“It is the will of our… ah”—Jorda fumbled, tried again—“do you have a word for someone who is leader?”
Tokela frowned, tilted his head. “We have many leaders in many traditions; which do you mean?”
Sivan seemed confused, but gave it a go. “You must have one who holds power over all. One who gives directions and must be obeyed.”
“How could there be one leader over all tribes and clans?” This was an easy answer. “One born and bred upon River’s thighs wouldn’t know enough of life upon the duskLands grass to lead anyone. Our leaders guide others with their skills and wisdom, each to their own purpose and ability, but we’ve none who hold the kind of power you speak of.”
This was met by bewilderment. Even the Matwau seemed surprised—which just proved outLanders understood firstPeople even less than firstPeople kenned outLanders. Tokela took the opportunity; more query as distraction. “Does your leader never let others guide them? Do they never make mistakes?”
Ah… confusion was being replaced by disquiet, varying degrees. Reassuring, that even these outLander faces were easily read despite their alien cast.
“Our leader wishes to help you.” Jorda’s answer was too firm, too rote. “She’s interested in you. What you are.”
“What I… am?”
Maloh slanted dark eyes first to Jorda, then Sivan, then back to Tokela, who’d already decided the Matwau to be the most dangerous of the three.
“You are unique, Tokela,” Maloh replied, wry. “It seems our leader wishes to keep it that way.”
Keep it that way.
If you can waken powers long thought dead… Ai, Star Eyes, no wonder they hunt you.
The sand trap was on the move again. Maloh’s gaze flickered that way.
Now behind them, Našobok rose quiet as huntingKin, searching for a suitable weapon.
“Did you know my dam?” It wasn’t anything Tokela had truly meant to ask.
Silence.
Jorda broke it. “She was my friend. I helped her when she asked.”
“Help her? Like you would help me by taking me from here? What do you want with me? What did you want with my dam?”
Occupy them. And here Tokela was, more occupied with obtaining answers than covering an escape.
“It was a mistake, to interfere. But now we can make it right.” Jorda’s bodytalk, though, read uncertain. “Perhaps we can mend you.”
Only a half-circuit of Moons ago he would have leapt at the opportunity. Now… “Perhaps. You don’t know.”
“How can we make things right by taking the little one from his people?” Maloh crossed her arms, shaking her head. “Such things should not be done without consent. The price is high.”
She sounded like someone who knew.
Našobok crept closer. He’d a large stone in one hand.
“Then I do not,” Tokela started to back away, “consent.”
Fire exploded upwards, knocking the water bowl sideways. As one the tall ones turned.
A stone hit Jorda in the temple. He dropped.
Tokela also dropped, but to purpose. He ducked and rolled, snatched up his knife from Jorda’s limp, thin fingers, and leapt to his feet as Našobok let fly a second stone. Našobok didn’t wait to see if he’d downed another target. Instead he headed for Tokela, who’d also started running.
They barely made two fours of strides. Another shallow pit shimmered then yawned before them, runnelling outwards then back before it spurted upwards into a fountain of sand and dust.
Našobok grabbed Tokela’s arm, hauling him sideways just as the sand went soft at their feet. They dodged sideways merely to find another, then another…
Stopped.
“It was a good try,” Našobok shrugged and turned about to face their enemy, chin lowered.
This time it was Tokela’s to lunge sideways and yank his cousin from another dust spume, pull him forwards.
And knew, with the inwards Other that crept like weavingKin along a web, what the Shaping place sought.
Not them. Not even Maloh. It was after the Chepiś.
Našobok’s aim had been true. Jorda’s head was splashed with an ichor of indigo. He lay senseless. Sivan and Maloh were trying to wake him, even as the first sand well curled and shifted towards them. As other wells seemed to stir, wake.
“Come!” Našobok grabbed Tokela’s arm, tugged. “Let’s go!”
Let us have them, Fire urged.
Spoiled and shifting, Earth held full agreement. For what they have made of us—made of you!—let us have them.
Instead, Tokela headed for the downed Chepiś.
They were surrounded. The Shaping place had leaked outwards, not in water but sand and rock—heaving, spouting, moving—and far too quickly for any escape. Nevertheless, the tall ones sought that escape. Maloh bent down, flung Jorda over one broad shoulder. Beside her, Sivan cast a hand towards it almost wildly. Thinking to control the sand-pits? How?
You know how.
Našobok followed—though he rumbled Rivertalk curses with every stride. “Tokela, what are you doing?”
Tokela wasn’t sure he knew, but instinct proved, once again, a boon. The curling, heaving sands let him pass. Let Našobok pass, albeit on Tokela’s heels, to slide to a halt beside the tall ones.
“Are you out of your mind?” Sivan demanded. “Go! Get out!”
Tokela peered at her for a breath, then turned towards the Shaping well and knelt. His hair stung his cheeks, whipping in the wind. Sand fuzzed his sight, watering his eyes and nose, but he ignored all of it.
Splaying his fingers in the sand, he took in a long breath. His fingers, as if of their own accord, began tracing pictures, shapes. Drums and dancing figures. Clouds and wind-swept trees. Things he didn’t have names for, abstract, abstruse. When the breath escaped him, it was soft, a whisper, a rhythm. “Peace. Peace. Sleep, o wounded Grandmother. Sleep.”
Našobok didn’t turn his back on the tall ones, eyeing them with wary, storm-dark eyes. One hand did reach out to touch Tokela’s shoulder. It trembled.
“Earth won’t take us,” Tokela whispered assurance. “Not thisSun.”
“Either way,” Našobok’s voice tremored like his hand, “I’m watching these.”
“These” were talking, rapid back-and-forth full of disbelief. But they made no move, and Tokela knew why. In thisnow, he was somehow the only thing to save them from what they had made.
Grandmother’s face was twisted, here, angry. Ill and mad, twitching as if from fever. Nevertheless, as he sketched indescribable images in the dirt, whispered Her name, She retreated. Slow, and obstinate—but in the end, unwilling to retaliate if it meant taking Her own.
Her own. See? Fire, down to sand-blown coals. You are Ours, Star Eyes. You belong to Us. You are not alone.
Wind died to a soft breath. Earth smoothed, went still.
Silence.
Tokela stood up and wiped the dust from his face, turned around.
Našobok stood, knife in hand, daring the tall ones. Maloh still had Jorda across her shoulders, and Sivan had drawn close. As Tokela turned, she stepped towards him.
Halted with a sideways glance as Našobok’s knife gleamed, and merely asked, “Why?”
“Did you do this?” Tokela gestured towards the Shaper’s well.
Sivan frowned, shook her head. “This was done long before I was born.”
“And him.” Tokela angled his chin towards Jorda. “He’s my sire. Isn’t he?”
Maloh muttered something. Behind the amber lenses, Sivan’s eyes had gone wide, yellowed-white. “It isn’t,” she finally answered, “so simple.”
“He saved your scrawny pale necks.” Našobok stiffened, ready to pounce. “You owe him more than that.”
“The Spirits here said your people made them,” Tokela persisted. “Even as you made me.”
“He… He did make you what you are. I’m not sure your language has a way to tell you how—”
“You assume,�
� Našobok growled, “a lot.”
“—any more than you can tell me how your… Spirits work in my tongue.”
Tokela slid a quelling gaze at Našobok, who grumbled a sigh.
“If you’re asking if he physically copulated with your mother, then, no. But still he… made you, Eyes of Stars, more than any other. You would not be alive, had Jorda not Shaped your living.”
There was no meaning to it, compared to one truth. But upon another, it made horrific and heavy sense.
“It’s the truth,” Maloh put in. “I swear it upon my mother’s bones.”
Našobok blinked, eyed Maloh then Tokela. Said, “She’s Matwau, but I believe her.”
“Go.” Sivan’s directive came abrupt and almost fierce. “It was never right, our coming here to take you. Go. And don’t look back. Leave now, because they’ll know what we’ve done.”
“They?” Tokela repeated.
“Our leaders. You must hide yourself, because I warn you, in the end our leader will come for you herself. She sees you as a threat to us. She chained her own when they became a threat to us.”
“And what of your threat to us?” Našobok snarled.
“Neither of us can do anything about that.” Sivan shook her head, started backing away. “Go. Now. Run.”
A’io, Fire hissed. Run. Keep running, and do not stop until you reach River. She alone can help you now.
THE CAVERNS dripped, cool and close.
Palatan sucked in a single, harsh breath, and loosened his grip, opened his eyes.
Fire flickered, spastic warmth, over joined hands. Chogah had slumped forwards, shivering, murmuring to herself. She was too old for this… but she had insisted.
Palatan was beginning to like her despite himself.
And the other, also sometimes unlikable, but always loved. Anahli sighed, rolled her head on her shoulders, and opened her eyes.
There were Stars there, faint, behind clouds tossed by Wind. “Yeka.”
“Ehši.” Fond, quavery, but exhausted. This was the sort of work that needed many.
“We did it.”
“You did much of it. You are the connexion.”
“He’s my oathbrother.”
Palatan lifted his chin. He understood.
“If only we can convince owlClan of the same.”
RIVER WAS close. He could smell Her, feel Her…
Tokela wasn’t sure he cared. Lioness surely didn’t; walking head down, muddy to the thighs from slogging nonstop through leagues of chancy ground. Her riders weren’t much better; they’d taken turns walking and riding to spare her, were woozy with lack of sleep, nervy and keen from constantly looking over their shoulders.
They’d found the mare not far from the Shaping well, grazing in a wallow that had seen recent Rain and sprouted new grass. Lioness had been glad to see them, then. Now, perhaps not so much.
How odd that they should finally reach River, merely to have her lie so quiet, so unobtrusive. She’d none of the brash cheek of Fire, none of Wind’s insistence; even Earth’s firm waiting seemed more something both outside and within, whereas River…
River’s voice filled him like a hand in a fine-stitched glove, lulled and stroked him like the soothing patter of Rain upon Her skin.
Tokela nearly ran into Našobok, who’d slowed.
Beyond, an upright row of lodgepoles seemed inconsistently moored: a barrier of tall posts decorated with mixed intentions, plus a thick layer of mossy growth. A tree-lined road led through and past, fading into thick mist. Even the scents were muted: Smoke, food, people.
There was a town somewhere near.
Našobok gave a mutter as several figures appeared in a curl and waft of damp. Cloaks shiny with Rain’s breath, their challenge apparent; this town had entry guardians. Tokela didn’t recognise the talk—perhaps a word, here and there—but Našobok obviously did. He brought both fists to his heart and dipped his chin in greeting, his eyes never dropping, his answers fluent.
While they spoke, another lift and sideways hitch of mist revealed a squat hut, mossy to its leewards side, hunched beside the barrier wall. A steady flicker dipped and beckoned within; Fire greeted Tokela with a promise of warmth. He’d no coherent answer, merely response, taking several unsteady steps towards the hut with Lioness in his wake.
The guardians—there were three of them, swart and broad as breeding bulls—broke off conversation and rounded on Tokela. The warning was plain.
Našobok quickly spoke and ambled over, his hand seeking Tokela’s shoulder. Its lightness was deceptive; Našobok’s fingers pinched, hard, and Tokela gave a small start, brought back within himself.
If only back within himself didn’t mean being so wet and chilled. And hungry, he realised. Whatever meals they’d shared had been from dwindling stocks of trail food, eaten on the run.
They’ll know what we’ve done. They’ll send others. You must hide.
And the only place left to hide was River. They hoped.
Našobok’s hand didn’t leave Tokela’s shoulder. After a few mollified exchanges and a gesture upwards beyond the road, the guardians retreated.
“Just so you know,” Našobok led them on, voice pitched for Tokela’s ears alone, “hereabouts, to peer into someone’s home without their leave is asking for trouble.”
“You said this was a major trading outpost—”
“A’io, and the welcome is fierce. But customs are even more so. We both came of age in such a place; follow my lead, and you won’t find more trouble than you can take.”
“The hearth,” Tokela muttered, trying to explain, and Našobok’s grip turned into a caress, moved up to stroke at his cheek.
“We’ll have that, soon enough. This way, tšukasi.” Našobok pressed on, Tokela and the little mare at his heels.
The sodden road wound up a steep hill. Našobok took it with a hobbling roll unlike his normal gait; it reminded Tokela how gimpy he, too, was. His thigh muscles began to pull even more, sending aching twinges from knees to groin. The discomfort realigned what sparse mental clarity he possessed; until that heartbeat, Tokela hadn’t appreciated how much he’d just set himself, leaden and grim, to endure.
They trudged upwards, accompanied by the draggy cup-thup of Lioness’s hoofs. Bottom mists gave way with an abrupt change of light, and Našobok gave a happy sigh. Tokela saw why: the hill crested into a long, level clearing, where several good-sized lodges spread, one open and airy for animalKin, and beyond, a well-thatched longhouse fit for two-legged sensibilities.
They saw to Lioness first—of course—and then retreated to the well-lit longhouse.
It was cozier than anything Tokela thought the scrubby, damp town capable of. Smells rose, delicious-thick, hanging in the rafters like a warm blanket. People from every curve of Grandmother’s belly gathered, eating, laughing, and making talk. One couple they passed had the broader, well-fleshed features of dwellers from snowy upLands; another small group had the flattened foreheads and notched ears of those who dwelt within the mesas downLand of the desert Našobok and Tokela had crossed several Suns previous; another group held close in a far corner, colourful scarves covering their heads even indoors and proclaiming them as a Clan of upper midLands herders.
Tokela kept his eyes cast down and stuck to Našobok like a seed in a dog’s ruff. Not many bothered to turn and notice two more stragglers.
The hostel’s caretaker, however, noticed them, with cheery downRiver talk. “Našobok Riverwalker! It is a joy to see you in my lodge!”
The name was recognised: with welcome smiles or a disinterested shrug, some inquisitive… and a few, Tokela noted, with trepidation.
He hung back as Našobok strode on. The place was altogether close, Fire leaping upwards in several places as if demanding recognition. Tokela clenched his teeth and shuttered his eyes. Enemies might lurk here. He could show nothing untowards.
And as if She understood, River calmed Fire’s abandon.
“Šaya a’Cassauk!” Na
šobok was returning the caretaker’s gesture—both hands instead of one clenched at his chest—his teeth flashing in a broad smile. “A joy to see you—hunh!”
This as the fem gave Našobok a bone-cracking hug. Šaya was well-suited for her line of work: strong, well padded, and exuberantly handsome. Našobok returned the embrace, more proof of longstanding acquaintance.
“Grandmother’s toes, Riverwalker, you resemble something a barn cat wouldn’t drag over my doorstep! And face fur? That’s a look I’ve not seen upon you in ages.”
“We were travelling a bit rough.” Našobok rubbed a hand over his face, grimaced. Tokela realised how detached he had really been; he hadn’t even noticed Našobok’s scruffiness. Putting a hand to his own chin in mere impulse, he blinked. Felt again.
He hadn’t thought he could even grow face fur yet. Most males didn’t—not until nigh onto their adult’s Journey and many not at all—yet there it was, a tiny slick of down along his jaw.
Most, River purled, are not Mine.
“—and what are you doing Earthbound?” Šaya was demanding. “On a horse?”
“I had cargo to gather upLands.”
“UpLands!” someone hooted from a corner. “That’s a ways to go for cargo!”
“Ai, but it was very special cargo.” Našobok threw a wink at Tokela, who couldn’t help but smile into his hand.
Šaya snorted up a laugh. “Was this your cargo, then?” she demanded, giving Tokela a cheerful repeat of Našobok’s greeting, including the fierce hug, after which she pushed him back, eyeing him. “N’da, you’ve the Marks of the Great Mound. New crew, or visitor?”
“New crew,” Našobok answered. “This is Tokela, son to my sire’s sister.”
“Ai, that’s why he’s so young. I imagine he’s pretty under all that mud—I know you, after all—but I haven’t seen you court an oških this young since you were that young!”
“I’ve seen nearly twenty winterings,” Tokela put in. Perhaps face fur would be a good thing, after all. “I’m not that young.”
“Well, believe me you’ll have more liking for those youthful looks when you’re older.” Grinning, Šaya bellowed several commands that carried to the outwards reaches of the hostel.
Blood Indigo Page 48
