Blood Indigo Page 24

  Of course, either of those made the supposition that Tokela wanted to be found.

  Well, perhaps he didn’t or perhaps he did. But something in him yearned for… something. Else Tokela would have never invited a wyrhling once-cousin into Dance.

  The strand first, then on to the little cove. If that wasn’t it, then…

  Našobok narrowly avoided being bowled over by a half-sized, Sun-haired projectile. More out of instinct than anything resembling sense, he grabbed the missile by ša’s ahlóssa braid, skipped forwards a few steps until Madoc had slowed, then stopped.

  Truly, Našobok wasn’t prepared for the small fury that descended upon him.

  “Let go of me! You have no right. No right!”

  Shock more than anything made Našobok release his hold. “Madoc, what i—?”

  “It’s all your fault!” Madoc rounded on him. “Everything was fine—fine, I tell you!—until you came here and… and…!”

  Then Madoc spat on the ground not a hand away from Našobok’s boot, turned on one heel and marched towards the compound.

  Našobok watched him go. Was it even possible that the entirety a’Naišwyrh had gone completely mad?

  Ai, better he head for home, board his ship and never look back, because every time he did involve himself, even in the slightest, with some aspect of his birthing-tribe, it inevitably meant stepping in a pit of sleeping viperKin.

  “I’d better go find Tokela,” Našobok finally said.

  TOKELA RAN.

  Again.

  His feet knew where he was going even before he did. Up and past the drum heights, through the trees along the cliffside and away from the Great Mound, towards the trebled Moons rising, peeping from behind high-hung clouds and ghosting against Sky.

  The hareKin mask bumped and scraped at his hip.

  Drums and voices muted in the dense green, with only an occasional call or lift of bass beat. Dance and Fire left behind, cordoned by thick woodland, only the rush and burble of the Riverling’s overflow, only the rustle and hiss of leaves in Wind’s breath to fill the quiet.

  Tokela needed the stillness. Needed something to quiet the twitching, humming, surging thing lighting behind his eyes, as if burning to cinders the drum that would let him move, Dance, breathe.

  Instead of growing, the Riverling dwindled beside him, and the trees thinned. His steps slowed, from run to stumbling half trot, and he blinked, somehow surprised at where he’d come.

  Surely he’d meant to go to the wykupeh.

  If you didn’t want me to find you, then you came to the wrong place. The memory of Madoc’s words informed him: maybe he hadn’t meant to go there, after all.

  But to come here?

  Tokela approached the t’rešalt, one foot before the other, silent, the pit of his stomach roiling with the weight of dread and a strange, rogue tickle of… anticipation? The Riverling teased him, burbling as She disappeared into Earth, as if all things fell silent before the thing looming before him.

  It too was quiet. Dark. Had he misremembered? Imagined the sparks and shards of light chasing across its surface?

  But as he moved closer, the t’rešalt started to hum and spark. Slow at first, then faster the closer he came; as if his presence nudged it, somehow. The lights flickered soft, this time seeming more welcome than warning…

  No matter. He should leave.

  Instead Tokela hesitated, then crept closer and extended a cautious hand towards the thing.

  Smooth, his fingers registered. Moreso than the finest-sanded wood, slick, almost, and…

  Tokela yipped and yanked his hand back just as the thing lit up with tiny, feathery bits of SkyFire, all arcing towards his fingers. A jolt thumped his calf, where his knife lay in its sheath, and seemed to tingle at the copper on his collarbones. More, the flickers… followed, somehow, tiny lights sparking a connexion between stone and fingers, carried on Wind’s breath.

  He shook his hand, as if shaking away one of insectKin, and the light shattered into several sparks that fled back into the slick surface.

  Yet, the t’rešalt remained, humming. Waiting.

  It speaks to you, Hare said. It knows you. As River knows you. As Wind and Earth, Fire and Sky all know you. Maybe there are answers to be found in it.

  Wind and Earth, Fire and Sky and River…

  Tokela peered down at the hareKin mask, frowning. This is forbidden.

  Yet here we are.

  Silence, with only the disappearing burble of the Riverling to break it. With a tiny growl of breath, Tokela untied the mask and set ša gently on the ground, just beside the tiny stream. After a few breaths of hesitation, he also shucked away what had given him the unpleasant tingle: both his knives, the few copper ornaments. Then—slow, careful—he reached for the not-stone. His fingertips skated across the slick surface—and that, upon this closer inspection, seemed almost like the glašg he’d seen and touched from the traders. Belatedly he realised he was holding his breath, braced, waiting for another shock. It didn’t come.

  Instead the strange, furred streaks of light gathered beneath his fingertips, followed as he moved, where he moved, and left behind pale ghosts of where he’d traced. Like sketching…

  A smile touched Tokela’s lip and remained there. His fingers sketched a feather made of blue-white sparks, then a wing, then…

  “I’d heard this place was forbidden to those a’Naišwyrh.”

  Tokela whirled.

  Mordeleg held both of Tokela’s knives, and his eyes gleamed yellow in the muted light. “This is the outLander place, isn’t it? The gate to Chepiś. Do you come here often?”

  There was no answer Tokela could make. It was no comfort that, from behind him, he could feel the little tickles of warmth and spun blue-white, and the t’rešalt humming an odd, low song that rose the hair along his nape.

  Or maybe that was because Mordeleg took one step closer. “Did you enjoy Spear Dance?”

  He had. He had.

  “Did you bring the filthy outlier here, then? He must have serviced you quickly. Hardly time enough to enjoy it.”

  Cheeks flaming, Tokela spat, “I more enjoyed kicking your tail into the dirt!”

  “You were lucky.” Mordeleg bent, put the knives back onto the ground. More fool him, Tokela silently sneered—or maybe not; Mordeleg’s next motion was to step over them, putting himself between them and Tokela. “But you were lucky before too many. You owe me, now.”

  “I owe you a deeper cut with my blade.”

  “I think it’s time we used my blade.”

  “You don’t have one. MidLanders are soft; they use blunt edges to dig in sand.”

  “Says the one who claims his sire was one of us, who lives with posturing, dull fish-eaters.” Mordeleg’s voice dripped scorn. “And then comes to meet his true kin in the forbidden places, just as your dam did. Don’t pretend you were sired by a midLander, half-breed. Your mother took after her horsetalker granddam, opening her legs for any stallion who’d service her.”

  “I will end you!”

  “Then come for me. Do it. Maybe I’ll show you what blade I do have.”

  Tokela was tempted. Still stripped to clout from Spear Dance, Mordeleg’s hands were at his sides. He hid no weapon Tokela could see. It had been relatively easy to take Mordeleg down in Dance. Surely Tokela could do the same now.

  “Or are you afraid, little hareKin?”

  Abruptly, Tokela was. Something quivered, deep-set and dark-clouded, in Mordeleg’s voice. Tokela couldn’t sound it, couldn’t parse it. The oddling not-stone at his spine no longer spread warmth, instead seeming to leach the heat from him. The Riverling’s burble shattered into the silence.

  Enemy. The open, blank eye sockets of the set-aside hareKin mask winked warning. Predator.

  Something scratched between Tokela’s shoulder blades, a faint tease of spark and feeling.

  Bring him in, Hare whispered.

  The not-stone’s hum increased in pitch. Tokela’s eyes wa
tered. His temples pounded. “What do you want?” he whispered back.

  “Come away from that thing and I’ll show you,” Mordeleg answered.

  “I didn’t mean…” You, Tokela finished silent, uneasy.

  “Or I can leave you here and find your little cousin. I saw him wandering off by himself earlier. He was pretty upset, not paying attention to much.” A glint of teeth, more snarl than smile. “Does he really think nothing can touch him?”

  Tokela rocked forwards. “You wouldn’t dare.”

  Mordeleg shrugged. “You’re sure? River took your dam and sire… if he was your sire. A wrong step on the strand, and River would take him, too. An accident, surely. So many things can happen.”

  So many things. The Hare-voice bade Tokela’s hands twitch, led his fingers sliding in some unconscious Dance upon Air. Mist breathed chill into his lungs, not quenching, but kindling Fire in his heart.

  “Why are you doing this?” he asked, low and quiet.

  “I told you. You owe me.” Mordeleg came forwards a few steps. “And I think I know how you’ll pay.”

  “Or I could just go, now, and tell them what you’ve threatened.”

  To Tokela’s surprise, Mordeleg laughed. “Do you think they’ll believe you? You brought an outlier into Dance. And now I find you… here. At this place forbidden to everyone. Except—” he stepped a tiny bit closer “—you, perhaps? The ehšehklan, visiting his sire’s home—”

  “That’s a lie!”

  “Maybe it is. Maybe it isn’t. The question is, will it matter if they find you’ve been visiting this place?” Another step, another smile-that-was-not. “Ehšehklan.”

  Tokela stood firm, though his trepidation stirred, murky and treacherous as Mordeleg’s gaze. Strangely unreadable, the latter—more murk, rising about them, invisible but there. Until now, things had been clear: Mordeleg wanted to see Tokela beaten, wanted to be the one who did it. Whys were unimportant.

  Until now.

  Tokela’s fingers kept stroking. Some trick of light trailed blue-white in their wake, as if Tokela had graphite and leaf, sketching… only these were symbols he didn’t know.

  Because they weren’t. Symbols. Only a trick of light.

  Are you so sure? Hare whispered.

  The words quickened Tokela’s heart and filled it. Like the yaiyai of the elders, singing warrior courage into being. Like the t’rešalt at his back, humming and sparking…

  “You want me?” Tokela sneered. “Come and take me.”

  Mordeleg hesitated, slight but there. Tokela took the chance, feinting to his knife hand then darting opposite. Mordeleg followed the first motion, and Tokela ploughed shoulder-first into Mordeleg’s knees.

  Arms windmilling, Mordeleg floundered, seeking purchase against the soft loam.

  Tokela struck again, a shoulder against Mordeleg’s hip, then whirled with a twist and turn to dart away, snatch up his knives—

  Instead a hand snarled in his hair, gave a brutal yank. It enabled Mordeleg to find his footing; he heaved himself upright, dragging Tokela with him. Tokela gave a yowl and twisted, lashing out. Mordeleg cursed as the blow landed; he grabbed Tokela’s arm and twisted it behind him, propelled him against the t’rešalt. Another brutal shove sent Tokela face-first, bloodying his nose. With a growl Tokela twisted, nearly won free, but Mordeleg lunged forwards, slamming every bit of his considerable weight against Tokela, pinning him.

  All the breath popped from Tokela’s lungs in a wrenching grunt. He lurched and bucked; it made no difference. He might as well have moved the Great Mound.

  “Be still.” Mordeleg growled. “Don’t you want me to answer your question?” One of the hands holding to Tokela suddenly softened. It trailed downwards, across the wyrh tree stippled onto his ribcage, slipped on a remaining bit of oil in the small of his back.

  Tokela froze.

  “You asked me why I was doing this.” Mordeleg shifted, rocked his hips forwards. The end of his clout tickled at Tokela’s thigh, the hard, thick knot beneath making many things altogether clear.

  Hands quivering, wanting to draw, but no blade to hand, nails trying to dig into slick not-stone, teeth bared to bite at air.

  Trapped. Panting Hare for real this time. Helpless.

  Here.

  “Now you see,” Mordeleg whispered. “I don’t need weapons. I choose closer means.”

  So, the whisper came again, do We. Thick, wet heat reverberated against Tokela’s cheek, rising behind his eyes with convulsive flares and sparks, humming and jerking down his back, setting his heart lurching and stuttering in his breast. It nerved him, impeding any movement save an uncontrollable twitch and spasm: his hands, fingertips tracing tiny pictures against the t’rešalt, blue-white sparks travelling up his pinned arm.

  Mordeleg tried to shove Tokela further against the thing, but instead hissed a midLand curse by Tokela’s ear. It slipped from anger into panic; the grasp turned from stone to sand. Tokela thought to resist, but a… a croon, it was, deep within his breast, and it sent another odd twitch/spasm up his arms. As if something deep within had disconnected him from his body, a preparation for some reflex he hadn’t known he possessed.

  The sparks rose about him, lifted his hair. His fingers kept sketching. Kept…

  A dull, meaty thud and a hoarse yelp broke the spell. Mordeleg fell sideways, so limp-heavy that Tokela’s knees collapsed and he slithered downwards. The opportunity of freedom further broke the fugue, and he twisted, put his back to the t’rešalt and raised spark-filled hands, ready for the fight.

  But Mordeleg remained crumpled on at his feet, insensate.

  And a lanky, black-haired fem in duskLands leathers strode forwards, another stone raised and ready in her hand.

  PERHAPS SHE’D waited overlong to act. But Anahli’d no desire to interfere in the foolishness of two sparring oških. Not that is, until she’d heard the underlying venom to the exchange, and seen the heavier oških grab the slighter one, slam him against the oddling cavern and… and…

  Her eyes widened, scarce believing. The punishment for this sort of aberration in duskLands was quick—and fitting. Surely dawnLands didn’t allow such a thing.

  Not that it mattered. She was a’Šaákfo. Gliding down the weeping tree all silent, Anahli snatched up two stones adequate to the deed.

  She didn’t need the second one.

  Again, she saw more. The Riverling had overflowed Her banks, wet trickling down towards the unconscious oških, and…

  The other oških spun about, ready for another scrap now he’d the liberty to make it. He bore the wyrh tree tattoo along his ribs, but he was lanky as a weanling colt, more a’Šaákfo than any stout-muscled a’Naišwyrh, even to the sheen of chestnut in his shoulder-length black hair. It fell, weighted with beads and copper, about a face that, again, was broad in the cheekbones and narrow in the chin like her own folk. Anahli started to make soothing talk. Instead, the spit dried in her mouth.

  The first thing she noticed was that his hands were glowing. Roped with strange, sparking tendrils that matched and met the gleam of the oških’s eyes, blue white beneath his forelock. Not Darksight, either. More like the glitter-life of an Elemental… and yet not. Anahli knew the look of the former, had seen such in those who’d come, desperate, to Alekšu. Had seen the dimming, the dying, after first Chogah then Palatan Danced the cure, killing the connexion.

  The oških wrenched his gaze away. The blue-white tendrils wisped into Smoke, as if they’d never been there.

  Had they? Suddenly Anahli was unsure of exactly what she’d seen. The wonder vanished all the further as the oških turned with a snarl to the figure insensate at his feet and toed him. Making sure.

  Well, and Anahli approved of that.

  But the Riverling was flowing close to the downed oških; even a cupful of Her could drown. Anahli strode forwards and grabbed the motionless oških and, after a small hesitation, the other bent to assist. Together they hauled him away from the cavern-thing, and depo
sited him beside a tree.

  Anahli leaned against the bark. “Are you well?”

  “A’io.” Husky-soft, against a spray of leaves. “My thanks. It was a good throw.”

  Anahli grinned and looked back at the fallen oških. “I didn’t kill him, did I?”

  “Killing that one”—the slender oških looked up and threw the forelock back from his face—“wouldn’t make me weep.”

  Recognition settled in, then. His eyes were still the giveaway—too wide and not deep-set enough, more intense than pretty, dark indigo leaching odd-pale about narrow pupils flecked with small lights.

  The latter still discomfited. Anahli masked it with humour. “So you’re Madoc’s fascination. Tokela a’Naišwyrh, it has been long. Sun light your path, cousin.”

  “Fascination? Me?” This with a wry smile. “I’d say he’s more struck with you at present, Anahli a’Šaákfo. River sing you welcome, cousin.” The smile abruptly slipped, and Tokela gave an inexplicable stagger; Anahli grabbed at him with both hands.

  “Are you well?”

  “I’m…” It quavered and Tokela fell silent, his gaze curious and captious, all at once. His eyes glimmered, not tears but with those tiny lights—of course, she reasoned, Chogah said he had been called Eyes of Stars… but this is…

  Is it? something chided, deep and inwards. I remember. Do you?

  Do I what? Anahli wondered. Wind tilted the trees, skirled about them and pulled tiny strands about her cheeks; strangely enough, Tokela’s hair barely moved. A rash of heat prickled her palms and flared upwards through her bones—or so it seemed—to set a flashFire swirl behind her own gaze.

  Remember, the something said. Eyes meet eyes to waken Spirit. Spirit wakens our Mother’s heart, and Her heart wakens. You must remember…

  REMEMBER.

  Talk/not-talk. Darkness, and echoes. Not just River, but many voices… too many: Wind and Earth, Fire and Stars, curling about the entry to Šilombiš’okpulo.

  Eyes waken the heart, and the heart wakens silence. The pathway of silence, followed too long. Remove the mask, O trickster. Show the way to those who are ours.