Blood Indigo Read online

  Tokela didn’t know enough—didn’t know anything, not with this—but he didn’t have to understand anything in thisnow, only shiver with pleasure as those storm-hued eyes followed him….

  Challenge answered as opponent/partner circles, stalks. Here is danger, Hare knows, danger to set heart drum dancing, for where a bistre-maned wolf had been yawning and stretching, lazy-drunk in Sun’s setting, now the yawn turns fierce, grin gliding into low laugh. Hare feints with the spear left, then right and upward. But there is none where the strike would touch, only a blur of motion as a River Wolf spins, then snatches at the spear.

  It was the mask. The mask, and Tokela laughed, soft, because with the mask he wasn’t the Half-breed, wasn’t the little ahlóssa cousin. He was oških, Hare, Swiftfoot, Ša’abo the trickster. The choices were laid before Tokela even as he’d laid indigo on his cheekbones, with Fire purling in his abdomen and a drum for a heart, chanting…

  So Hare paces, step by slow step. Remains quick, wary, for Wolf outweighs him twice again. Close enough to touch, to want to touch—

  N’da, impatient cousin, says Hare. Touching is for later. Now is for testing.

  Tokela laughed out loud, heard Našobok answer with a chuckle as they circled, both holding the spear.

  First Dance.

  The drum rhythms slowed then sped, demanding the steps. Bare hands sharing the spear’s haft, bare feet circling and pointing, pounding and shuffling. Dust rising, sifting across their ankles, coating silver bangles upon Tokela, breathing a curling, stark tattoo of emerald/black kelp upon Našobok. Laughter, and panting breaths, and hair flying, Fire glittering upon sweat as the drums quickened even more, setting the stage for struggle…

  Hare opens heart, growls as he tugs—mine, this weapon, mine!—but Wolf bares teeth back, dares: take it! Hare swings hind foot, pulls then pushes, hard; Wolf trips back, surprised… and doesn’t loose the spear.

  Tokela gave a yip as he was yanked down; the yip throttled into a gasp as he landed on Našobok and slid sideways, propped only by his fists clutching the horizontal spear haft.

  “A little soon to have me on my back yet, eh?” Našobok twisted, yanked the spear—and Tokela—over. Pushed against the spear, pushed down with his hips as he straddled Tokela…

  Hare freezes. Quivers. Bodytalk humming—gasping in it, writhing/ sinking/ drowning in the Storm-wrack of Wolf’s eyes, in the heat of his body, hard and growing harder. The sound of him.

  The sound of Her.

  River.

  The sense of recognition nigh flattened Tokela; his heart pulsed wild then smoothed, rippled into rhythmic currents that crooned a wordless melody behind his eyes: Come to me. He is mine. You are mine, little wyrhling…

  Hare tries to break the spell—not yet, not yet! Are you so little and foolish, ahlóssa heart still, to give in so easily?

  “I think this Dance is over, lovely one,” Našobok breathed against Tokela’s ear, then nipped it. “Want to try another?”

  Tokela’s back arched, the spear pressing against his throat, pushing the air from him. Wasn’t sure he cared.

  “Ai, I think you do.” And Našobok sat up, loosened the spear, reached for the mask…

  Hare leaps, shrieks, scoots for cover.

  Tokela gave a quick twist, one hand shielding the mask, the other still on the spear. He twisted, wriggled, and scooted downward. Dirt scraped his buttocks, clung to his back. Našobok, taken unawares, snatched a belated grab. It slid on oiled skin, and only a swift hand propped to keep Našobok from falling on his face. Tokela kept scooting, yanked the spear haft. Našobok grunted, lurched forwards again. In another swift and desperate motion, Tokela escaped out from between Našobok’s legs, yanking the spear with him and curling his knees upward into Našobok’s haunches.

  Našobok went flying, heels over shoulders, and smacked flat on his back with a heavy thud and a great huff! of lost breath…

  Free! Hare leans against his weapon and vaults to his feet. Shifts, hind foot to hind foot, watching Wolf shake his heavy mane and roll to one side, eyeing him. There is surprise. There is…

  Respect.

  It fills Hare, sleek and Power-full as the bodytalk, as the slide of skin upon skin.

  Skin within skin, croons Hare, is even better. But make him earn it. Remember you have teeth at your throat already.

  A’io. He wanted this Wolf fangs and all. Tokela spun the spear one-handed, pulled it back over his shoulder, and rocked into a crouch. He held his free hand out, palm up, and twitched his fingers in the same sign Akumeh had given Mordeleg earlier, in the weapons cache.

  Come, then.

  Našobok’s mouth pulled sideways in a grin as he rolled to his feet. He made a show of rubbing at one haunch, and several watchers laughed. Tokela thought he caught Palatan, lying ai-so-casually back on his blanket, rolling his eyes. But there was a smirk on his face to match Našobok’s.

  “Treat him gently, young Ša’abo!” Palatan suddenly called above the din. “He’s old for this game!”

  “Not that old!” Našobok avowed. “Never too old ’til I’m dead.”

  Several dancers cut between them, intent on their own sparring; one whirled a spear so close to Tokela it sent a lock of chestnut hair wafting over his mask. He didn’t so much as twitch. Watched. Waited…

  There is another raucous shout—outside circuit, focus in, no matter—but someone throws a spear, gives more teeth to the Wolf. Wolf catches it. Hefts it. Smiles.

  Našobok took two steps forwards. Tokela also, but sideways. Then again. And once more—four steps instead of two, leading them in a tiny and twinned circuit.

  “You’re as pretty on your feet as on your back,” Našobok purred, tossing the spear from hand to hand. He feinted sideways; at the last instant rocked forwards.

  Was foiled, not by Tokela, but another dancer who stood before Našobok, motioning with his spear. The crowd greeted this with a loud surge of bloodthirsty encouragement…

  N’da, growls Hare. Mine. Find another.

  “Hunh” was Našobok’s comment as he flicked his eyes over the new dancer. “You know you’re just going to start trouble…”

  Hare moves forwards, all silence, all intent. Either the new dancer—Gull—doesn’t see him coming or is too arrogant to bother watching his back. Perhaps he thinks Wolf will give warning. But Wolf watches, gaze betraying nothing, as Hare gets in the first blow—a round sweep to Gull’s legs, sending him flying.

  But Gull is no Bear, to fall heavily or easily; he has the carmine wyrh-tree on his ribs, has spent his Hoops in the practice and the hunt. He hits the ground, rolls up to face Hare. He is smiling.

  Hare does not smile. He snarls. Waits.

  Našobok watched, a lopsided grin tugging at his generous mouth, and drawled, “D’you know how long it’s been since I’ve had two males fight over me? You’re quite turning my head.” The grin became a laugh as he flipped the spear hand over hand. “Both of ’em.”

  A small part of Tokela heard him, gave an inward chuckle; outwardly he stood, lone stillness amongst the dancers, the drums throbbing in his chest and rushing through his veins like Riverlet overflow. Shards of light made a Dance behind his eyes, sparking and scattering, copper and silver brine… Rivertalk lit by the Moons.

  Tokela found himself welcoming it. Wanting it.

  Waited, silent and still…

  Gull is unnerved by this silent determination, by the eyes-meeting-eyes of challenge. He lunges forwards, a move of desperation, and Hare sees it as if his opponent is moving through River water, slow and easily targeted. Gull is skilled, but Hare has also spent many Suns in the practice and the hunt. Gull is stronger, but Hare is lightning-swift, skimming a silent undertow.

  Spears clack and slide and clack again, and Gull shows throat, retreats from the blazing eyes behind the Hare-mask.

  “You,” Našobok said softly, “are quite the fancy dancer.”

  The talk sank Tokela even deeper into his own skin. Here. He was her
e, and around him the drums beat heavy, slower. Spent. Many of the dancers had already chosen. Masks were coming off, weapons were being lowered, partners had been wooed and won. Tokela looked at his chosen partner, felt their gazes lock hungry. Hung.

  “Ai,” Našobok breathed, “just look at you. You want me, lovely Ša’abo?” His lip quivered up over his teeth. “Do us both a favour and just come get me…”

  Not yet, Hare whimpers, not yet. Prove yourself before he takes the mask from you, before he sees.

  So no more silence, no more waiting. With a cry, Hare swings his spear, whirls and spins. Wolf is driven backward, surprised, unable to do much more than shake his mane and parry protest. Spears talk, arguing in clacks of hardwood and tings of folded bronze points, catch and slide. A line of crimson blossoms on Hare’s breast as Wolf dodges and strikes—first blood!—and Wolf is given a return streak of scarlet along the outside of his thigh. Blood stings with sweat, grunts of effort and harsh gasps...

  “Enough!” Našobok went to his knees, spear haft held up above him, offering and surrender. Tokela froze midthrust; momentum disagreed—violently—and he stumbled, went down as well.

  Našobok dropped his spear, lurched forwards. He almost didn’t make the catch, but an improbable twist of his torso let him grab Tokela. They both half rolled, half sprawled across the ground.

  This time it was Tokela who collided atop Našobok, only to find himself stilled, held fast by gaze, by sweat-slicked muscles, heated skin, rasping breaths. Found himself willingly lost in eyes meeting eyes, in skin against skin… lost even further as a heated, hard knot pushed close against his hip, rousing undeniable reaction in Tokela’s own already-tight clout.

  He wished he could come up with talk as sharp as the knife on his calf, or as clever as the talk Našobok had been making. But, nothing. Našobok merely panted against Tokela’s shoulder, murmured something Tokela couldn’t hear over the humming behind his ears. He was dimly aware of the drums still going, the remaining dancers still sparring and stepping. Aware of the solid and thick edge of quiet spreading into the watchers closest to them. Then Našobok laid his head back on the ground, dark hair spilling behind him like kelp washed up ashore, and closed his eyes, smiled.

  It was a smile to break whatever will Tokela might have left.

  Našobok opened his eyes and reached up, smoothing fingers across the woven surface of the mask. The motion made Tokela more afraid than he’d ever been in his life and those strong fingers, amazingly gentle, began to push the mask upward. Tokela raised his hand out of protective instinct, forced himself still. Covering Našobok’s fingers with his own, he pulled them away just as gentle. Then he tilted up to his knees—he didn’t want to, just wanted to mould and melt himself into that warm, broad body—but gritted his teeth. Stood.

  NAŠOBOK STARTED to protest, then settled onto his elbows, the soft smile still on his face. This was going to be interesting.

  The oških yanked the mask off with a sudden vehemence and stared down at him, the mask dangling from one hand. Dark hair fell across his face, chin tucking further, almost as if taking refuge. Then he hung the mask at his belt, tossed the hair back and, almost challenging, eyed Našobok.

  It was those eyes—large and unshadowed by any mask, gleaming and reflecting Fire’s light—that feathered the first, tiny thrill of recognition in Našobok. Several heartbeats, then everything set in and sunk him, and by then “interesting” was not quite the word he needed. Instead he said the first thing that came to his tongue, foul and flummoxed.

  “Yuškammanukfila ikšo! Tokela?”

  That forelock fell again, and the oških gave the first familiar gesture—a bothered blink, sideways tilt of head, and a tiny, self-deprecating flash of smile… and poke Našobok sideways, it was little Tokela. Only not little, not anymore, but grown tall and sleek and just this side of heartache-about-to-happen.

  “Uhn,” Našobok said, tried to push up from his elbows only to have one slip on a slick patch of grass and send him sprawling.

  Tokela lurched forwards, letting his spear fall with a clatter as he reached out. Našobok gave a small flail, wondered if it was possible he could look any more ridiculous.

  He grabbed Tokela’s forearm, watched lean muscles clench and teeth grit together, felt a grin tugging at his face as, with a little determination and a lot of pride, Tokela hauled upward someone twice his own weight.

  “Tokela?” Našobok repeated—inane, but he couldn’t stop it any more than he could halt his helpless repeat of, “Yuškammanukfila ikšo…”

  “I really hope you aren’t,” Tokela said, as the half smile blossomed, sudden, into full-bore, heart-stopping intensity. “Too stupid for rutting. Because that would sort of ruin it.”

  It wasn’t Tokela’s voice, either—at least, not the one Našobok remembered; this voice belonged to the agile stranger who’d given him quite the tail-trimming with a spear. All furry and low, with a hoarse tension running beneath it, and about as subtle as a buck in rut.

  Or so it seemed to Našobok’s too-tight clout, anyway.

  Tokela just stood there, quiet, as if waiting. They were out of the Dance, anyway, from the time Tokela had dropped his spear, but the drums still pounded for the remaining dancers. Našobok became aware, abruptly, of the strained hush in the watchers closest to them. Taken away earlier by the unfolding novelty and drama, now there were plenty who had, with the players stilled, come back to themselves. Thisnow, they remembered who—what—had entered the circuit.

  Našobok’s gaze went to Palatan, who jerked his chin slight and sideways, plain as Sun on water: If I were you I’d consider making your talk somewhere else. Now.

  Našobok tried to take his hand from Tokela’s arm, but his fingers seemed loath to let go. He hesitated further as dark brows, still beneath their inevitable overhang of forelock, drew together. Tokela angled back, ever so slightly, his gaze upon Našobok searching. Whatever he was looking for, it didn’t please him; face clouding, he released Našobok.

  Našobok’s fingers still refused to do likewise. “Tokela. We should—”

  “That’s enough.”

  Sarinak’s voice shouldn’t have been much of a surprise to Našobok. Even more surprising was the reaction it tendered in Tokela. Suddenly the oških was gone, and if it wasn’t quite the shy ahlóssa Našobok remembered, it was a strange reflection of that memory, ramped up into an apprehension surely inappropriate to the situation.

  Trouble, a’io. But not enough to kill them.

  “Mound-chieftain,” Našobok started, respectful. “It s—”

  “You. Outlier. Leave this circuit.”

  Not only Sarinak, but Inhya was there, glaring an entire quiver of arrows at Našobok. Not so surprising, that; what was surprising was the flat stare Tokela turned upon his dam.

  Another, larger surprise, as Inhya looked aside.

  Sarinak reached out, grabbed Tokela’s arm. The oških stiffened as if the touch had burned, but Sarinak did not loose him. “Tokela.”

  Tokela rounded on his hearth-father with a snarl. “This is my right. You can’t—”

  “That’s where you’re wrong.” Sarinak, of course, was implacable. “I can. I do. I put a stop to this. And your rights—which you have taken, not had bestowed upon you as is our way—such rights do not extend to bringing an outlier into Circuit. Your Dance is over.”

  Palatan had risen, padding without a sound to join them. There was a set to his jaw Našobok well recognised. “Perhaps there is a better place to settle such things?” The talk rang quiet, all too reasonable—definitely a new-acquired skill, that.

  And one with which Našobok agreed. There’d already been one open humiliation thisSun, and despite Palatan’s offhand assessment of indifference, Tokela’s cheeks were blood-dark.

  “There is nothing to ‘settle’.” Inhya’s voice went low but Našobok heard it. No doubt he was meant to. “Your heart is great, but not always wise, little brother.”

  “You are
tyah of horseClan,” Sarinak stated. “You are Alekšu, to whom I must give honour. But your ways aren’t ours. Do likewise honour. This isn’t your concern.”

  Palatan met Našobok’s eyes, shook his head ever so slightly. Našobok gave a slight nod and returned his attention to Tokela.

  Those cheeks were still flushed, but his eyes had gone flat, impassive. Našobok tried for intention in his own gaze, loud and clear. There was no need for any of this. They shared Dance; more could be shared later. After this unpleasantness was circumvented.

  “I’ll go,” Našobok said, quiet, keeping his eyes on Tokela’s. He was quite unprepared for what he saw flicker there. Scorn… ai, perhaps not, he amended, but the truth was even worse.

  Disappointment.

  Yet had he not been watching, Našobok never would have seen it. The twinge of reaction vanished as Tokela looked down and away, forelock covering any further revelation.

  “We all go,” Sarinak said.

  They left the boundaries of the circuit. Palatan tried to meet Inyha’s eyes, failed, then gave Našobok another weighted glance and returned to his place.

  A short way, the walk, into the cool mist-gloom of evergreens and, thankfully, away from further scrutiny. Tokela kept darting quick glances at Našobok, as if waiting.

  Waiting for what?

  This was becoming more tangled with every breath.

  Tokela gave a sudden twist of his arm. Sarinak lost his grip, tried to reclaim it, but the oil that had aided Tokela in Dance did more service. Silent and swift as the hareKin mask still dangling at his belt, Tokela disappeared into the trees.

  “Wait!” Inhya called after him. “Tokela!”

  “Ai, leave him.” Sarinak growled, intemperate. “He’ll come back; he always does. What was he thinking?”

  “Did you really have to do that?” It was the first thing that came to Našobok’s lips.

  Sarinak turned to him, frowning, examining him as if he were some new species of prey. That he gave an answer was as surprising as the answer itself was not.