Blood Indigo Read online

  “I keep offering,” Našobok riposted, “for you to come with me, lovely one.”

  “Me, or my nutcakes? Still your tongue and settle. If I know you, and I do, you’ll want to watch the show.”

  Našobok blew across his fingers in Aylaniś’s direction and did as bidden. He knew her assistance in opening Council was truly meant; a genuine desire to aid her spouse’s sister. Yet there was another reason, akin to his own: the amusement of watching varied Importances arrive, Skybow-hued woodcocks strutting and preening—and shrieking, no doubt, by the end of it.

  He knew Aylaniś remembered how Palatan had once been one of those woodcocks, with more bitter-deep reasons to strut and swagger than a daughter and granddaughter to chieftains a’Šaákfo could at first comprehend. A younger Aylaniś might have, at the first, been impressed with the raids and prowess of her aunt’s youngest tyah, but she’d also been quite contemptuous of Palatan’s raw temper and artless ways. In return Palatan had been manifestly unimpressed by Aylaniś’s supposed pedigree, and openly derisive of his own dam’s efforts to forward the suitability of such a match.

  Našobok, at the time fostered with his granddam’s horsetalker relatives, had been little better at hiding his scorn; he’d never shown much interest in anything possessing teats and tucked-away plumbing. Neither was he about to share the love of his life with any nose-in-Sky fem.

  Twenty summerings ago, it had been, when Palatan and Aylaniś had been chosen to call the Hunt together. Palatan had come from the rituals of the Breaking Ground with an altogether different Fire beginning to light his eyes, focused upon a desire and path he’d not, until that time of blood conjuring, realised he possessed.

  A recipe for heartbreak and disaster. The latter had been courted, the former inevitable, yet…

  Here they were.

  Našobok smiled at his lovemate. As the remainder of the tribal leaders began entry, Aylaniś passed by and gave a discreet tuck of the blanket about Našobok’s shoulders. The blanket was Palatan’s; it still smelled of spicewood and horse, as well as the needlecreeper balm Aylaniś used on her hands. The latter in particular wafted about Našobok as Aylaniś retreated, graceful and straight-backed, to her place.

  She would wait alone for a while, for Palatan had his own pride of place, well towards the end. He’d learned. But then, in the past summerings, they’d all learned many things.

  THE DEN was full: of finery, of people wearing all that finery and sitting in a loose semicircle, of low talk, of Smoke’s haze, hanging in curves of wall and ceiling as the greeting pipe was passed.

  “Good, we haven’t missed anyt—!” Madoc’s speech, quiet though it was, muted further as Tokela’s hand clapped over his mouth. In the next breath Tokela had rolled Madoc over, hand still firm over his mouth, the other forming several sharp signs. Hunting-talk. Only!

  Madoc tucked his chin, swift acquiescence. Tokela nevertheless gave him another warning shake before loosing him.

  They’d missed little, mostly the statements and orisons preceding any gathering. Their hiding place overlooked the den; a small high passage with an entry tunnel behind them, and one of many throughout the Great Mound that gave airflow to the deepmost passages. The height of it, a precaution against floods, meant they would likely remain unseen.

  If Madoc could keep his mouth shut. Tokela shook his head and rested his chin upon his hands, unable to quell a tiny smirk. Madoc’s audacity remained as endearing as it was exasperating.

  Snatches of soft conversation upon many subjects—fishing, trade, hunting, crops—were passed back and forth with the welcoming pipe. Smoke also wafted upward—a mistake, Tokela was beginning to realise. He’d not planned on Smoke having such a fondness for this particular hidey-hole; he’d little tolerance, active wariness, in fact, for the way it made him feel.

  It should be one of the things to look forward to when he claimed his indigo, a pleasure finally allowed: Smoke, sweat, and the going inward to find his Spirit’s name and purpose.

  Instead it reminded him of the strange, transparent dread the t’rešalt had engendered in his heart. The Shaped boughs denying Rain, the poison that had sent him within, the Chepiś that had brought him out.

  And brought other things with it.

  Smoke also sought to reminded him: until now, he’d been content enough to leave untouched what-had-been and what-could-be. It reminded him further of what would happen when he didn’t.

  First, when he’d lain with the lung-sick after Sarinak had dragged him from beneath his parents’ wykhupeh, wet and shivering and mud-caked in the wake of their deaths. Not that he remembered; Inhya had told him. And then, five summerings ago when Tokela’s voice had deepened and he’d been Marked with the blood-hued wyrh tree on his ribs. They had given him the same fingerleaf tea they gave everyone after the ordeal, but in Tokela the draught had called dark’s Mare to toss and trample him.

  The herbKeeper had tsked, said a closed place lay within Tokela’s Spirit. The rite had been cancelled, and he’d been given no name to take to the oških dens.

  Smoke crept over his skin, curled at his nostrils, promised Seeing and Sensing; no delight, this. Too much, or too little, there seemed now to be no balance—only a heated, tactile weight upon his senses. Tokela could, suddenly, hear River even though many lengths of Earth separated him from Her, an echo timed with the thick drum of his heart.

  The den of his Spirit lay no longer closed. Tokela gritted his teeth against his fists, squinted his eyes shut and whispered, silent and desperate:

  N’da. Not yet. Please, not here…

  And impossibly, River’s echo subsided. Smoke curled away from him and wafted lazily sideways. Toward Madoc, who lifted his head for a good sniff, sly enjoyment of a pleasure forbidden his age. Madoc would, when he was Broken to oških, no doubt announce himself with a broad smack to the pointed noses of whatever shadowlings might lay in wait.

  Madoc’s time, however, lay some turnings hence. Tokela’s had seemingly crept up and bitten his tail.

  Tokela looked out over the Council and did not see it.

  If only he could retreat a bare passage of Suns and never step foot inside that rotted t’rešalt, never let the indigo venom of Shaped creatures sting his blood, never let the touch of Chepiś pierce him, expose him, change him.

  Madoc’s hand pinched, hard, and Tokela started, found Madoc’s curious gaze upon him, gleaming like polished copper in the dim. Tokela realised he was sweating.

  Are you… here? Madoc signed, concern written in the twist of brow.

  Comfort, somewhat, that Madoc would ask. But there was immeasurable comfort in how he didn’t truly understand the reality beneath the asking.

  And security, of a kind, for Tokela to answer I’m here.

  Good. You need to pay attention to this. Madoc's mouth jutted sideways, a mutinous tilt.

  “—those are our requests of hearthing. The first, Gweh a’Katasu, oških of dryLands, is keen to learn our woodKeeper’s ways.”

  Inhya was speaking, standing next to Sarinak. The woodKeeper had risen, his massive arms crossed over his chest, respectful. His craft was familiar to everyone there; Tokela had many times gone upRiver to the squat, dusty wykupeh. He’d also often wondered why the woodKeeper’s intricate, towering sculptures weren’t considered as forbidden as sketches.

  Tokela slid Madoc a curious look. What does this have to do with anything?

  Madoc scowled. Wait.

  “—to let it be known to all that I gladly extend dryLands’ offer of hearthing without trade,” the woodKeeper was saying. “My own offspring, save my youngest daughter, are gone from my lodging, all espoused in trades of good faith or heart-longing. I’ve many things to share with a hard-working oških.”

  The dryLands oških stood by the door, a blanket over one arm. At his side waited a tall fem, likely an aunt. Tokela had done the same after his parents were taken by River, standing in the Council’s entry with his eldest aunt—Giltha’ailiq, Nechtoun’s s
pouse, now given to Fire and River. There had been talk of hearthing Tokela in duskLands; his dam’s granddam had, after all, been a’Šaákfo. Instead Inhya claimed hearthing-right; she’d been Larissa’s oških playmate, then lovemate and oathsister.

  The oških embraced his aunt, then walked slowly around the circle. The blanket he folded open at the woodKeeper’s feet, to kneel upon. In turn the woodKeeper rested a hand on the oških’s skull for a length of silent breaths. Then the woodKeeper helped his new-made son up, took the blanket from the floor, folded it over his own thick arm. They both exited, to satisfied murmurs all around.

  Sarinak raised the chieftain’s staff, requesting silence, and Inhya spoke again, grave and formal.

  “Another request has been tendered to me only thisSun’s rising, through once-chieftain Nechtoun. Galenu a’Hassun, stone-chieftain, you have offered to open your midLands lodging to my son, Tokela.”

  Tokela sucked in a sharp, baffled breath. Galenu? Why? It must not be settled business, or else Inhya would have brought Tokela himself into Council. Tokela considered Galenu with narrowed eyes as the elder rose, arms across his chest.

  “I do offer. It’s Nechtoun’s opinion that your son is of an age to know his sire’s people.”

  To midLands? Galenu a’Hassun meant to offer a hearthing-place? Truly? Tokela’s eyes flickered to where his old uncle was seated, nodding. Inhya also glanced at Nechtoun, then Sarinak. Sarinak was peering at Galenu. He didn’t seem to be surprised.

  Inhya, on the other hand, seemed less than pleased. “Of an age, you say. Tokela is ahlóssa.”

  “I saw Tokela, as you call him, only thisSun, and I’d warrant”—a smile that didn’t seem altogether friendly—“he won’t long be that. So he has the right to know his sire’s people,” Galenu persisted.

  It had been long since Tokela had heard even that part of his blessing-name spoken, and it echoed strangely in the den.

  “And it’s my right to welcome him to my lodging, where he can experience that knowledge. Though,” Galenu’s smile broadened—amity, a’io, but barbed and layered with brine, “your hesitancy is understandable, Inhya hearth-chieftain. Admirable. A mother always wishes to keep her little ones at her kirtles.”

  Tokela let out a slow breath. He’d never heard anyone speak so to Inhya. Not and walk away unscathed, anyway.

  “You speak with all the knowledge you possess, Galenu stone-chieftain.” Edged as an obsidian dagger, Inhya held to her dignity as host. Even through clenched teeth. “I will give your request what consideration it deserves.”

  “Aška doesn’t like him one bit, does she?” Madoc mouthed against Tokela’s ear.

  Tokela itched to know why.

  “Here, before witnesses of Council,” Galenu continued, clipped, “I claim my right—and those rights Tokela may claim as my nephew’s son. I expect you, hearth-chieftain a’Naišwyrh, to cede them when Tokela’s old enough.”

  Inhya stared him down, but finally gave a tilt of head: acknowledgement, if not surrender.

  I am old enough. My right. Tokela’s spontaneous inner protest came from his heart, belying the faded henna on his cheeks. I could find a new place, with new ways. Prove myself away from a mother’s fears, escape and still belong to my People, in a place where rumours cannot follow.

  Rumours. Galenu surely hadn’t heard the rumours… but perhaps Mordeleg would tell him. Mordeleg had pounced upon the hints of Tokela’s heritage like raptorKin. Mordeleg was Galenu’s cousin, after all, with more rights to Galenu’s lodging-welcome than any… ehšehklan.

  A familiar hand wormed its way into Tokela’s own, and he slid his gaze to Madoc, found his cousin’s face pale-taut.

  Madoc, he signed, what—?

  Don’t go with him. Madoc’s hand gripped tighter. Please, brother. Don’t go so far away from me.

  Hope withered, cold and heavy, twisting at Tokela’s heart. He turned from Madoc to the gathering below and in particular the two… antagonists. For a’io, they were that and had obviously been for some time: Inhya, eyes glittering all angry, and Galenu, chin tilted, obdurate.

  Madoc worried for nothing. Inhya would not let go. Would hold to Tokela from love and yearning and, yes, fear—would keep him penned and hemmed at every opportunity, unwilling to even let him draw a deep breath that was not scrutinised or under suffrage.

  Should he bleed himself pale on Overlook’s stair, they would somehow still find a way to keep him here.

  “As I made plain, we will consider your offer, stone-chieftain.” Inhya’s voice broke into Tokela’s thoughts. “I can promise nothing more, since the time has not come.”

  Tokela slid back slightly and turned over, peering at the stony ceiling barely an arm’s reach overhead.

  Madoc’s face, upside down, entered into Tokela’s field of vision. Stabs and tingles shot through his fingertips; Madoc’s hand still clenched his, hard.

  You don’t want to go, do you? Madoc signed with his other hand.

  Tokela averted his gaze, gave the easiest answer. You know they won’t let me go.

  But do you want to?

  Nothing Tokela could say to that. Nothing to offer, in this heartbeat and many others, that wouldn’t hurt his cousin.

  Particularly the truth.

  Madoc possessed only a few summerings more than Tokela himself had when River had taken his parents. It was an age with little understanding of whys and hows, no room for subtleties. Only the realisation: when someone went away, it hurt.

  So many things already filled Tokela’s heart that Madoc would never understand, should never have to know.

  Only this. I am here. Tokela disentangled his hand to grip the curls at Madoc’s temple. I am here, thisSun.

  And nextSun? Or another?

  A tug, sharp but slight. Little brother, all we ever have is thisnow.

  But Tokela—

  Excited voices rose, echoing upwards. Mostly male, arguing back and forth, then another voice: fem, clear and dry with sarcasm. Sarinak’s powerful voice rose, overriding them all.

  Until one deep voice curled wit into a whip. “Only fools believe that painting our cheeks and puffing our chests will solve such things!”

  Madoc craned his neck, curious once more, scooting closer to the edge. Tokela felt as if he’d swerved from his own edge, one treacherous and deep. Neither could he muster up any remorse at his relief.

  It’s the yakhling elder! She is making very strong talk. At least Madoc’s focus had shifted… for now. Yeka is annoyed.

  This made Tokela scoot forwards and peer over the edge. The usual way he beheld Sarinak’s annoyance was in receipt.

  The yakhling—Grass Weaver, Tokela recollected; their folk didn’t hold to the protection of Commingling-talk for their names—was a chieftain in her own right, and seemed eldest of all those present. She held her staff firm; her wrinkled face remained composed, daring any to oppose her right to speak in open Council.

  “I mean no disrespect to your hospitality, Mound-chieftain, but I cannot sit by and hear these”—she jerked her head sideways, indicating two males with the close-cropped temples of desertClan—“young cockerels fart with their mouths!”

  What do they make talk about now? Tokela signed to Madoc, who shrugged.

  I think it was something about outLands.

  “This is open Council,” Sarinak agreed, curt, “and thisSun the rights are given for all to speak. Including outliers.”

  Tokela smothered a burst of irritation, wondering how exactly Sarinak could bend over with that spear haft he always seemed to have stuck up his tail split. Naturally, this wasn’t anything repeatable in Madoc’s hearing. Instead Tokela watched Grass Weaver. The medicine bag tied at the head of her staff betrayed her reliance upon the latter by quivering, albeit slight.

  “All must speak, a’io. Truth, not foolish rumour.” Grass Weaver made a sharp gesture; the staff slipped from her grasp. A broad, dark hand snatched it before it hit the ground. Našobok rose, proffering the staff ev
en as he cupped a hand at Grass Weaver’s elbow. Courtesy, nothing more, but Tokela saw the old yakhling lean against Našobok as she accepted her staff. More, Tokela caught himself leaning forwards, tense and observant, as Grass Weaver murmured something to Našobok. In return Našobok gave the old yakh-chieftain a slow, brilliant smile.

  It made Tokela’s heart give a huge, ungainly flop against his breastbone.

  Madoc, shifting perilously close to the edge, gave Tokela the jolt of reality he needed. Reaching out and yanking his brother back, Tokela glared Madoc’s burgeoning protest into silence.

  If you fall in and fetch us into trouble, I will end you!

  Madoc twisted his brows and signed apology. It’s just… He hesitated, then grinned. You know, everyone looks very fancy.

  Tokela again found his gaze sliding to Našobok.

  More than fancy. Both Našobok and Grass Weaver were no casual vagabonds of tales or even memory. She’d enough layers and finery to outshine any a’Naišwyrh, with plenty of beads and metal twisted in tens of long, silver locks braided small and tight. Našobok was even finer, though: a softweave tunic wrapped loose beneath his longcoat, exact match for the longcoat’s trim of vermilion beads and copper discs. Even his tall boots were trimmed with the colour of bright, new-spilled blood. A wealth of copper and silver bands adorned his fingers and wrists, valuable cowries tangled in that unbound mane of hair, his forelock pulled over and braided at one temple with three Sea-raptor feathers, those bound with leather and costly turquoise.

  Shifting his hips against the stone, Tokela gritted his teeth. Why now? he asked, silent. As if there could ever be an answer.

  But there was. River’s soft hum reached for him, through sandstone and bedding rock, to trickle along his nerves. The abrupt sound/scent/taste of Her were currents, filling his heart and rising his body.

  N’da, he tried to conjure, not yet. After all, it had worked before.

  Impossibly, it did again.

  But even that wasn’t as impossible as the sudden yearning within his heart: that he could attract Našobok’s notice, and not as the peculiar younger cousin who used to follow him around, pesky as Madoc at his worst or little Kuli at his best. N’da, Tokela would have to puff his chest and daub his entire body with oških indigo like flyingKin in full mating plumage, assuming he possessed the cheek to actually strut up to Našobok and utter I beg your pardon, you probably don’t even remember me, and I’m so pissing ignorant about this entire business I’m not even sure how to ask, but… Will you?