Blood Indigo Page 11

  Putting toes and fingers to the small carved-out footholds, she clambered in. In compensation for having no floor space, the upper shelves had more headroom, and larger hollows for possessions besides. With an agile twist, Anahli landed on her back and stared at the ceiling.

  It wasn’t for forever. Or so she had to keep telling herself.

  7 – Outlier

  “I still can’t get used to it,” Našobok said around a mouthful of fried nutcake. Crumbs sprayed and he snorted, sending even more in a dense shower.

  Aylaniś had a solution for his loss; offering up more. And wrinkled her nose at the mess.

  She’d always been the tidy sort, Našobok considered around a smiling mouthful of the nut-sweet delicacy. In truth he’d been smiling since he’d whistled into the moist dawnLands air and heard the answer: I am here, lovemate. And would keep that smile as long as the three of them could tangle in their own tipo, with their own small Fire crafted just outside the doorflap, smouldering as happily as they were.

  What can’t you get used to?” Palatan asked.

  With a beringed middle finger Našobok reached out and traced, without touching, the newest Mark scarified and stained, ebon and white and golden, upon Palatan’s forehead. “This.”

  That brow twisted, ever so slightly. “I’m not sure I’m used to it, either.”

  “But a long time coming.”

  Their eyes met. “It was.”

  Silence, turgid with more things than could be easily counted. Comfortable, and not.

  “But to this”—tossing back a stray lock of bistre that had come loose, Našobok offered their hearth a generous portion of his nutcake—“I would gladly be accustomed. Are you sure you won’t part with your recipe? Or at the very least, come and cook for me?”

  “Not likely,” Aylaniś retorted. “I’ve seen that tiny den where you and your wyrhmates keep your cooking hearth.”

  They’d set up camp in a favoured place: a small, quiet ravine well set back from the busy festivities within the great bowl. Of course, Inhya had offered the hospitality of her own dens despite knowing the answer: for People a’Šaákfo, caverns were for winter shelter. Summers were for wandering beneath Sky.

  Even if, in dawnLands, the thick arms of standingKin only sometimes let Sky pass unhindered. Even now, the last of Sun’s light merely filtered through, turning their surroundings into the colour of Sea and storms. A clutch of twisted, persistent trees were rooted into the rock on either side of the ravine, set opposite each other yet with branches reaching across.

  How very apropos, Našobok thought, peering up then tendering that fond look upon his companions.

  He had been too long away.

  “And you know perfectly well all she can cook is nutcake.” Palatan—beautiful, quietly dangerous, and lazy—had his own mouth stuffed with said delicacy.

  Aylaniś gave him a mock scowl; Palatan smirked and reached for another piece. She smacked his hand and pointedly offered the basket to Našobok.

  “Ai!” Našobok suddenly leaned back, dusted crumbs from his hands and accepted the drinking skin from Palatan, taking a hearty gulp. Tulapaiś, a ferment of šinc’teh and mare’s milk, drank smooth as Seawater poured over oiled planking, with a heady kick at the end; it was another thing not easily obtained even on a ship as wide travelled as his. “I wish I could have been there to see the old she-viper have her rudder twisted!”

  This time, Aylaniś and Palatan exchanged glances. Našobok noted it, his mouth twisting in puzzlement as he chewed. “Don’t tell me you feel sorry for that one.”

  “N’da!” It was almost angry. Palatan shrugged, repeated, quieter, “N’da. I have little enough sorrow in my heart for Chogah. She deserved what she got and more.”

  “More, indeed. You should have killed her,” Aylaniś said, low. “You’ll have to, one Sun.”

  “That Sun is not upon us, nor was it then.”

  There was a flash in Aylaniś’s dark eyes, one Našobok wouldn’t have faced down for all the rutting followed by nutcake. “For the good of our Clan, for the tribes a’Šaákfo, you should have—”

  “My chieftain.” Soft, but edged. Unyielding. “You know I will say no more to this.”

  Našobok focused on the overarching branches. On this matter he sided with Aylaniś. Chogah had sown her poison deep into one she should have held as equal, had clutched the horns of Alekšu nigh to ruin; merely the beginnings of why she held a place close atop Našobok’s own “better dead” tally. More than she deserved, to be sent to Stars and Fire, and better still to scatter her ashes to Wind, a bargain to ensure her foul Spirit couldn’t whistle up further damage than she already had done.

  Yet Palatan Saw things few could. Save, again, Chogah. Spit her over coals. Našobok had learned along a hard and circumspect path that Palatan was right more than wrong about such things.

  It didn’t make it any easier to swallow.

  “You will stay in our tipo through First Running?”

  Našobok started, looked up to see Aylaniś, her eyes suspiciously bright, offering him the basket again. Ai, Palatan was made of sterner stuff. Našobok felt squishy just contemplating the possibility of Aylaniś all teary-eyed.

  “Of course he will.” Palatan grabbed another nutcake and flashed the brilliant smile that could still weaken Našobok’s knees. “Where else?”

  Where else? Not only the smile, but the talk teased at soft, misted memory; another lifetime surely. Curled up in a bedhollow at the heart of the caverns a’Šaákfo, feeling the heat radiate up from the caldera’s cavernous foundations, wrapped about his lovemates with bairns curled like pups to head and foot. For one who had set his face against currents of caste and Clan, who had gotten all too used to walking an outlier’s path and occupying a solitary hammock on a lone voyage, the tactile, close scent and sense of Clan had almost been enough to sink Našobok’s heart into Earth and Fire.

  Almost.

  Fire had tried to claim him, had scorched his heart long ago, but he was River’s—had always been River’s. And the only part of Her touching the plains and hills a’Šaákfo was a cold, fingerling of Her mighty flow. The only craft small enough to ride Her was a skin-and-sinew kaik Našobok had learned to make from iceLands folk. No soundings dark and deep, no fierce-salt Wind to fill hair and sails, no wide horizon to chase…

  Life was not life when your heart was hacked into small, ragged pieces.

  There had been comfort with his lovemates and in their places; the peace and intimacy of close Kin: caressing Palatan’s Dreamings from him, Aylaniś’s melange of softness and flint, reedy voices calling him “Uncle” and a’io, admit it, even those scary-cold ahlóssa toes against his haunches mid-dark. Yet… not enough. Often more than he could bear. Never truly a’Naišwyrh, a mastiff content to lair in stone, nor a hareKin trickster; he was instead one of the huge wolves who hunted and swam River. She had never stopped haunting him, the horizon had never ceased taunting him; finally he’d made the only choice he could.

  For some time now Našobok had been in his own place, with his heart in his body, and if that heart still bled and twisted on occasions… well, it was only to be expected. Most darks were indigo-black and true, River bearing him into Wind unhampered. Solitary. Free.

  But there was also no denying some were ice-white, long and lonely, leaving Našobok to yearn for the sounds of the only inLand family he still could claim, all of them breathing beside him in the stillness.

  “No babes thisdark, though.”

  Našobok looked up to find Palatan’s Forest-hued eyes upon him, reading every thought like a sounding chart. “They grow fast, a’io? Kuli means to den with his little friends, and of course Anahli has oških obligations.”

  Našobok snorted. “Have you been espoused so long as to make rutting an obligation?”

  Aylaniś returned his snort, grinning.

  Palatan laughed, lifted up the skin of tulapaiś and leaned back, stretching out his legs. “Ai, to be oških again!—a
nd a good rut my only pressing obligation!” He leaned forwards, drank then passed it to Aylaniś. “But true, thisdark the bedding will be ours alone.”

  “Though I’ll wager Kuli will soon enough come creeping into our tent,” Aylaniś added, taking a drink and offering it in turn. “Likely early dawning. So you’ll have his feet on your tail after all. He adores his Uncle Našobok.”

  “Just like old times.” Našobok accepted the skin.

  Arrow came trotting from a stand of trees, damp from a wander. Too polite to beg for titbits, he greeted Palatan first, then Aylaniś and Našobok, then curled up beside his person, between Palatan and Fire’s heat.

  Palatan produced a treat nonetheless, gaze sobering as he eyed the old fleethound. “The mastiffs still refuse to tangle with him, at least. I hesitated to bring him this time. He grows old, and stiff. One Sun those great dogs will humiliate him.”

  “He’ll be more humiliated should you leave him behind,” Aylaniś said. “Perhaps it’s time to find a younger fleethound, maybe two. They would bear him company and help him when you cannot.”

  And when Našobok reached out and stroked his lovemate’s knee, comfort, Palatan shrugged. “Ai, it’s the way of things. Drink up, wyrh-chieftain! Perhaps you can sit at my side for Dancing.” Palatan nudged him. “On my blanket, I hope.”

  Aylaniś smirked. “Are you just trying to annoy your relations?”

  “Why not? My sister has my love, but her opinion holds no fear for me.”

  Našobok waved a hunk of nutcake. “You do remember what sharing a blanket means here in dawnLands?”

  “Probably less than it does in duskLands,” Palatan pointed out, unperturbed. “And no less than the truth.”

  “HE’S HERE.”

  Dawn spilled into the great, deep-hewn den. Sarinak paused in the doorway, tying back the woven door curtain and sliding off his boots. A brace of mastiffs milled just outside; one started inward, changed ša’s mind the next breath as Sarinak growled, “Out!”

  On the far side of the great circle, Inhya kept seeing to Council’s final preparations. “He wouldn’t come, unless”—she flipped out a blanket from the well-filled basket at her feet—“he wants something.”

  “Surely he means only to see Palatan and Aylaniś,” Sarinak mused softly. “For there is nothing in the entirety of Naišwyrh’uq that the one who was my brother would admit to wanting.”

  Amidst placing another blanket, Inhya blinked. “N’da, not Na… the wyrhling. I mean Galenu a’Hassun. He arrived lastdark.”

  Sarinak cocked his head, setting the beads and copper upon his Sky-hued head-wrap dancing.

  “He stayed with Nechtoun.”

  “Well, of course.”

  “Your sire should know better.”

  “Inhya. My sire has loved Galenu since their time as oških. Playmates often grow into lifelong companions—look to your brother’s preferences.”

  “Preferences!” Inhya snorted, moved to another place and unfolded another blanket. “My brother acts oških when it comes to the wyrhling. He is Alekšu now, and also should know better. Aylaniś merely encourages them both.”

  “One of Horsetalker ways that I’m glad you’ve rejected.” Sarinak’s grin flashed just before he turned away and put curled fingers to his lips in a shrill, short whistle.

  “You are enough for my bedshelf, Sarinak Mound-chieftain. Though”—a wry moue—“no doubt your father still wishes you would take a second spouse.”

  This was greeted with a snort. “Despite never doing so himself.”

  Inhya pretended to consider, not for the first time. “It would make less work for me, at that.”

  Sarinak eyed her. “N’da, spouse, you’re quite enough for my bedshelf. And my den.”

  Inhya smirked and turned away, exchanging her emptied basket for another filled with jerked fish and dried fruit. Open Council could be long.

  The results of the whistle—a quartet of nigh-grown oških—trouped in, discarding footwear and tendering polite greetings. The lot of them nevertheless sounded like a herd of rowdy draught animals. Inhya’s smirk broadened.

  “Take the empty baskets to the stores,” Sarinak ordered his helpers. “Return for the rest before the drums call Council.”

  Another rumbling of unshod feet, accompanied by a teasing, if muted, commentary amidst themselves as they departed, hung with emptied baskets.

  “We have overmuch to look forwards to with our own sons.” Sarinak ambled over and traced his fingers at Inhya’s shoulder.

  Inhya nuzzled them, sighed. “I fear it’s our eldest where Galenu has interest.”

  “Has he approached you?”

  “I saw Nechtoun upon thisSun’s rising. He informed me Galenu intends to broach the matter in Council.”

  “And your answer?”

  “You know my heart in this.”

  “A’io. And you know Galenu can claim sire rights,” Sarinak reminded. “His sister’s son was Tokela’s sire.”

  “Sire rights! A foolish custom.”

  “Spouse, sometimes you still speak like your dam’s People.”

  Inhya clucked mock disapproval and said, satisfied, “Well, Galenu can have no sire rights while Tokela is still ahlóssa.”

  Sarinak bent to take a blanket from her basket, flipped it into a place beside the long, low board. “Truly, it shouldn’t be so. It’s… unnatural. Tokela’s well past the usual age of indigo, yet he’s not so much as changed his clout-wrap or looked to another. Then there’s what happened after he was given the wyrh tree. His voice and height… those have changed, but nothing else shows.” He paused, musing. “Its as if those foolish rumours had some merit.”

  Inhya looked down, held her tongue behind her teeth. It was not the first time she had wished herself forsworn; this oath grew heavier with each Sun’s rising.

  “Hunh. Tokela mightn’t have the maturity,” Sarinak ventured, “but he does have enough ripe wilfulness for any oških. If Galenu desires sire rights—if, for despite Nechtoun’s support, I’m not sure the old midLander will make any claim—I think fear isn’t the emotion you should have, my heart. Merely relief.”

  “Sarinak—”

  “I speak without consideration.” Both his voice and face echoed his quick regret. “There’ll be nothing more said thisSun.” He grasped her hand again, brought it to his breast then leaned forwards and nuzzled her temple. “We’ve many things to think of. Better ones. Our youngest, for one.”

  “Who sounds more a herd of draught animals than your oških mob all combined.” Inhya’s lip curled into a teasing, proud smile. “Madoc is indeed and altogether a’Naišwyrh.”

  Sarinak’s laughter boomed into the Council den, inviting hers to join in.

  AS MUCH as Palatan loved his life and how it had centred upon tribe and Clan and family, a sharing cherished past almost anything in his heart… well. At times a surge of unattainable longings took him, regardless: run away, far away where none can find us, just to follow Sky and Stars, heed nothing but our hearts and horizon’s call…

  But Aylaniś understood. As Našobok understood.

  Hearts changed, but never forgot.

  Sun trickled down through the conifers, dappling shadows across their bodies. Some sleep, mostly talk, a bit of loving. And now Palatan rested his head upon Našobok’s shoulder, fingers running a light ripple over Našobok’s breastbone, then down to trace the tattoo over his belly. Aylaniś, always up with Sun, had departed, not only to help her spouse’s sister with host duties, but also to give her lovemates their own time.

  “Later,” Palatan mused. “After Council.”

  “After Council is Dance,” Našobok murmured against the numerous, coppery-black braids at Palatan’s temple. “You promised me a seat, remember?”

  “On my blanket.” Palatan smirked. “We’ll watch all of Dance, make our own after… squander it, I nearly forgot. After Dance is chieftains’ Council.”

  “And that one they won’t let me into, not even a
s Alekšu’s oathbrother.”

  Palatan gave a muted growl against Našobok’s chest. “I have to go. And then a pipe and more talk, talk, talk.”

  “The price of respectability.”

  “Shut it, you.” Palatan curled it into another, louder growl and smirked again as Našobok shivered. “After that, then.”

  “After that you’ll be half-crazed from what Power they’ll unknowingly raise and fling about—”

  Palatan’s fingers moved up to Našobok’s mouth, pressed for silence.

  “Well,” Našobok mumbled against those fingers, “it’s true. And none here to hear a whisper. D’you think I don’t know the edge you’ll be riding after all the prattling and posturing?”

  Palatan pressed firmer. “Hsst, before your mouth stretches greater than even your heart.” He softened, then, and stroked at Našobok’s lower lip. “You know me too well, fellow outlier.”

  “By happy chance, I do.”

  Happy chance wasn’t exactly how Palatan would term that long-ago expedition into Dead Plain. There were only several such places festering on their Land—the Šilombiš’okpulo here, the place amidst dryLands where the very ground would swallow one up, the icy, twisted waste that led to Everwintering Mountain from snow-packed upLands—but those were enough. Upon that plain up from the territory a’Šaákfo, something had tried to take Palatan’s power—and nearly succeeded. Only Našobok had anchored him to sanity.

  Našobok had always known what Palatan was. But he’d never let on he knew until they’d nearly not escaped the Dead Plain.

  “I’ve spent enough time in solitude,” Palatan huffed. “After I took the horns from Chogah, I had to; it’s the way of any Journey. And the way of any return, to be battered by what waits. Many voices, wanting to be heard.”