Blood Indigo Read online

  Ilhukaia’s chieftain, eyes upon Sun and Wind in his hair.

  Tokela threaded the pouch over his head and reached in, took out one of the objects he’d gathered from his basket in the ahlóssa den. The Seashell fitted in his palms as if formed there, and when he raised it to his ear, it whispered his name.

  Našobok had given the shell to him, nine summerings previous. More, Našobok had believed when Tokela had told him:

  That’s Sea’s voice you hear, cousin. More powerful than River, even.

  Does She whisper your name, too?

  Sometimes… sometimes, I think She does.

  I want to go there. I want to hear for myself.

  Then one Sun, little Riverwalker, when you’re old enough, I’ll take you.

  At the time, he hadn’t understood what it truly meant. ‘Riverwalker’ hadn’t been the insult others would make, but a fond, close-spun camaraderie offered to placate a lonely ahlóssa. Merely a kind exaggeration or evasion, not unlike the ones Tokela used to distract Madoc.

  Had Našobok found, even as Tokela was finding, how kindnesses could turn, how fair intentions could noose and love’s intensity smother?

  Why else would he bend over the shell?—whisper I’m here, now. I am.

  Why should he think the shell would agree?—breathing soft-faint into his ear.

  Because I want this. Not to be Other. I want my people, my place… Here. I want to belong here, be in my body if only for thisSun, this heartbeat, if…

  Perhaps he can show me how.

  He hears you, he said as much, Tokela informed the shell. Then slowly, inexorably, his eyes slid upwards, cast over River. He’s yours, after all, and if he hears you then, perhaps…

  Perhaps this was not…not… of Them. Of Other. Perhaps this was what it meant to be wyrhling?

  And from behind his eyes She rose, pounding the blood at his temples and neck, surging in the back of his throat with a tang of brack and copper silt. He shuddered, sucked in a gasp, flinched away.

  Dropped the shell.

  His booted toes thankfully broke the fall; a heartbeat later he had snatched it up, head pounding, and hunched over it.

  Stayed there, for long breaths, as Wind riffled Tokela’s hair to sting his hot, hennaed cheeks. His heart pounded, the surge of blood overtaking River’s insistent voice.

  Only the drums, and the sound of his pulse.

  He was his mother’s son. He would admit nothing else. He was normal.

  Normal.

  And he would make this decision before it made him.

  IT WASN’T the way. There would be no one to Smoke and Mark him, none to see him safe upon his oških journey… but hadn’t he already made it? Already wandered into the wild and come back in different form… changed.

  N’da, not changed, not like that. Broken, they called it in duskLands, when the change came to ahlóssa. In the end, weren’t all such journeys made alone? If he was to belong, then he would ensure that belonging in the only way he knew.

  The Moons peeped through the new leaves of the weeping tree wykupeh, ghosting shadows down where Tokela scooped out a small pit in the sand and gravel to kindle Fire’s breath from berrywood and spicetree. Beside that he smoothed his blanket, well within range of Smoke’s breath. On the blanket he’d settled a pouch, a clean burl bowl, the shell, and a pair of tiny, corked pots—all with some care. Upending the pouch, he separated the contents with nimble fingers. A strand of beads and amber tailed with charms of carven wood, a small assortment of copper bands for hair and fingers, a wristband decorated with quills and amber. A pair of thin, fine armlets, silver inlaid with turquoise. A thick ear spiral of pale horn, cunningly shaped like serpentKin; it had been his dam’s. A necklace of teeth; the River lion had tried to take several ovines as they drank, and Tokela and his father—well, mostly his father, Tokela then possessed of a mere six winterings—had taken the lion down.

  The claws taken from the shigala creature were shoved back into the pouch, deep-hidden.

  Unplaiting the cloth-and-bead lanyards already in his hair, he put his palms against his doubled knees, contemplating his wealth. Not much, gathered all together, but they were things of quality. And after thisSun, after he made his Marks and Danced, Tokela would be able to claim more.

  He hoped his treasures were… Ai, what did he hope? Suitable? Appealing?

  It felt odd, to care so much about his appearance.

  Yet he had to care. Tokela was under no illusions he could physically outshine the other oških who would Dance beside him, but he knew the steps from watching and imitating them his entire life. He had some grace, was nimble on his feet. He was also nimble with his wits, which was a good thing. He’d surely have to outwit Našobok. Trick him, somehow, mask what he was and once had been. For Tokela knew—knew—if he didn’t? Našobok would only see the little cousin he’d carried on his broad shoulders, the ahlóssa who’d pestered him for Sea tales, who’d followed him, eager and determined, in long walks on River’s thighs.

  He did not want Našobok to see that ahlóssa. Not anymore.

  The next was tricky. But a bath was necessary. He rose, taking hesitant steps into the shallow Riverlet, then clenched his teeth and dove in. Breath escaped him at the shock of Her, bubbles glistening bronze and pinkish-green, rising to catch in his hair. Buoyant, drifting, closing about him, touching him, yet…

  She filled him with nothing but peace, and the sound of Her made soft accompaniment to the drumming of his heart.

  Tokela waded out, bending over to shudder away the wet. Wind nipped at his damp skin—affectionately, it would seem. Black-chestnut hair gleamed with wet and dusk’s shadows, clung to him as he shook… save the braidlock snugged to his skull, slapping at his cheek.

  He had forgotten it. Forgotten, and suddenly he couldn’t wait to be freed of it. Fingers shaking in their eagerness, Tokela raked the unbraided locks sideways and held the braid taut. His new obsidian knife was just as sharp as the old one shattered upon the Shaped beast; it made a ripping sound as he cut the braid a handspan from his scalp. Tiny prickles of chill raised the scant fur on his thighs, groin, and belly. His scalp tingled as he loosed the remainder of the braid to drift across his face—forelock, not braidlock, no longer.

  Plait end in one hand and his knife in the other, he knelt and passed both above the remaining honour: Fire. Cleansed by River, severed by Earth, set free upon Wind and now, the visible Power of Their commingling—Smoke—wafted over him. Tokela sniffed gingerly and held the wisp within his lungs, disallowing the luxury of a cough, then bent over his finery and exhaled the misted breath in a faint orison.

  Warmth rashed over him, dispersing any chill. He took that as a good omen, and poured from the first pot a grainy, loose powder the colour of conifer needles. Setting the bowl into Fire he took up the second vial, poured the oil. As it runnelled and beaded over the dry matter, he began folding it together with a peeled stick, adding small amounts of steaming water—another commingling, this. Another Dance.

  His fingers faltered. What if even indigo made no difference? What if he made his Marks, and Danced, and still Našobok only saw an unremarkable younger cousin?

  There had to be a way. Something. Somehow.

  If only he could be invisible. Or a true skin-changer, like the ancient tales of Šaákfo…

  He couldn’t believe he was even thinking such a thing. But for perhaps the first time in his life, Tokela did not want to be thought of as unremarkable.

  All the while he rolled the shorn braidlock on one thigh, watching as the oiled powder lifted then thickened, altering with River’s coppery Power, shifting like a Dance mask…

  A Dance mask.

  Tokela smiled. Testing the mix with his smallest finger, he took the pot from Fire’s palms and paced over to squat in the shallows. Then, using the Moons-bright River as mirror, he dipped the twisted skein of hair into the indigo and began to trace across his cheekbones.

  11 - Dancer

  The mask
called him, pure and simple. Perhaps it was his blood—his dam had been over half of horseClan, after all. The fur-trimmed, grass-woven half mask of Hare seemed to speak his name, make promise:

  We are alike, you and I. We are creatures of speed and thought, guile and skill. Be one with me, Tohwakelifitčiluka. Be the clever one, the one who hides in plain sight, the one whose heart can outwit and outspeed almost anyone.

  Tokela stood leaning against the whitewood stave of his spear, eyeing the mask where ša hung, amidst many others. The other oških males milled around him, murmuring, making their own choices. Torchlight flickered over their bodies and glinted along the points of their spears: bone and sinew and obsidian. Ceremonial Fire had been captured in torches to illuminate the oških in all their finery; the torches smoked the tall ceiling of the weapons den, cast shadows along the clean-swept expanse of testing ground, as well as the long, smooth walls where weaponry both ancient and new hung.

  The masks were displayed in exceptional prominence: animalKin, all. It was acceptable—sought after, even—to emulate the raw, highly prized senses of their wilder brethren. The Elemental Powers were sacrosanct, forbidden to the skills of Grandmother’s mortal children, but these…

  After all, Šaákfo šaself had been mate to Forest Spirits, get of hareKin.

  Be one with my skin. The hareKin half-mask flickered, seemed to speak. Taunt him to the chase. And if he can catch you? Dance him giddy.

  Skills. Senses. Thisnow seemed to deny the alien latency biding within his Spirit. His heart pounding to match the bass pulse of the drums. The songs lifting, voices rising and falling, over and under the beat, carrying sharp towards Sun and Sky. For every denial there remained a pleasure, with every warp woven into his senses, a woof snugged it to him, his.

  No vocalisation was adequate. Tokela peered at the masks, his fingers twitching with longing. Only forbidden arts, it seemed, could describe the truly indescribable.

  Tokela walked forwards, gently pushing through the group. They gave courteous way, as they had done to every other who had so obviously made his choice. And if there was a whisper or two?—well, Tokela was used to that. He took down the hareKin mask and peered into the eye sockets. Unremarkable, empty. Yet as he tilted the mask to the torchlight, the hollow orbs glittered, a trick of shadows that was not.

  Enemy, Hare suddenly whispered.

  Tokela shivered, blinked. A voice sounded from behind him and he whirled, hand going to the knife sheathed at his pectoral.

  Mordeleg stood with arms akimbo. “Look to how you have changed our game.” Too close, broad and encroaching, truly more alien than any presence trying to surface in Tokela’s Spirit. Eyes dark as his heart, talk pitched to Tokela’s ears alone. The others, intent upon their own doings and choices, paid little heed.

  How had stoneClan birthed the gentle strength of Tokela’s father, yet also this?

  “Finally, your Uncle has done his duty,” Mordeleg murmured. “Made of you oških.”

  Tokela, already too conscious of the indigo paste still on his cheeks, felt even more the dry pucker and flake. Mordeleg’s eyes scaled him, starting with Tokela’s cheeks then up and down his body like slimy feet.

  Tokela gave the only answer he knew: with a steady, flat-eyed glare he walked away from both Mordeleg and the mask wall. He’d little hope it would help.

  Mordeleg snatched up a mask with such indifference that several oških, also pondering a choice, barked protest. Mordeleg ignored them. Clutching the bearKin mask in his thick fingers, he shadowed Tokela. Tokela made a seemingly casual path towards where the group of Dancers had gathered within the den’s heart. With Mordeleg, there was safety in numbers—even if those who’d defend ahlóssa would likely pay little heed to another oških who should be perfectly capable of defending himself.

  The oških were laughing and scuffling, preening, flexing both muscles and authority. All the while, they pretended not to see each others’ choice of masks. Several were oiling their skin in preparation for the upcoming contest. One was tying a gaily beaded ribbon to his spear haft, another tying back his forelock with finery of beads and fur. Tokela leaned on the wall not too far from them. He knew many of them, of course, but thisDance would include others from far-flung tribes and moieties. Not to mention that ahlóssa did little mixing with oških. Many of the painted faces seemed unfamiliar.

  And Mordeleg kept shadowing him. “But Sarinak has been in Council constantly. And you have not been gone long enough to make any Journey. How is such a thing possible?”

  Tokela flicked a scornful gaze. There was an oddling something in Mordeleg’s eyes; it scraped uneasy against Tokela’s hyperactive senses.

  N’da. He was normal. This would prove it, as Inhya always said.

  “Perhaps you were enough of your own heart to make them yourself, as we do in midLands.”

  As ill-aimed shots went, this flew too square for Tokela’s liking.

  “Did you make them for someone?” Mordeleg smirked and shifted, heavy on his feet but no less a threat. “Did you make them for me?”

  A derisive snort escaped Tokela. “I make nothing for you!”

  Mordeleg’s face darkened. Tokela answered by taking a whetstone from his pouch. He began to sharpen his obsidian spear point. Growled, soft, “One thing, then. A keen edge to my bla—”

  “Eh, hold up, newcomer!” An oških, his Clan Marks of neighbouring lowForest, sauntered over. He looked, from well-muscled maturity to wealth of finery, well along his way to earning his adult Journey. “N’da, not you, midLander.” He shoved Mordeleg aside with careless arrogance.

  Tokela’s mouth twitched in bleak humour.

  Mordeleg puffed up and angled forwards, a threat.

  Within a heartbeat several other oških moved forwards, ringing their companion. The lowForest oških gave a slight smile, rocked on the balls of his feet and lifted one hand, palm up. Come, then.

  Mordeleg snarled, threw first the gathered oških then Tokela a venomous look. The debate was clear: pride or wisdom? The latter won. Mordeleg turned on one heel in swift retreat.

  Tokela couldn’t help another tucked-away smile, though he well knew he would have to doubly watch his back after this. In response, his hand once more started a draw of whetstone against spear point.

  The lowForest oških made a grab for Tokela’s spear. In pure reflex, Tokela snatched it away, and the oških grinned, unoffended. “You’re a quick one! Good! But stop whetting your spear. Blades are dulled for Dance, sharpened for hunting.”

  Tokela coloured, looked down.

  “It is well.” The oških gave Tokela a friendly clout on the upper arm and pursed his lip after Mordeleg’s retreat. “With that tracking you, I don’t blame you baring your teeth. Your indigo is new? Hunh, I thought so.” He looked closer. “But I’ve seen you before, haven’t I? You’re a’Naisgwyr?”

  Tokela stiffened as the small group peered at him, recognition setting in. He said it before they could. “I’m hearth-chieftain’s son.”

  “The half-breed,” one of the oških muttered, and another hissed “Spawn!”—unwisely, for he was given a clout. Both retreated into sullen silence.

  The lowForest oških shot the others a quelling frown, returned his attention to Tokela. “You’re the one whose parents were taken by River?”

  Tokela nodded, resigned.

  The lowForest oških made a gesture—reverence and regret—then directed another frown to those about them. He made a shooing gesture, which was obeyed, not without a few more circumspect looks in Tokela’s direction. “Don’t mind them,” the oških said. “Naisgwyr’uq has strange ideas sometimes. Only our dams matter—they choose who sires us, a’io?”

  This didn’t ease anything, but it was, at least, not censure.

  The oških leaned on his spear and extended his hand to Tokela; cradled in it was a pot of grease. “Here. You’ll be glad of this in Dance. I’m called Akumeh.”

  “I’m called Tokela.”

  Akumeh
grinned. “I remember you from the silver run lastSun. The ahlóssa who swam like otterKin! No longer ahlóssa, though—your Change has graced you well. I almost didn’t recognise you.”

  Tokela blinked, surprised.

  “One who swims like otterKin”—Akumeh nudged Tokela with the blunt end of his spear, then gave a negligent tap to the Otter mask hanging at his own hip—“would surely be lithe in other ways.” He gave a sudden, charming smile, juddering Tokela all the way to his bare toes. “Maybe we’ll make a Dance, you and I. It’d be an honour, to be your first. I could teach you a few things. I’ve been told I’m skilled.” He leaned closer. “You want better than that overfed midLander. Or a bunch of superstitious k’šo.”

  “I… you do me honour.” Tokela, heart suddenly racing, couldn’t help but smile through his newly loosened forelock. Akumeh’s dark eyes widened; his lips moved as if about to say something.

  A sharp whistle sounded through the weapons cache.

  “There’ll be time, soon enough.” Akumeh shrugged and grinned. “For now, we go.” He jerked his head to the exit as the other oških began milling there. “Time to give over our spears. Dance well, Tokela.”

  Tokela watched him saunter away, bemused, then followed. He kept his distance behind the others, felt his heart sink as he saw Sarinak waiting in the gathering dusk of the doorway. And Sarinak spent time in letting the young males through, making sure each was eligible to participate and had a proper weapon.

  Tokela bit his lip, hesitated, then tucked his chin. This was his right. Even Sarinak would not gainsay that.