzz in the pit of his belly.

  Nevertheless, his eyes slid back to take in River.

  “Kuli was looking for you,” Madoc said. “He wanted you to give him a story. I told him you’d likely be off doing errands again for grandsire Nechtoun. So. You owe me.”

  “Do I?”

  “Mm-hunh. He and three other little ahlóssa would be trying to crawl in your lap just now if I hadn’t deflected them.”

  “So instead I have one huge ahlóssa in my lap.”

  “Mm-hunh.” Madoc was either unaware of the sarcasm, or chose to ignore it. “I’m glad Kuli is leaving. I’m tired of him in our den.”

  Tokela chuckled. “At least he doesn’t crawl into your bedshelf.”

  “He does when you aren’t around.” Madoc bared his teeth and wrinkled his nose. “And he kicks like an unbroken colt.”

  “Not too long ago you were doing the same thing.”

  “Kicking?”

  Tokela gave a soft snort and nudged Madoc. “You still do that. N’da, crawling into my bedshelf.”

  “When you’re there.”

  When on the scent, Madoc was difficult to shift. But Tokela had no limit of practice. “Why are you here? Aška will have at you for hiding away.”

  “They’re all off to Council. Didn’t you hear the drums calling Council?”

  Tokela shrugged.

  “You didn’t hear, did you?” Madoc eyed him, long-suffering in his tone.

  Tokela shrugged again.

  “Some things are important, Tokela. Like this. It’s open Council! Even the Yakhling leader is invited, and the wyrhling—”

  “Your Uncle Našobok.”

  “When I say that, Aška always corrects me. She says my sire has no brother.”

  A cool, close fury lit behind Tokela’s gaze. He quickly flattened his gaze, peered out over River’s glittering surface before Madoc could ken any disturbance.

  He’d heard it before, after all. Why should it bother him now?

  “I was hoping you would come with me.”

  “With you? Where?”

  “To Council.” Madoc nudged Tokela’s shoulder. “You know all the best places to sneak and hide, all over.”

  “Why?” Tokela slid his gaze towards Madoc, raised an eyebrow. “Council is only ever elders blowing smoke and making talk about too many things.”

  “But if we’re the sons of Mound-chieftain, then perhaps we need to know those many things.”

  Tokela peered sidelong at Madoc, one eyebrow rising.

  “Ai, brother, I really, really would like to go. And I know you know the best ways to sneak in.”

  “You seem so certain, little brother.”

  Madoc sat very tall, looked down his broad, Sun-burnt nose at Tokela. “Hunh. And how else did you find out about Kuli’s hearthing here, before me?”

  Both Tokela’s eyebrows rose.

  “Or that Anahli was sneaking about with a oških from deepForestClan last time she was here?”

  Little trickster. “I shouldn’t have let that slip from between my teeth. And you shouldn’t have done, either.”

  “It was an accident!”

  “Your loose tongue will be the death of you. Or me.” Tokela didn’t go out of his way to glean gossip—quite the opposite, in fact. Most times he barely processed what he heard and saw. But the places Tokela had found to get about unobserved often attracted those who… well, wished to be unobserved.

/>   “You didn’t mind telling me how Uncle Našobok”—deliberate, with an endearing grin—“was allowed back in the compound after he rescued Grandsire Nechtoun in that bad storm five winterings ago.”

  Tokela held up his hands in capitulation, chuckling.

  “So we’ll go?”

  “We’ll go, we’ll go. But it’s likely to bore the spit from your mouth.”

  “I can take it.”

  Tokela shrugged again, gave him a shove. Madoc scooted over, allowing Tokela to uncurl from his perch.

  “Do you think they’ll talk about me? Us?” Madoc quickly corrected.

  “Ai, very important Council business, that,” Tokela drawled.

  “It might be. You don’t know.”

  “HERE. MAY I?”

  Horsetalkers seldom let a stranger touch their hair, but Čayku asked so politely, with the light in her eyes so admiring, that Anahli tilted her chin and relinquished the long, burnished braid she was plaiting.

  Čayku knelt, humming a soft tune beneath her breath. Her fingers proved quick and nimble and, at the last, dipped into the oil pot at Anahli’s knee—she’d been watching. Anahli thought on that, fancying the sensation. It was the only time those fingers faltered, unfamiliar with this sort of hair dressing. But after, but with another dip of oil, Čayku left a glistening trail from Anahli’s knee to midthigh, and paused.

  “We use oil for other things, in dawnLands,” she said, eyes fastening to Anahli’s. “Would you Dance with me?”

  “Now?” Anahli leaned back on her hands and pressed her thigh into Čayku’s palm. “Or later?”

  “Both.” A smile darted across Čayku’s mouth like burrowKin beneath an overhead shadow. “We must ready ourselves soon enough, and later, of course, there will be competition.”

  “Of course.”

  “Dancers a’Naišwyrh are fierce.”

  “My People are fierce in all they do.”

  “So I’ve heard.” The smile came back and lingered, as Čayku slid her hand upward. “I hoped you would show me.”

  “WATCH YOURSELF!”

  Madoc was out of sight, had run on ahead through the trees. Tokela gave a quick twist, managed to avoid running his old uncle over, calculated then commenced a new route.

  Instead a strong hand grabbed his braidlock. “To where are you away, sister-son?”

  Not for nothing was a ahlóssa topknot called a “handle”. Tokela gave up any hope of swift flight. Nechtoun had quite the grip, liked to boast that his body had softened, and remained strong as an old sap-sweet tree.

  “I’m hungry, Uncle.”

  Nechtoun wasn’t alone, either. His companion was an elder, much slighter and shorter—and somehow familiar. Obviously of some importance, even if peculiar. Where Nechtoun wore a quilled and beaded leather jerkin over his woven woollen tunic, with narrow, hide leggings tucked into tall, fur-lined boots, the newcomer wore a high-necked, sleeveless tunic and full leggings of brightly coloured wormweave. He also wore gaily decorated sandals—fancy, and woefully unfit for damp woodland going. And where Nechtoun’s hair was properly wrapped with a few silver twistlocks trailing through the cloth and at his nape, his companion’s had been sleeked back, trebled, and secured with what looked like a wristlet of pale, saffron-beaded leather.

  “Do you not have Clan-greeting for our guest, sister-son?” Nechtoun chided. “This is Galenu a’Hassun.”

  Ai, now Tokela remembered. Finding his voice, he made the requisite polite gesture. “Galenu stone-chieftain, my father’s uncle.”

  “Tohwakeli a’Naišwyrh, my nephew’s son.”

  “He is Tokela, here.” Nechtoun admonished, then furthered, “Galenu doesn’t visit often, yet he is my oldest, dearest, and most contrary friend.”

  “Oldest, a’io, but which of us is more contrary?” Galenu’s eyes were coloured a mix of Earth and Sky, they smiled when his mouth did. He spoke to Tokela, a clipped talk that also seemed familiar, then mirrored Tokela’s frown. “Do you not have your father’s talk, nephew?”

  Spoken slower, the syllables began to untangle and make some sense.

  “I… I do,” Tokela replied, deliberate. “I mean no offence, my uncle. It has only been long since I’ve made it.”

  “Hunh.” Still irritated, though Galenu’s eyes softened. “Long indeed! At least five summerings since last we saw each other. I barely recognised you.”

  Tokela’s smile flashed, genuine and pleased.

  “Galenu is like to you, Tokela.” Nechtoun reached out, gave a fond bump to Tokela’s jaw with one knuckle. “He spins tales fine as any learned storyKeeper. Sketches curst likenesses, though thankfully you’ve learned better.”

  Tokela’s fingers twitched, remembering the dusty smears upon the wykupeh flooring.

  “The only curse upon a likeness”—Galenu’s tone was mild, remarkably unthreatened”—is in your relentless denial of their wonder, you old stoat.”

  The insult curled fond, obviously one of long standing; Tokela discarded it as the rest of Nechtoun’s statement penetrated. He blinked, peered at Galenu with new interest.

  “Tokela?” Madoc’s voice echoed, close. “Tokela, you let me pull ahead ag—!” Bursting through the foliage, he stuttered to a halt, voice and body. “Uncle Nechtoun!”

  Some Sun, Tokela sighed, Madoc might learn how not to give a game away.

  Sure enough, Nechtoun smelled trouble. “And what are you up to now, Madoc chieftain-son? Thinking to sneak into the cooking dens while we’re at Council?”

  Madoc’s eyes flashed to Tokela, who gave a tiny nod.

  “A’io, Uncle!” Madoc agreed, all too eagerly.

  Tokela rolled his eyes.

  Nechtoun leaned in, even more suspicious. “Is that so?”

  “You tell stories, eh? Perhaps you’ve a few to share with me.”

  The voice was soft, making Tokela start; he’d forgotten Galenu. The midLander’s eyes were lit with humour.

  “I’m one of several storyKeepers amongst my own People, nephew.” No chariness in the talk. Tokela knew the sound of that all too well.

  “Take care, sister-son.” Nechtoun growled at Tokela even as he tugged Madoc closer by—of course—his braidlock. “Galenu is a midLands layabout of some questionable influence. Makes trade with outLanders. Even keeps company with that feckless wyrhling I sired.”

  Madoc, squirming under Nechtoun’s hold, shrugged as Tokela shot him a questioning glance.

  “Come now, old stoat, ‘that wyrhling’ has a name.” Galenu was grinning. “Your Clan makes trade with wyrhling and yakhling, who in turn trade with outLanders. What’s the difference? It’s good business to keep all options open.”

  “You think overmuch on business. And I dislike what name the old one bespoke upon the wyrhling.” Nechtoun grimaced, then mumbled further, “How like him, to flaunt it.”

  “Didn’t Tohwakeli used to follow Našobok about?” Galenu spoke both names deliberately. “Rather like Madoc in his turn. May sweet water and shade follow your path, Madoc chieftain-son, as well as you follow your older cousin.”

  Madoc reciprocated the greeting as much as he could with Nechtoun’s fingers still holding his braidlock.

  “Shall we take these ahlóssa to find food before we—”

  “I’m not ahlóssa!” Surely Tokela hadn’t intended to growl so; neither could he bite it off. Nor could he lower his gaze; it met Nechtoun’s, held.

  Nechtoun blinked at Tokela for several heartbeats. A frown quivered between his greyed brows. More, his mouth tugged, small and sideways, and kept on tugging until it became a smirk.

  A fond cuff from Nechtoun was normal. Nechtoun growling at him was normal. Nechtoun smirking at him was not even somewhat bearable.

  Tokela’s cheeks heated. He was aware of Galenu watching, which just made it worse.

  “A’io, then,” Nechtoun released Madoc, but directed his talk to Tokela. “Stay or go, your choice.”

  It was only after Nechtoun turned away and ambled
into the tree cover that Tokela realised the smirk had not been ridicule, but grudging respect.

  “What was that about?” Madoc wondered, rubbing at his pate.

  “I’ll be here for a few Sunrises yet,” Galenu offered, soft, to Tokela, before he followed Nechtoun into the trees.

  IF THE old one is a little Fish, that one is a little Shadow, here then—sst!—gone!

  Sivan had thought of little else on the journey home, spent a sleepless night beside Maloh and rose early to spend the morning pondering. Now, feet and arms bare, settled in a shaft of sunlight upon the wide entry stair, she waited, hardly noticing the beauty around her, thinking of shadows.

  Indeed, that beauty was deliberate as everything else in their surround. The stair beneath her curled from clay-tamped path, to cobbles, to the high, living walls, sculptured from wood that nevertheless glittered, a silvery craquelure wherever sunlight struck. Yet even the Temple disappeared, here and there, into poisonously green tangles and creepers. The jungle always encroached, creeping across the bounds despite any engineering to the contrary.

  Sivan could no longer remember when her father’s fiefdom had been named the Temple, after the buildings where the ephemerals prayed to whatever gods were fashionable at the time. Well, the ephemerals of the first-landing continent, at any rate.

  Little Shadow, here then—sst!—gone!

  And like shadows, so many of the ephemerals’ temples were crumbling, their builders’ short attention spans frittering to some other deity or purpose. Her father’s palace stood, tenacious and triumphant not through misguided worship of nonexistent hopes, but the realities of a biotechnology that had remained substantial.

  Even despite a world’s uncanny insurgence.

  Sivan heard her kin riding down the north road before she saw them, the wake of their passage ringing against the Temple then muting amidst the surrounding jungle. Mists rose, fore and aft, in mote-filled streams, concealing then revealing in a splay of light the riders. Sunlight gleamed against the delicate tines of the foremost riding cervines and reflected against metal: swords and hauberks, finely wrought cloak clasps, and of course, the fine-hammered filet upon the foremost rider’s brow, peeping from beneath a cowl.

  The leader halted, gave his mount a firm pat, and shook the cowl back from his face. Tight-curled dark hair fell loose down his back, tamed from his brow by the filet. “How fares my daughter?” he called. “Waiting for her father on the stair, barefoot and uncombed as any savage child?”