Blood Indigo Read online

  She’d smiled as she said it. Palatan had been his like.

  But now he was Alekšu, his own honour and an important curve along Council’s Hoop. He could have demurred. Certainly Chogah’d only hied herself to First Running as she pleased—and often she hadn’t pleased.

  Save this one, and Palatan still wondered at the perversity of that.

  Just as perverse, his own understanding as to why Chogah acted as she did, including preferring a closed tipo.

  The Council pipe passed a second time round. Palatan gave the gaily painted bowl a fond stroke before pulling Smoke deep into his lungs. Within the bowl, Fire flickered greeting, smaller twin of the hearth’s blaze.

  “…suffering because stiff-necked midLands farmers refuse to suffer a few yakhling.”

  “Not all midLanders are so stiff-necked,” Galenu a’Hassun pointed out with a lazy smile. “As I said before, in stoneClan territory, outliers are permitted to come and go.” That smile betrayed the commonality Palatan shared with Galenu; they both preferred more than a token amount of Smoke aboard to deal with Council matters.

  Well, two commonalities: Galenu’s dam had been great-aunt to Palatan.

  Dance and sparring had their places, raids and rutting too, but Smoke truly blunted the keen emotional edge of acute disagreement. The inevitable clash of differing customs and ways of being could erupt into something more resembling the flowing Firepaths of Naišihloyeh than any reasonable Council. Smoke had a necessary place—and had the surreptitious benefit of dulling Palatan’s own Senses from roar to murmur. The forces running like hot blood beneath skin were that importunate. For now, what Fire lay behind his eyes was quiet—Smoked—within. Palatan could, as Našobok would say, “keep his heart in his body” for a change.

  Another reason to loathe Council: taking Palatan from a lovemate he saw far too seldom. Though Našobok no doubt was busy indulging Tokela.

  And there’d always been something more to that one. Palatan found himself wondering, not for the first time, if Tokela had begun maturing in more ways than those of a mere rutty oških.

  “—does Alekšu say to this?”

  Palatan disguised his unwary start as a shift of weight, seeking Aylaniś. Her lip tilted; she knew he’d been leagues away. Inattention wouldn’t be discourtesy, considering how Smoke’s effect could vary, but it nevertheless pointed out the newest to wear Alekšu’s horns was too wayward, more skilled at being the trickster horse raider than wielding any authority.

  Well, so be it. Palatan would rather knock someone off their mount with a well-placed blow than endure this endless prattle. And what secrets he had? N’da, not bartered for any price.

  He straightened, one eyebrow raised. “Say again?”

  Seguin smiled—more a smirk, and one Palatan longed to wipe from him. Not in Council, of course, but later, facedown upon Grandmother’s apron. “I merely state how long it’s been since Alekšu has graced this Council. Since you are not your predecessor—”

  “Thankfully,” Inhya put in, wry.

  “—surely you’ve opinions?” Seguin continued. “Particularly since you are known to have… uh… close relations? With outliers?”

  Palatan leaned forwards with a slight snarl. Fire, in Ša’s place of honour, gave a flare upward; Palatan chided his co-tenant to silent patience. Not easy, considering the challenge nigh flying about the room; Palatan could See the bodytalk with eyes closed.

  Sarinak leaned forwards and tended to the hearth, muttering about dry fuel and sap pockets.

  “I have opinions about many things,” Palatan finally answered, soft. “And considering my… close relations, as you say, you’ve also already guessed at least one. Unlike Chepiś or Matwau, outliers aren’t Other. They’re of us.”

  “There has already been too much talk of Other thisSun,” a chieftain from dryLands demurred.

  “For good reason,” Aylaniś pointed out. She kept sliding her eyes to Palatan, query and concern.

  Not that he blamed her. His heart hadn’t felt properly in his body since he’d stepped from the Breaking Ground with victory in his hands. Chogah had carried her birthright carelessly, but many turnings of Hoop had given her ease beneath the added weight of so many Spirits. Perhaps emerging from the dark and solitude of Awakening and diving headfirst into Council busytalk hadn’t been the smartest of transitions. And since crossing into River’s territory, Palatan’s nerves scraped all the more raw. He wasn’t sure why, either.

  The chieftain from midLands—the farmer at the centre of the debate—protested, “By their actions, outliers and outcasts choose Other. They are not my people. Why should I allow them to scavenge my Lands?”

  “I was not aware any portion of thisLand belonged solely to you.” Palatan didn’t bother to so much as look up, kept peering into Fire’s eyes.

  There is not enough Smoke in thisLand to shut them up—or out. Ai, my co-tenant and Spiritmate—lend me strength!

  And Fire answered in Ša’s not-talk, soothing warmth that coalesced into Always, my own.

  Several disapproving hisses echoed in the chamber—nothing to do with Fire, or Palatan. Agreement.

  The farming chieftain held up his hands. “I meant nothing of the kind! Seguin is not the only one to note the… ah… lenience of those a’Šaákfo.”

  Palatan lifted his gaze then, subtle challenge belying the mild tone. “This much is true: my People aren’t as willing to discard a tunic merely because it ill fits us. We prefer to find one who can wear it easily, give it a place. Less… wasteful.”

  Inhya, from her place beside Sarinak, gave a warning roll of her eyes. Aylaniś hid her smirk beneath a scratch of nose.

  Galenu’s soft chuckle echoed through the Council den.

  “Brother of my spouse,” Sarinak ventured, “your heart is great. But—”

  “My heart’s no greater than yours, spouse of my sister,” Palatan riposted. “But my confusion, perhaps, holds greater. When we’ve Chepiś and Matwau upon our doorsteps—a fact those outliers you so vilify have bothered to share with those of us as have Clanrights—I have to admit I see little wisdom in worrying over our own kind.”

  “They are not!” the farming chieftain, stubborn as wabadeh, insisted.

  “Our. Own. Kind.” Rolling to a half-crouch, Palatan shrugged away his blanket. Fire reached upwards to hiss covert heat behind Palatan’s eyes. Inwardly quieting his co-tenant, Palatan and smiled.

  It was not a pleasant expression.

  “They’re of us. Blood of our blood. Cousins. Sisters. Brothers. Anyone who’d waste energy barring thisLand against our own kind? Instead of welcoming their help and using their knowledge to dampen a wild that might well scorch us all? That one is a superstitious k’šo who not only uses outLander’s talk, but deserves what ša receives of it.”

  Silence. Palatan slid a swift glance to Aylaniś. Her mouth quirked in wry agreement.

  Still in silence, Palatan quit the den.

  QUIET, TOO quiet. Even the oddling not-sounds that had dogged his steps since… since Chepiś… those, too, were silent. Only the Riverling sink pool, feeding from top to bottom, lapping at Her banks as Tokela climbed the weeping tree wykupeh and settled against the weeping tree’s sturdy bark.

  Normally, he was good at the wait.

  Normally, he didn’t mind being alone.

  But too much spun through his Spirit. What had happened with Mordeleg? With the t’rešalt?

  With Anahli?

  Tokela stared at the hareKin mask, hung up on the doorway, willing ša to answer.

  Ša didn’t, but the sink pool did; beckoning and promising, if not answers, at least easement of questions. As Sun sank beyond the far trees, Tokela clambered down.

  He took the mask with him, setting ša carefully on the sandy bank like a guardian, and went for a swim. Not merely a swim, though; he glided through a haze of water and thought, diving deep and coming up for breath only when he absolutely had to, and finally everything went numb and slow and c
hill.

  Aware, this time, when he’d company. But this time the murk was clean, silt and water as opposed to treacherous slime and undertow. The Riverling seemed to encourage, press him forwards.

  Tokela didn’t want to fathom any more complexities, not now. Nor did he have the courage to approach. He stood, River tickling his belly, as Našobok squatted on the bank, also waiting.

  “I was afraid I’d have to come looking for you again.”

  I was afraid you might not come looking. Again, awkward, too complex, too exposed. Talk stuck to the back of Tokela’s mouth. Again. He trailed his fingers in the water, tiny sketches, then noticed what he was doing and stilled his hands.

  Was Našobok just giving Tokela breath? Or had he reconsidered sharing such breath?

  “What did you do with Mordeleg?”

  “Hunh.” Našobok shifted, foot to foot. Tokela suddenly realised: his cousin was uncertain, too. “Let’s say I set some things in motion. And if none will finish those things, I will. Either way, Mordeleg won’t be in a position to bother you again. Let his own people deal with him. Hopefully with a lodging pole.”

  The thought of Mordeleg getting clobbered with a well-peeled tree trunk tucked a grin into Tokela’s cheek.

  “Look at me, Tokela.”

  Uncertain, Tokela did so. Našobok still hunched on the bank, resting his forearms on his knees. But he had taken up the hareKin mask, was twirling ša in his fingers.

  “Ai,” he ventured, very soft. “In thisNow you bear a very different face than when we Danced.” A frown teased at Našobok’s brow as he considered the mask, almost thoughtfully.

  Tokela found he’d talk for this as well; still awkward, but there. He gestured to the mask. “It was that face.”

  “Was it?” Našobok’s eyes met Tokela’s own, darksight glinting in the full Moons flickering through the trees. Long heartbeats spun out, heavy yet underlain with the soft soothe of the Riverling’s song.

  Tokela looked away. It seemed a nest of viperKin lay writhing in his belly, all coils and tiny, stinging fangs.

  “Do you always run to Her?”

  He didn’t have to ask, he knew what Našobok meant. Forbidden, but this more sweet than rue; Našobok’s voice held a low and reverent quiver, which the Riverling—and so River—somehow echoed. She lapped at Tokela’s belly, soothing and startling both. He was beginning to wonder if She had always been present, outwards and inwards, even before the tides of Changing had begun flowing through him, before…

  Before the t’rešalt. Before Chepiś.

  Panic rose then flirted itself dry within him. There was nowhere left to run. And Našobok’s expression held: open, accepting.

  Does She speak to you, too?

  Sometimes… I think She does.

  Neither did Našobok turn away; he just kept squatting there, chin on forearms, arms about bent knees and toes digging into the sand. The steady regard should have been uncomfortable, a warning flare within Tokela’s Spirit—too close, too close to your secrets. Instead, it held comfort.

  Našobok was here. Even as Anahli, somehow, had been. Listening. Not judging. Not waiting with white-rimmed eyes for the half-breed to do something Other. Just… Here.

  And it tumbled forth. Not what Tokela truly meant to speak, but nonetheless what lay within his heart. “I didn’t know Mordeleg was following me. I should have… paid attention. Inhya’s right about that.”

  Našobok seemed puzzled.

  “He saw the mask’s Power, too. Just as you did.”

  “You keep making such talk. If you mean there was nothing of you in Dance, I don’t believe you.”

  “Then you don’t understand what a mask is for.”

  Našobok’s eyebrows went up. He reared back, ever so slightly, then rolled forwards to sit on his bent knees. The clouds veiling Sister and Brother Moons gusted aside, pooling their light downwards.

  There were still smears of oil on Našobok’s chest and thighs, catching light as he shifted. Tokela went weak-kneed just with the sight of him. Particularly where oil splotched a faint scrim over the tattoo on his belly, particularly where it glittered on that beringed nipple. Particularly considering he had gotten the oil from Tokela’s own skin.

  Wind blew across Tokela’s neck, a light touch that set warmth first, then wet chill. He shivered. “You were raised here.”

  “I was indeed.” It was wry; Našobok gently tossed the mask back onto the bank. “I understand masks better than you might think.”

  “Then you should believe me. Should know. It’s easy to… better to… when none knows wha—who—you are. Even you. When you saw me, you stopped. Because it was me. You saw the mask, not me, and when… when I…” Talk started to tangle again, unwieldy and untrustworthy; Tokela repeated, “The mask.”

  “The mask only covered up part of you—”

  “The important part, obviously.”

  “N’da.” A sudden grin. “N’da, not really.”

  “You’re making fun.”

  “Only a little.”

  “Is…” Tokela’s throat closed up, tight; he made it work. “You wish we hadn’t. You… touched me, made Dance with me, and…” The memory of that rose him again, here and now, cool Riverwater merely a support for what was kindling just beneath Her surface. “Now you pity me.”

  “Tokela!” It was a growl. “How can you possibly think—?”

  “I know I’m… odd. I know I don’t look like anyone else.”

  “Sink me! Of course you don’t look a’Naišwyrh. You look a’Šaákfo. There’s an entire tribe of firstPeople with your look, cousin. Your mother’s blood cam from dusk as much as dawn. How can you not know this?”

  Tokela squinched his eyes against a sudden, humiliating sting.

  “Have you even bothered to ask? Ai, Tokela.” Našobok lurched to his feet, running hands over his face and chasing back through his hair. “Has it truly come to pass no one has told you how lovely you are?”

  And Tokela didn’t know what to say to that. Had little breath to make an answer even if adequate talk would glide from his tongue. Instead his chest heaved and hot, sparse trails spilled salt-wet down over his cheeks. It was only then he realised he was weeping. But silent; as silent as his throat.

  An utterly foul curse from the bank, then a slosh and rush of steps surging as quickly as they could into hip-deep water.

  “Ai, sink me is right, you’ve already sunk me too far. Just drown me this time and be done with it, leave my bones to wash up on a blighted shore.” A growl and grumble, and before Tokela could turn around, Našobok’s hard arms had wrapped around him and yanked him close. “I really don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone cry as fetchingly as you.”

  Tokela suddenly didn’t care what weakness it betrayed, what tale it told if he should submit, only that he could, that he wanted to. He set his teeth against Našobok’s forearms, sucked in a breath that strained against the tight hold, then reached up and gripped back, slender, strong fingers digging into hard tendons.

  “You think I saw a mask?” Našobok’s whisper was almost angry. “I saw beauty and grace that made my heart leap. You were a wilding current, pulling me in your wake.” Našobok bent closer still—Tokela hadn’t thought it possible—and whispered against his ear, “I saw you, Star Eyes.”

  What the Chepiś had tried to call him. What he’d refused to allow. Tokela didn’t like hearing it aloud, and none seemed to like voicing it. It was a reminder, even if it was what his name meant—another mask, Commingling talk. But no one, not even Madoc, used this particular intimacy. And the way Našobok spoke, so low and soft and… and close—so close… too close… not close enough—breath teasing warm against Tokela’s cheek. The scent conjured Smoke and tulapaiś, sweat and sex and brine. Tokela’s heart skipped against the too-tight drumskin of his breast, thoughts running scattered, water over breaker rocks.

  “And if we’re having awkward, insecure confessions, I have several for you.” Našobok’s grip tighten
ed, shook, sending River in rippled spirals about their close-hoved bodies. “I never thought to tread the Mound’s circuit again, and I never dreamed it would be you who’d Dance me around like this. I’m Riverwalker and Wyrh-chieftain, but in our birthing-tribe I’m nothing. Outlier. You and I have shared many a story, but I never thought you would want to share this one.”

  It could have been kind lies or indeed a confession, and all Tokela wanted was to deny—nothing, outlier?—to affirm—want you, want you…

  Tokela twisted in the firm embrace until he could reach Našobok’s face with both hands and grip. Hard. “You,” he gritted, “talk too much.”

  Našobok’s face held no pity and no lies. “I guess I talk too much when… well, when I’m not sure what else to do. And if I talk too much, well, you don’t make enough talk to tell anyone what you want for dinner, much less—” Again the mellifluous voice cracked, went rough; it weakened Tokela’s knees. “Tell me, Star Eyes. Plain and pitiless. There’s no reading your bodytalk now where I could only a short while ago. What do you want of me, here, in thisNow?” Not so soft anymore, it echoed the rapid drum of Tokela’s heart.

  Tell me. Here. In thisNow.

  Were there other Nows? For River was quiet, quieter than She’d ever been since he’d returned from Šilombiš’okpulo.

  Tokela reached out with trembling fingers. Angling his head forwards until his forehead rested against Našobok’s chest, he grasped Našobok’s hand and cupped it to his nape.

  He’d seen it done, this intimate and evocative lover’s gesture, and had never truly fathomed why.

  Until now.

  I’m speechless with want. My head is heavy, my eyes spin, my heart wants to fly. Only your heart can carry me. Only your heart can drum the truth for me.

  Against Tokela’s forehead, beneath the thick bone of Našobok’s breast, another beat lurched and quickened. Našobok whispered Tokela’s name, and the fingers at Tokela’s nape twitched, slid up to tangle where a braidlock had, only that morning, hung, binding him to an existence in which he no longer belonged.