Blood Indigo Page 18

  “Yeka! Uncle Našobok!” Kuli gave a tug. “I nearly forgot, I promised I’d eat with Laocha, so I’d better run.”

  And he was gone, bare feet speeding over the grass and towards the trees. There was indeed a group of ahlóssa waiting there; Kuli burst into their midst like a spark from a hearth, and a young fem about his age—likely the aforementioned Laocha—grabbed his arm and dragged him away. The rest followed, carrying on with high voices, exuberant leaps and darts.

  Našobok chuckled. “Ai, to have all that energy.”

  Palatan didn’t answer. Instead he watched Našobok’s back, straight and broad beneath the leather longcoat, watched the blood-hued beading glimmer as Našobok crossed his arms. “You should have known?” Palatan prompted, quiet.

  Again the beads glimmered, betrayal of the barely perceptible tremor beneath. “Madoc.”

  Palatan’s brows twisted in sudden understanding.

  Našobok gave another shrug. “He’s of an age where ‘shoulds’ outweigh too many things. Just as well. If he was already wilful, he’d just end up like I did.”

  Palatan put a hand to his shoulder. “Is that so bad, wyrh-chieftain?”

  “For me, n’da. I’d no choice. But would you want an outlier’s lot for any of your children?”

  “What sort of outlier do you mean?” A fine spark of bitterness kindled beneath. Palatan didn’t bother to conceal it; he knew Našobok understood.

  Našobok nodded and sighed. “I suppose neither of us has an easy answer. Entirely too complicated.”

  “Particularly given what you said in Council.”

  “What I said?”

  Palatan’s thoughts were all too lengthy, too complex to easily parse. Instead he snugged Našobok’s arm in his, to the plain dismay of a trio of elder males—Alekšu seems entirely too familiar with that outlier!—and started walking again. He kept his voice low, quiet as hunting-talk. “You said: ‘Change is coming. Change is here’.” His fingers twitched upon Našobok’s sleeve. “Fire lay beneath your words.”

  “Gah! Fire?” Našobok’s light attempt fell flat. “From a wyrhling?”

  “A’io. That, too.”

  “Hunh. ‘That, too.’ Which means none of them will listen.” Našobok shook his head, sending a stray lock of bistre over his eyes.

  “I’m listening.” Palatan reached forwards, pushed it back. “I will always listen.”

  “You always were a stubborn clot.”

  “Hunh. Like who else?”

  They started walking again, joining the crowd about the Firepits. Several gave hasty way—trepidation or scorn—but neither Našobok nor Palatan gave notice.

  Until Našobok, accepting stew and bread from a fem who gave him a friendly enough smile, looked about and shrugged again. “I did think I would have at least seen Tokela.”

  Palatan peered at him, unsure of what to say. There truly was no talk for such things—but bodytalk said more than any vocal promise. He leaned his temple against Našobok’s shoulder, regret and understanding.

  “Hunh.” Našobok shrugged. “It is what it is. This wyrhling should well be used to ahlóssa running from him by now.”

  The drums, until then a comforting background, ramped up into sudden booms. Sharp and penetrating, they echoed against the rocks; were answered by several cries from Overlook

  “Come on!” Našobok grabbed Palatan’s arm. “That sounds like a big one!”

  INDEED, A big one, but no ship, not this time. A runner had come from downriver, with news of a great, boiling mass of bloodfins making their early run. All fishKin runs provided, but this first one brought everyone together. Vital trade, fresh food source, preserved meat against hard times—and that for everyone, every tribe gathered beneath the alliance meeting within the Great Mound.

  So everyone responded.

  In the aftermath of the drum-talk, Song arose, filling the reverberating air of Forest’s valleys. The main tributaries—the little River-sisters—churned with industry above and below, as every tribal member or relative or guest gave proper greeting to the mass of swimmingKin roiling upRiver. This Running was early—earlier, the old ones said, than in memory. Did it matter? Perhaps it was even a gift, Grandmother’s acknowledgement that all the allied tribes, from duskLands to dawn, were gathered to honour River’s bounty. Naisgwyr’uq sat upon the front entry to several tributaries and hatching grounds, so food and livelihood came swimming—for standingKin to the winged ones, to the four- and two-leggeds—and all gleaning a shining harvest, singing after their own fashion. The bloodfins would be heavy with toothsome eggs, or hoping to claim those eggs as their own, ready to fight for the chance.

  More, certainly, than even all the gathered tribes could take and use; they would net what they needed and still leave plenty to spawn farther up.

  Inhya’s voice rose and fell, one with her chosen People’s, fitting—and carrying—accompaniment to the drums echoing against the cliffs. She didn’t stop singing as she strode the shore, overseeing the nets as they were dragged from storage by eager ahlóssa and adults alike. Her words were not only joy, but long-honoured instruction; everyone sang with her as the nets were deployed. Some were handheld dippers of only a handspan. Others were long, flawlessly woven. All were carried to the various upstream waterfalls.

  Sarinak’s powerful voice boomed along the opposite side, a drum of directions carrying even above River’s voice. Amidst directing the dip nets, Inhya caught sight of Tokela, who’d reappeared in response to the drum message, Madoc in tow.

  Something had to be done about that, and soon. Tokela might exist beneath the fiction of being too young to wander; Madoc was too young, in every fashion. Ahlóssa and ośkih didn’t make the best of cohorts—their paths were too diverse. And for all the things Tokela did well, he did just as many in a fashion Inhya would not have her youngest emulate.

  A sight of beauty: all gathered, elders to ahlóssa, stripped down to dive and slosh River’s children, setting nets and ensuring they spanned Her with grace, untangled. Anahli and another oških—Čayku, wasn’t it?—played nets from bank into River. A mere stone’s throw downstream, a sopping Madoc laughed with the other ahlóssa, even Kuli, whom Madoc professed—too frequently, Inhya thought with a grin—to loathe. Stronger swimmers were out in the deep water. The wyrhling in particular seemed one with River—of course, he would, wouldn’t he?—but still working alongside his former People, ensuring the nets didn’t snag on rocks and were played out deep enough. Aylaniś and Palatan exchanged snatches of banter with him from the shore, but it didn’t stop their helping with the nets. Tokela also swam amongst the deep waters, quiet and efficient; known as one of the best swimmers they had, he was reliable in this at least.

  They would speak about where he’d been, and perhaps a few other things. But not thisSun. ThisSun, there was a living to be made.

  THE DRUMS echoed his heart, pounding fierce-glad with the work. Or so Tokela thought.

  He didn’t realise his excitement had another cause. Didn’t realise that he was looking until he saw him. Or, more accurately, saw them.

  His granddam had once said it: All paths lead to the one you truly intend, whether you pay attention or not…

  Našobok let out a yelp of laughter, sending Tokela’s heart further a-thrum and his stomach lurching: recognition, and something else he didn’t ken. Tokela cocked his head to espy Kuli’s dam and sire on the far bank. Aylaniś and Palatan hauled nets with little finesse but much enthusiasm. Even dripping and stripped of much of her finery, Aylaniś too made Tokela’s stomach clench; a remembrance of graceful authority that merely made her more accessible, more… lovely. Palatan, on the other hand, seemed less Alekšu and more the trickster his tribe revered; he’d tangled a foot in the netting. A mishap any ahlóssa wouldn’t make, but the mistake was, no doubt, what had prompted that familiar yelp of laughter.

  A tiny ahlóssa threw a net tail Tokela’s way; he snatched it midair then dove with it across the tributary and to a waitin
g elder. The old fem had hunkered down as much from laughter as to take the net. She tilted her head towards the antics upstream, chuckled “Horsetalkers!” as she took the net tail from Tokela. It made a prime opportunity to swim closer, not only to unsnag the net’s drag, but also remove a low-drooping branch from it—and Tokela’s line of sight.

  The two horsetalkers might be ungainly with the nets, but their wyrhling companion was not. He’d tied his long hair back, a wet tail that hung between bare, dark shoulders. The latter quivered with laughter as Našobok played out the tangled net. Carefully, ostensibly so Palatan didn’t end up dragged into River, though in the next breath Našobok tightened it, shook it with mock threat. Aylaniś yipped warning, and Palatan threw his assailant a look half panic and all promise: If you do I’ll end you!

  Našobok wrapped the net around one sinewy, broad-knuckled hand and tugged again. His eyebrows arched their own promise; his teeth gleamed. Aylaniś splashed at him. Našobok merely wrapped the net once more about his hand. Palatan tossed him a gesture Tokela had seen amongst the Riverwalkers, then hauled back. Leaner, smaller, yet those bronze-wet arms were corded taut from the bow. Našobok lurched forwards, landing face-first with a huge splash.

  Aylaniś doubled over, stumbling with laughter.

  Others were getting into the spirit of it, shouting encouragement to both sides of the playful struggle. Palatan’s own laughter yipped upward as Našobok rose from the shallow, climbing the net upward. Tens of summerings of net-hauling made a match for a duskLands bowarm… and Palatan hadn’t let go. He went sailing.

  Cheers from up and down the banks greeted this.

  Fortuitously—or by design?—Aylaniś had released the net. One arm wrapped about her ribs; she was laughing herself into hiccups.

  Palatan rose, sputtering, shaking his head and hands. Tokela had to laugh—Palatan resembled a midLands wildcat gone for an unplanned ducking. Našobok trod forward, water curling and foaming, and scooped Palatan from the water with one arm. Setting him upright, Našobok gave a fond tug to his companion’s sopping temple plaits. To this liberty, Palatan responded with a laugh and a cup of his palm at Našobok’s nape.

  More yelps of encouragement greeted this.

  “Give him a ducking, Alekšu!”

  “The bloodfins are spawning, not you!”

  And a snort from the elder playing out Tokela’s net. “Too old to indulge in that sort of play! But what to expect from an outlier and a horsetalker!”

  Tokela barely heard. His notice had riveted to the cling of Našobok’s hairtail, like a trail of ink down his well-muscled back and dipping into the cleft of buttocks outlined by his clout. Or the slick-lithe, knowing language of Palatan’s back, arching for just that much too long beneath Našobok’s embrace, fingers clenching at Našobok’s nape, pulling the thick, black tail of hair to glide along Našobok’s back then swing sideways. The glint of Palatan’s teeth could have been snarl or smile, but Našobok didn’t take offence. Instead he gave a cheeky grin, one that made Tokela dizzily wonder how bees had taken sudden residence in his belly. That fascinating tail of hair flipped over one shoulder and snagged on Našobok’s left nipple—actually, a silver ring piercing that nipple—for a heartbeat.

  Perhaps more, for Tokela’s heart hammered, sudden-quick and so loud he swore it was audible. As Našobok released Palatan at the bank, Tokela kenned the reason he was getting dizzy. He’d forgotten to breathe. He sucked in a huge gasp, and as if in answer River swirled about him, a quick eddy that nearly pulled him from his feet, a caress that rippled up his thighs and tongued his belly.

  Našobok stiffened. Palatan asked a question too low to be heard, and Našobok shook his head. But as Palatan turned away, Našobok darted a quick gaze about, a frown quirking his brow.

  Tokela hunkered down in the water, tearing his gaze away.

  It was then the whisper tickled at Tokela’s nape, not just sound, but making talk:

  He is mine. You are mine. My own.

  Sucking in a harsh breath, Tokela slid beneath the tree limb and sloshed from the water. By the time he reached the banks, he’d started to run.

  ANAHLI SAW him, tearing away from the tributary as if fleethounds were on his heels.

  Strangely comforting, to see that she wasn’t the only one who found the playful wrangle of wyrhling, Alekšu and horse-chieftain upsetting. Somehow.

  Why would Tokela be upset? Why would she be herself? Even if part of her wanted to laugh, join in.

  “Inappropriate.” The soft, bitter voice merely encouraged more acrimony. “Like foolish oških, those three, with eyes only for the long-lost lovemate.”

  Anahli refused the bait. “I’m oških. And people laugh to see their joy.”

  “The joy will sour, as soon as those here remember that Alekšu openly courted an outlier.” For all her bulk, Chogah could move with grace and speed. She gained Anahli’s side with barely a pebble disturbed underfoot. “Why aren’t you with your own playmate, oških, instead of eyeing outliers and fools?”

  Of course she knew Anahli had a new playmate. Chogah seemed to ferret everything, one way or another.

  “I’m resting, Aunt. Even here, they allow time for rest.”

  “You are too bold. Defiance gains little without the proper stealth for success.” Head tilting, Chogah moved closer. “I tried to change your dam’s mind. You know you don’t belong here, any more than that one”—her chin jerked the way Tokela had fled—“does.”

  N’da, I don’t know. I know nothing about you, and sometimes too much…

  “But I am alekšu tuk, in power no longer, and now your dam gives me only what respect she must. Instead the respect I earned goes to her spouse—a male, nothing more—who stole my place.”

  “He stole nothing.”

  “Stole my place, and my rights!” Chogah spat. “And if you do not stay with your People, take your place, then how will we overcome what has been taken from us?”

  “It’s time I proved my place, aunt. What if I just want to be what I choose, not what you keep saying I must be? You, with your secrets and suggestions. Are you any different, truly, than my mother or my father, who also try to say what I must be?”

  Chogah was smiling, in her charming, pitying, oh-my-heart sort of way. “Oških will challenge. It’s their way and their right, eh?” The smile slid into a sneer. “So we have a new Alekšu who hasn’t even the wherewithal to shun a wyrhling as he should. As he must, if he is to keep his place amongst firstPeople.” A sigh. “I only wish your parents could see what fools they are made. Thankfully you are not so easily played, Cousin. You saw the wyrhling for what he was, from the beginning.”

  N’da, only from the time a second father had abandoned his family, let his River quench Fire.

  And played by whom? The thought had come to Anahli, more and more. She was no longer the ahlóssa that had hung upon every web a powerful and supposedly-infallible Alekšu had once spun.

  Anahli kept her thoughts her own, and her ebony eyes upon Chogah, gauging. Uncertain.

  FESTIVITIES HAD been postponed until nextSun’s rising, when the successful harvest of bloodfins would be given their due honour. Shifts of preparation had begun, of course, and would continue over the coming Suns to ensure none missed more than their share of First Running. For now, many guests and residents rested, tired and satisfied with thisSun’s work, eager for a large meal and good sleep.

  Tokela had no wish for the latter. And after a quick stop by the ahlóssa den for his pouch, his nose led him to the former, tantalised by the peppery scent of fat dripping onto Fire’s tongues. Already a sizeable line had formed, patient, where a group of elder females ladled, from enormous pots, šinc’teh stew over fresh-poached bloodfin meat.

  Glad to be nothing more than one in a hungry crowd, Tokela fell in. When his turn came, he tendered a grateful smile for Darhinu’s generosity. She always insisted he was just skin over bones, remained intent upon feeding him up. Filling his skin with fruit water, Tokela s
kirted the crowd and found himself making his way up Overlook.

  For the first in a long while, he didn’t head for the driftwood railing—not even a longing glance where River lapped at the watercraft and Her sand-and-stone shore. Instead Tokela settled his back against the sienna stone wall and heeded his meal.

  The stew was rich with fat and redolent of spices, thick with last summering’s dried šinc’teh and this summering’s early greens. The bloodfin fell from the bones—tender, and hot. Not minding singed fingers, he just dug in, sucking air to cool it until he’d finished every bite and scraped the bowl with his flatbread. Giving a satisfied sigh, he leaned back against the stone and closed his eyes.

  So quiet, above. River pushed gently at the edges of his notice; Tokela set his teeth and instead focused on the echoes of gathering wafting upward from the Bowl; the happiness of everyone sated from work, willing to wait for play. Part of him wanted to return, join in. Sit with his family, belong…

  Everything had changed.

  N’da, not everything. He had changed.

  The t’rešalt, the Chepiś, had changed him. He had gone into the forbidden places, all tossing mane and snort of defiance. Had taken a path he shouldn’t have done, hoping… denying… daring the blood that without doubt surged his veins.

  You are a’Naišwyrh!

  He was his mother’s son. None could take that from him. But if his sire was of those scorned, feared…

  Shunned. Not only outlier, but not of People.

  Tokela had walked his own changing journey when he’d gone through the t’rešalt. Been Broken with benefit of blood, smoke blessing, and guide. Only not in a way he’d ever expected.

  And now, in the aftermath of Breaking…

  River spoke to him. Made talk. To him.

  Claimed him.

  He is mine. You are mine. My own.

  Tokela sat there for a long time, fingers idly tracing the well-swept stones. A loud Yip! from the great Bowl made him jump and snatch his hand sideways—instinctively, to brush away the sketches—then halted. This time, a curious smile touched his lip at what his fingers had conjured from dust and damp. Eyeing the stair once again, Tokela relented. No graphite, no traces left in the wake of a forbidden talent. Instead he licked his fingers and deliberately sketched more figures upon the pavings—Ilhukaia rocking and bobbing gently in a swell with trade weavings flying; Aylaniś’s laugh upon the banks, Palatan and Našobok’s embrace in the Riverlet—then ran a careful touch along the first sketch: