“That’s good news!”
“To put food in our hold is always good,” Našobok agreed, and added, “I’ve a playmate in my own hold. So if a dark-haired oških comes updeck whilst I’m gone, don’t cut him, thinking him a thief.”
Kalisom’s eyes lit up, tease and respect. “In your hold? He must be quite a special lover.”
Našobok chuckled. “He is that. You would not know him; a cousin a’Naišwyrh, new to his indigo. He’s called Tokela.”
“Lucky oških, then!” Kalisom smirked and gave a suggestive lift of his eyebrows. “It’s well known our wyrh-chieftain has many skills to share.”
“Ai, flattery will have you.”
“Already it’s had me,” Kalisom complained, “and enough for one port! It’s well we’ve a rich cargo; I’ve not your luck at the gaming.”
Našobok laughed, and watched his wyrhmate retreat across the deck. Then he leapt up to Ilhukaia’s topmost deck.
“We can’t seem to catch any luck between the furs on Earth’s skin, Aylaniś horse-chieftain!” he hailed. “Have you come to remedy that?”
A snort, and a toss of her braids. “You think I’d cadge a ride from one of your wyrhmates merely to drag you back to my furs? You border on insufferable, Našobok wyrh-chieftain.”
“Only border? I must be slipping.” He took her hand and placed it against his breastbone.
“Palatan has talk to make with you,” Aylaniś said, her fingers stroking, light.
“As it happens, I’ve the need for talk with him, as well. Do you now run errands for Alekšu, horse-chieftain?”
“When it involves River instead of Earth beneath his feet, I do,” she countered, serious. “He went on ahead, said I was to give you a good mount, should you be able to meet him at Stonebridge.” One eyebrow arced upwards as she eyed him, up and down. “I would suggest you dress first. That blanket is quite fancy, but it won’t protect your haunches.”
NAŠOBOK COULD ride when he had to, and since Stonebridge was a good several leagues upRiver, it would be best if he did.
Sun’s journey limned the damp trees, promised a good ending to First Running. Soon his lovemates would make their journey as well, back towards Dusk and away from River.
They’d not had enough time together. They never did.
Našobok smelled Smoke before he saw ša curling up the lee side of the bridge, and a’io, there Palatan was, lounging on his horse blanket in the grass, puffing at his pipe. Arrow, of course, lay curled beside, and lifted his long head to determine whether this newest arrival made friend or foe. Palatan’s mare, her black hide still riffled with drying sweat, looked content from a run and now grazed with white-blanketed haunches turned towards the coppery dust of the Riverside track. As Našobok cantered up, the mare’s head lifted and, ears pricked, she nickered greeting through a mouthful of grass. The bay answered. Našobok slipped the bridle, let him go on to graze with his herdmate.
Palatan didn’t rise; merely extended the pipe.
Našobok accepted, taking a deep drag. He sat, one knee brushing Palatan’s.
Palatan seemed preoccupied but nudged Našobok, accompanied by a sly smile. “You’d company lastdark, I understand. Was it good?”
Arrow, in abandon of his normal aloof courtesy, moved his head to lay upon Našobok’s thigh. Našobok fondled the old fleethound’s ears, then returned Palatan’s nudge and let Smoke curl from his nostrils. “Tokela is… enthusiastic.”
“And owes me a return debt, now. As well as Aylaniś. Our lastdark would have been better by one addition.” Palatan leaned closer and nuzzled Našobok’s neck.
Našobok went abruptly cross-eyed with the sudden thought of how his own Moons passage would have benefited with the addition of Palatan, then smirked at himself.
That just might be entirely too much of a good thing.
“How does it feel to be such in demand, Riverwalker? But I mustn’t be selfish,” Palatan admitted. “I think Tokela needs you more at present.”
Našobok frowned; something odd ran beneath the tease.
“I ride towards duskLands thisSun,” Palatan ventured.
Disappointment was a poor companion for Smoke. Našobok let the latter curl out his nostrils, wished the former could do likewise. “Now?”
“A’io. I plan to go and come back as quickly as I can. I’d hoped you’d come with me.”
A sigh, and Našobok closed his eyes.
“You can’t.” More disappointment.
“I want to.” Nasobok passed the pipe back. “And would, if I hadn’t contracted with Galenu to carry a shipment. It’s a rich deal, and we need to take it. With all the difficulties outLand, our lines of trade are suffering. Even outliers have to make a living.”
Arrow got up, stretched, and wandered over to a path of Sun-filled grass. There he dove one shoulder down and rolled over, scratching his back.
“Surely Munro could make the run?” Transparent as the Smoke Palatan exhaled, and hopeful; it made denial all the more painful.
“Munro knows the way, but he’s not getting any younger. I can’t ask him to take full responsibility for a running that’s danger nose to tail. We’ll be heading downRiver past the estuaries and into outLands atolls. Galenu offered the chance because he knows my People have done it more than once, in and out with none the wiser.”
“You’ll tweak danger’s nose once too often, my heart.” Soft, underlain with worry.
“Hunh. Life is risk. What’s the point otherwise?”
Palatan had no argument for that. Instead they both fell silent, bound by Smoke and regrets. The black mare wandered over, rolling air through her nostrils at Arrow, who gave a chiding nip to her nose and got up, offended. Not so offended, of course, that he wouldn’t come back and plop half-in and -out of Palatan’s lap. Palatan chuckled, gave Arrow an absent scratch, and passed the pipe.
“A quick trip.” Našobok took several puffs. “Why go and return? I thought you only meant to stay a few Suns past First Running.”
“I thought so, too. Is Tokela still on Ilhukaia?”
Našobok didn’t possess the same abstruse skill set, so he often found himself left behind when Palatan’s thoughts winged ahead. This time he soared with them, catching the draft. “A’io. Perhaps he should go with you in my stead.” The thought, still forming as Našobok voiced it, seemed the ideal solution.
Yet Palatan’s face had closed, his body still, rigid.
“You’re Alekšu.” Našobok paused, glanced around. Said, very quiet, “And Tokela is River’s.”
Smoke escaped Palatan’s nostrils; otherwise there was no response.
“It’s akin to what I’ve seen in you, but not,” Našobok furthered. “More… elusive, like trying to capture Her in my fingers. Or the Sunwise prickling along my scalp and spine when green SkyFire comes, but there’s no ache in my bones to say a storm’s coming, and Sky is clear thisdawn—hunh!” He couldn’t help the self-deprecating snort; surely Palatan wasn’t helping. “Perhaps I’m mad as the legendary Tsinoé, trying to climb Nanihloyeh to reach his Brother Moons… but I do know this much: this storm lingers in my gut, is sleeping in my hold, is wrapped in my blanket.”
Palatan still kept looking away, Smoke wreathing the tiny rows of braids at his temple.
“Do you doubt me?”
Still, Palatan did not answer. Puzzled, affronted, Našobok started to rise.
Palatan started, snatched a hand out and took hold of Našobok’s longcoat “N’da. I’m sorry, I don’t doubt anything you’ve said. You’re Hers; you would recognise one of Hers. But…” He seemed to be searching… n’da, not searching. Picking, choosing, as if he was unsure what talk was truthful, or even prudent.
“Oathbrother…”
Palatan pulled upwards and drew close, their foreheads touching, his talk barely a whisper. “A’io, oathbrother, and I’ve already had one lessoning thisSun on the ways and wheres to discuss such things.”
They were not in the caldera a’Ša�
�kfo, where secrets faded into endless caverns, smothered by the weight of Fire and Earth. Neither were they riding the wide steppes of duskLands where Wind would sing them silent.
River had many reflections, and only one place of silence: beneath her surface. What could People do but mimic the Power of their places?
“It’s why I wanted to meet with you here, oathbrother. I wanted—n’da, needed—to know what you’d seen in Tokela. As Chogah said, Anahli wasn’t the only one covering for him at arbitration.”
“Wait. Anahli?”
“What were they doing when you saw them together?”
“I thought…” Našobok hesitated, then admitted, “At first I thought they were well along on their way to making play together. Then I saw that rotted Mordeleg lying there, and… well. I wasn’t too gentle with either of them. Anahli knows just what to say to jab me, and after everything that had happened during Spear Dance—”
“No blame to you there. What else?”
“Nothing, not then. Both of them seemed odd, but I figured it to be embarrassment. Tokela wanted a lover, not another reprimand. It wasn’t until he came to Ilhukaia that… well. It became more than obvious.”
“Again, no blame to you. It seems he’s been concealing it quite well. Too well for my liking, but soon he’ll be unable to hide from anyone.”
“Then take him with you!”
“Našo—”
“At least until I return from this run. He wants out. He knows he’s in trouble. He wants to come with me, and I’m prepared to take him. But not for this run; it’s too dangerous for anyone new.”
A slight smile chased about Palatan’s lips. “Ai, you are in deep.”
“And getting deeper, I’m afraid. Take him with you.”
“Našobok.” It was soft, weighty. Grim. “This is… difficult. Complicated.”
Always between them; oaths sworn but oft torn by two Elementals: Našobok with River at his back, and Palatan with Fire behind his eyes.
“You are Alekšu,” Našobok repeated and added, somewhat desperate, “with everything it means, fair or foul. If you can’t help Tokela, who can?”
“I don’t know, oathbrother.” Palatan’s eyes were gilt lanterns beneath Sun. “But I intend to find out.”
19 - Wyrhling
He woke in a strange place, with strange smells, strange sounds…
Voices.
Tokela lurched up to a crouch, furs and woollens flung aside, then winced as the movement pulled at bits that should not be sore, surely.
A lurch of the wooden floor beneath him nearly sent him sprawling, and then…
He remembered. All of it: hard rain and misted breath, skin upon skin. And when a silly smirk tilted his lip, he couldn’t find it in himself to care.
Tokela sat back on his haunches, looking about to find himself alone in Našobok’s hold. The voices he’d heard weren’t… within. They carried from without, swallowed occasionally by fitful gusts of Wind. Sun wafted in through open lookouts, and River slapped against the ship’s hull, causing Ilhukaia to rock fiercer than even lastdark. Tokela’s fingers and toes clutched, seeking balance in the movement.
He heard his name.
Every sense flared, every bit of nerve or courage he possessed fled. He flattened on the decking like rodentkin beneath raptor shadow, his hands cupped at his nape, waiting.
They’ve come for me. Inhya’s told Sarinak what she saw, and he’s come for me, to cast me out…
His imagination, flaring panic in uncountable directions, nevertheless was not up to this. What would they do?
What was he waiting for?
Why was he cowering on the decking like a beaten dog?
Tokela shoved up from the hard wood, scowling, and crouched there with head cocking back and forth. The talk had gone silent, covered by the thumps of many feet upon the decking. He rose and crept naked to the port opening, peered out.
A set of feet passed by, hesitated, then thumped back. “Wind’s grace upon you, lucky oških!” a cheerful voice greeted. A broad, brown Riverwalker with a riot of twistlocks pinned at his nape knelt into view. “There’s food on deck if you’re hungry. Wyrh-chieftain had to leave, but he’ll be returning soon.”
“THE RAINBOWS come; I can feel it in my bones.”
“We’d best be away before then. They cloud River more than any silvers.”
“We’ll be out of here by evening drumtalk, if wyrh-chieftain has his way.”
“A pity to miss the lastDark bonFires.”
“We’ll greet summering as Riverwalkers should, riding downRiver with lanterns upon our bow!”
Laughter greeted this last, and the fem who’d made it—Odina—obviously in charge second only to old Munro: short, stout, and fierce-looking, her hair braided back from a moon-round face tattooed, as they all were, with wyrhling Marks. Sun-bronzed arms bare and rippling with muscle, she was shortest and darkest of all the River People, though her bearing made her seem tall as Matwau.
Like Maloh, Tokela mused, and took a drink with the rest. The liquor burned a sweet trail down his throat. He’d liked Maloh, even though he knew he shouldn’t.
He hadn’t realised Ilhukaia was leaving so soon. He’d said “Take me with you” amidst fright and dread, without contemplating the consequences of leaving.
Madoc, who likely was now even more angry with him. Inhya and Sarinak, who had loved him as their own—until he wasn’t. Nechtoun, his Clan, his Tribe, his People. The oških den that he hadn’t yet occupied since painting the indigo upon his cheeks. The Great Mound looming over Ilhukaia’s bow, a seat of security, stability. The Great Mound was the only home he’d ever known, and perhaps he’d miss the lastDark of First Running…
Wyrhlings had long grown used to leaving such things behind, but would he ever see them again?
Of course, did he have a choice?
Did Našobok even mean to take him, at that? He’d not agreed, not said he would.
Tokela blinked the heat from his eyes, let them cool into something more akin to River stone. Perhaps with a sharp edge of obsidian should any venture too close. It seemed he was going to need it.
Munro offered Tokela more meat. He took it with a grateful gesture, and the elder smiled.
All of them, really, had made him so welcome.
Suddenly, the male who’d knelt at the porthole—Kalisom, he’d said his name was—leapt up and gave a long, piercing whistle. An answer shrilled from just off the bow. The wyrhlings all leapt to their feet, lively with greeting.
“Ai, River-chieftain!
“Našobok, you’re back!”
“Is it time to set to?”
“We’ve your cousin here, safe and fed!” Kalisom called down, and Našobok’s voice answered from below:
“Good! Where is he?”
“I’m here,” Tokela answered, clutching to the railing and looking down to see Našobok alone in the canoe, pulling close to the rope fenders of Ilhukaia.
Našobok wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Come down, then! I’ll ferry you myself.”
#
“I can’t go back.”
“A’io, you can.”
“You don’t understan—”
“I do.” The canoe bobbed, gentle, midway to the shore. The oar clacked against the sides, and callused hands gripped Tokela’s shoulders, tried to turn him around. “And you have to understand, too.”
Ai, Tokela understood, all right. And had no right to expect anything else.
“N’da,” Našobok growled, “you really don’t.” His hands tightened, gave another shake. “Tokela!”
It was gentler than the fierce grip. Tokela made sure his gaze told nothing of what he was thinking, and turned around.
Only he hadn’t prepared himself for Našobok’s expression—gentle as the shake, as his voice. “Listen, Tokela. There are many things to be considered. There are difficulties.”
“There are always… difficulties.”
“There are,” Našobok concur
red. “One being you aren’t listening.”
“When bodytalk gives answer, what’s the point of talk?” It might have been set in stone. Ai, Sarinak would have been proud.
Našobok was not. A puzzled frown gathered his brows, shivering a fissure through what Tokela had so carefully set in place.
It cracked, bled. “If I can’t go with you, then… I don’t… know where…” Tokela choked off, humiliated, tried to turn away.
He’d forgotten how strong Našobok was; those broad hands denied any movement. “I know, Tokela. I know.”
You don’t know, not really! It almost came tumbling out, then: what Inhya had seen, what he himself had done. Just in time Tokela clapped his hands over his mouth. Usually his tongue would tangle, foul what he wanted to speak—why now did it seem to spew?
“If I didn’t have this commission from the old khatak, it would be done. You would stay, and shadowlings take the consequence.”
Tokela was frozen in place, hands still over his mouth, staring at Našobok with his thoughts all garbled. There was fear. Despair. And, the ultimate cruelty, hope.
“But there is not just you and I in this Dance we contemplate. This will be a dangerous sail—”
Tokela shook his head, opened his fingers enough to say, “I’m not afraid!”
“And that,” Našobok shook him, gently, “is why you can’t go. I’m afraid of this one. You’re not one of my Wyrhmates. Yet.” A half grin, a promise swelling hope just that much higher. “You don’t know enough for this journey, and that might get you or one of my People killed. The landwalkers like to say wyrhling have no home, no Clan, but they’re wrong. My Wyrhmates are my Clan. I don’t hold their lives cheaply. Or yours.”
Taking a deep breath, Tokela nodded, looked down.
“You have choices, my heart. Perhaps more than coming with me. Perhaps better ones.”
“Better?” It tore from Tokela’s chest.
“Listen. Whatever has happened”—Našobok’s grip tightened, then loosed—“whatever happens, you must consider what comes from this heartbeat. You are not powerless.”
You have no idea how ‘not powerless’ I seem to be. Tokela closed his eyes, gritted his teeth. There seemed more consequences than any choices.
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