Blood Indigo Page 27

  And River, silent, curled about them close as skin.

  “Thisnow,” Tokela breathed. “Here.”

  PALATAN DIDN’T return to Council. Instead he returned to his tipo, merely to find Anahli nested in the heap of their blankets, asleep.

  Odd.

  Arrow didn’t think so. Giving a low purl in his throat, the fleethound began the arduous process of curling into the blankets beside one of his People: first the circling, then the decision of location, then a fold of his sinewy body—front-first of course—before rolling onto his side against Anahli’s blanket-heaped form.

  She barely stirred.

  Palatan tucked a smile into his cheek and knelt, regarding his eldest daughter with cocked head. A soft, curious sigh escaping pursed lips, he reached out and tucked the blankets closer, traced a light touch over Anahli’s cheek.

  Another oddity: she was radiating heat like a well-stoked Firepit.

  Black eyes opened, blearily took him in. “Yeka?”

  Palatan hesitated but a half heartbeat before lowering himself gently next to her. He’d never been one to waste a chance. “I am here, sa ehši.”

  Anahli lay silent for several breaths, then ventured, “I’m… not so well. I wanted to lie here. It smells like home.”

  Her voice quavered, vulnerable reminder of the leggy, open-hearted ahlóssa who’d shadowed Palatan both mounted and afoot. Recent memory seemed implausible; surely this wasn’t the oških who’d only thisSun openly humiliated one of the Spear Dancers and defied her elders.

  “I see,” Palatan answered, quiet. “Is there pain?”

  Anahli seemed to consider the question before answering, dull. “My eyes hurt. My temples pound…” A frown gathered at her brow and she shrugged the blankets down. She was still dressed in her Dance finery. “N’da, not just that. More like… hiveKin. Buzzing about in their Dance, filling up their little lodges with sweet and wax until they’re too… small.” She looked up at him, cheeks flushed dark, and Palatan froze.

  Those eyes glittered, with an overlay of oddling white and turquoise.

  It wasn’t the normal gleam of darksight in shadowed places. Nor was it the backwash of any co-tenant he’d ever seen. It flickered like tiny lights within Dark’s upended basket, like…

  Stars.

  This was impossible.

  Sucking in a long, slow breath, Palatan gritted his teeth and reached out, put gentle fingers to his daughter’s throat. Bent his head and breathed the invocation, seeking.

  And heard. N’da, more felt, indeed as if hiveKin had taken residence in her heart. Thousands of tiny wings vibrating, a breath pouring into the back of Palatan’s throat to rest there, humming. So soft, so present; surely to release them all he’d to do was just breathe…

  Within him, as if teased by the current of many translucent wings, Fire expanded and lit the backs of his eyes, pure and ecstatic. Palatan had no heart to quell the response. This was his child.

  And it comforted, reassured his acute senses with familiarity: Grandmother’s own. Ours.

  “Yeka?”

  “Peace,” he murmured, tracing a tiny sign at her throat. With it, he released his Power and opened himself to working. Though he could not remove those tiny, industrious Spirit forms, he could ease them into temporary complacency. Fire murmured consent, morphing into soft embers. Smoke, and quiet…

  A hiss. Fire blazed upwards then gusted sideways, guttered. Palatan swayed and nigh lost his balance, saving himself from falling atop Anahli with a swift prop of arms.

  Bracing against the sudden gust of Wind, he glanced around.

  Crouched there, transfixed.

  The tipo had vanished, leaving them both surrounded by nothingness…

  N’da, not nothingness. He heard water. He felt Earth beneath him. But he gazed into forever. Into darkness, heavy and immense, into which, slowly, spackles of light began to appear: first one, then several, then more, and more. So many, like Sky’s night basket. Uncountable, slicking faint lights upon the waters and silhouetting the mound rising beneath them. Ai’o, rising, as if he and his daughter had come from Beneath Worlds and arrived home, whilst above them hung the lost Spirits in the wide weave of Sky’s basket, shining down upon Grandmother to light the waters.

  Suddenly the basket shook, upended itself. And Stars began to fall.

  Palatan tried to tear himself from the contact, squinching his eyes shut and gritting his teeth, hunching like hareKin beneath a predator’s drift of shadow. For long breaths the Vision refused to loose him: he saw tailed Stars falling all around them, heard them hissing as they struck the waves, flinched from the burn of sparks…

  Finally, the Vision released him. Palatan twisted sideways, thudded onto his back beside Anahli and lay there, panting, for what seemed like forever.

  Only when Arrow started licking his face did Palatan dare open his eyes. A familiar, homely sight met his gaze: the seasoned hides and poles of his family’s tipo. No Stars. No basket upending them to fall upon thisLand.

  No Chepiś sorcery slithering through his daughter’s heart.

  “Yeka?” Anahli’s brow was furrowed; she’d risen to her elbows, curious. Her eyes were sleepy-dark, normal. Lit with concern but nothing more.

  She had seen nothing. Fire curled in the hearth, dozy embers, and when Palatan sought silent reassurance, his co-tenant oozed complacency.

  “Yeka? What’s wrong?”

  “All is well, my heart.” His movements cautious—muscles quivering, waiting for the next blow—Palatan scooted back over beside Anahli. “I merely slipped on the furs and knocked my head.”

  “You must be careful,” she fussed, burrowing back into the furs. “Sometimes, Yeka, you’re a bit clumsy.”

  With a chuckle, he cupped her cheek. “I am indeed.” But his thoughts whirled, still in thrall to the Vision.

  Of all the Elementals, Stars were no longer of firstPeople. Not even when People walked on. They had once gone to Stars, but that way had been blocked. Few Spirits could make the journey, opting instead to sink into Grandmother’s embrace.

  Stars belonged to Chepiś, now. Chepiś had stolen the Kinship for their own twisted uses. Even as they longed to steal Grandmother Herself.

  Arrow crept back into bed, this time folding into a furry, fawn pillow. Anahli sighed, curling one arm over the dog and ducking her face into Palatan’s palm.

  The pang of it was sweet and rue. “Better then, Nani?” With light purpose he used the pet name—gleaned from her own first attempts to speak it.

  Another drowsy smile. “You never call me that anymore.”

  “I do. Just not often enough.”

  “Why does she hate you so?”

  Palatan blinked, startled. “Who?”

  “Chogah.”

  Palatan leaned on Arrow—who huffed content—and stroked Anahli’s hair. So many answers, none of them simple… save one. “She wants what is mine. She always has.”

  “What is yours.”

  “A’io, eldest daughter of my chieftain. I have a few irreplaceable treasures. You, for one.”

  A frown; with firm fingertips Palatan rubbed it back into complacency. “Enough for now. Sleep. Sleep long and well, with pleasant dreamings.” A tiny push, a hint of Smoked somnolence should any hiveKin linger.

  Arrow grunted, shifted, and burrowed in. Anahli’s fingers twitched in his fur—once, thrice—then stilled.

  Palatan stayed there for some time, watching her sleep.

  Found himself remembering a long, hard wintering seven years before Anahli’s birth. Another defiant oških, crying for his Vision within the vast deeps beneath the cavern mound a’Šaákfo. Fire had woken, sprung from Palatan’s singular torch to catch others, lighting the cavern walls. Beneath his feet the caldera had stirred, rumbling and smouldering, flowing beneath him…

  Had greeted him.

  Palatan would never forget the smell… the taste. Nor could he deny what he had become in the consequence of that Vision.


  Chogah had tried to deny it. Ai, had she tried.

  And now, this. Palatan hadn’t experienced a Vision this strong in many summerings. And to have one here?

  Here, where remained an outLand presence he’d Sensed but once before, in any children of the Alekšu’ín.

  15 – Accords

  Galenu a’Hassun took his time returning to his guesting-den. Old eyes didn’t pierce the dark like they once had, and admittedly, his walk came a bit unsteady. But surely it could be considered disrespectful, to refuse or waste prime Smoke. Naišwyrh’uq had enviable trading connexions; there were places downriver that produced the best leaf thisLand had ever seen.

  And this First Running had produced the most entertainment Galenu had seen in some time. New information, stories and gossip to catch up on, a bit of scandal to liven the Dance circuit—who could ask for more? He and Nechtoun would have plenty to talk about over nextSun’s first meal…

  Nechtoun. The reminder sobered. Reaching out, Galenu touched the curved stone walls and paused to gain his bearings. While the youthful elements of Council diverted, not all of them were nonsense.

  Change isn’t coming. Change is here.

  Sarinak always claimed the wyrhling hadn’t the sense Grandmother gave a wabadeh in rut; yet the wyrhling’s speech had proven exactly who knew what and how. Wayward, a’io, but Našobok was no great fool.

  Galenu resumed his progress through the tunnel. A fair courtesy, to be quartered with Mound-chieftain’s immediate family during the height of First Running. More from Nechtoun’s influence, certainly, than any change of heart in Inhya. She’d never liked him.

  A smirk touched Galenu’s lip as he circumnavigated a pair of coupling oških fems, a heaving elder who’d imbibed too much, a pack of noisy ahlóssa who nigh trampled him on their way to who-knew-what, then finally found the set of switchbacked passages he sought. A small climb, with openings that allowed a view of River. The moored craft lay quiet beneath the Moons, rocking.

  Ai, another reminder—he had to find Našobok come Sun’s rising, make arrangements for the shipment. Perhaps charm more talk about what he and Grass Weaver had hinted about in open Council. They seemed to know more than even Galenu himself. Granted, Galenu’s own outLand connexions had dried up, or so it seemed. It had been a brace of summerings since he’d seen his acquaintances. Maloh always brought him the oddest things, as if she thought he were ahlóssa, swayed by shiny baubles. Well, all right, some baubles were a lot of fun. But after the business with Lakisa, what visits Maloh, Jorda and Sivan had always made—middark, of course, and gone like mist—had ceased. As if they felt responsible.

  Galenu sighed. No one was responsible for what happened. Just as none could have stopped Lakisa once she’d made her mind up. And with such a renewal of ill will hereabouts, it would be imprudent to travel past the Threshold and seek them out.

  Old Grass Weaver had been forward, to say what she had. Galenu had earned his travels, and the old fem had no rights to imply otherwise. Yet Grass Weaver was right about the encroaching outLanders. Maloh had given dark hints Galenu’s way about taking care where he wandered; it seemed her own kind had expanded their horizons to include slavers and zealots.

  A’io, the rest of Galenu’s fellow chieftains were fools did they not heed the outliers’ warnings. Even Nechtoun.

  Galenu shook his head, let out a grumbling sigh. Nechtoun was, well, not himself. It was the worst insult to give any a’Naišwyrh, to be sure, but it was the truth. Galenu hadn’t meant to upset him so, particularly in front of their fellows. It had seemed more like an old debate of their youth, where things had either ended in fisticuffs or a bout of rough-playful rutting. Talk was all they bandied of late, of course; he’d not meant to cause such distress in his oldest and dearest friend.

  Another set of switchbacks. Galenu slowed, feeling his way.

  Most surprising had been the sight of the Alekšu attending Nechtoun—and that Alekšu’s identity. Of course Galenu had known about the business with Chogah; he kept up on the doings of his dam’s birthing-tribe. But no question he was getting old, because he’d not fully processed its meaning.

  Palatan as Alekšu? The young, wayward tyah who’d failed every attempt at wresting control from Chogah, and finally been married off to the tribe’s chieftess? He’d walked out of Council, also, with such strong talk. Galenu had assumed that Chogah had long ago ground the mutiny out of that one.

  Of course, neither was Palatan a wayward oških, no more than Galenu himself was in his prime.

  Nechtoun’s snores filled the corridor. Galenu followed them, flung back the doe hide that covered the den from which they emanated. An uncovered bowl of gleaming-stones both warmed and illuminated the windowless den. A thoughtful gift for thinner blood and elder eyes—Inhya might not like him, but neither would she shirk her duty as hostess. With a happy sigh, Galenu headed to the bedshelf, shrugging from his cloak.

  Instead he nearly went toes over haunch across another gift. It had been left in the middle of the den, trussed and gagged like hunting tribute.

  “HOW AM I supposed to impress upon our offspring that making games with Fire is generally frowned upon?”

  “I knew it was you.” Palatan didn’t take his eyes off the hearth, nor did he move his hands away. Fire leapt upwards, curling about and caressing his fingers. A comfort, to test his control—and a way, curiously enough, to siphon away what quicksilver and oddling flames still ran rampant along his nerves.

  Aylaniś trod over, slow and silent as hunting wolfKin. “Nor should you be in the open like this. What are you doing out here?”

  Palatan pursed his lips towards the tipo behind them. “Anahli sleeps, guarded by Arrow.”

  “I suppose there’s a good reason you didn’t march her straight back to the oških dens?”

  He shrugged.

  “Are you and the Wolf in competition for the hardest shell and squishiest heart?”

  Another shrug. There was no speaking to this, not yet. Not when he wasn’t even sure what he had Seen.

  With a shiver, Aylaniś pulled her fringed shawl closer and came over to kneel behind Palatan. “It smells of Rain constantly here—and feels damp as an outlying cavern. I always forget how it is. Perhaps I too grow soft, used to our caldera and the warmed caverns of our wintering.” She spooned close, nipped at his ear. “I still remember the first time I came upon you doing such a thing.”

  “You shrieked like raptorKin. I became… distracted.”

  “You became burned.”

  “Not the first time with you, my Hawk.” Palatan chuckled as she gave his ear another nip.

  “For burning? Or distraction?”

  “Mm. You obviously think much more of my control now.”

  “I wish control was a game you would not play.” Another nip, sharper. Palatan acquiesced, sliding his fingers from Fire’s grasp. “I thought you’d be well amidst another game, between the furs with Našobok. I’d hoped he’d be distracting you.” Yet another nip, just as sharp, and Aylaniś nestled closer, one hand sliding around his chest and tracing down his belly.

  Palatan closed his eyes, leaned back. Then with one swift motion, he twisted and pushed her back, pinning her to the ground.

  “Ai’ye!” Aylaniś pummelled at his chest, mock grievance. “Beast!”

  “Sss. You’ll wake her.”

  “That wouldn’t break my heart; we could have our furs back.”

  “When have we ever needed a soft bed, my chieftain?” He bent closer and licked her nose. “I would dearly love to have our Wolf distracting me. But he’s obligation to a young lover thisdark, so I imagine you’ll have to do.”

  In the next instant, Aylaniś had hooked her legs about Palatan, flipped him onto his back—hard—and straddled him. “Have to do?” she repeated with a sharp-toothed grin, thumbs laced over his breastbone. “Perhaps I had hopes for two stallions in my furs thisdark instead of one—so it seems you’re the one who should step up his performance.”


  Palatan laughed. It warbled into a sigh as Aylaniś laid a hand across his mouth, rolled her hips. Said “Sss, quiet.”

  Sometime later, after they’d wrestled and revelled, sweated and tangled and howled—softly, to be true; they were not in their own place—they lay beside the hearth with heartbeats commingling, breath slowing.

  “It will be better,” Aylaniś said.

  “Better might kill me,” Palatan replied, drowsy and purposeful misunderstanding. He grunted as she poked his ribs—it, too, was lazy.

  “My first few Councils, I thought I would die of boredom. Or fury.”

  Fury. Ai’o, that he well understood. His eyes flickered to where Fire crouched, sullen with the damp but waiting. Always waiting.

  “Yap, yap, yap, neverending.”

  Palatan chuckled. “That’s exactly how Našobok described it.”

  “Well, he’s right. Saying so much, doing nothing.” Aylaniś pushed up, stretched. Sleek with sweat, Fire gleamed over the curve of breasts and shoulders, caressing the soft swell of belly that had nurtured their children.

  Palatan reached out, trailed fingers over her skin, always surprised how the dark glitter of it didn’t smudge his fingertips like hallowed, fecund Earth. “So remind me again, why?”

  “Someone has to make sensible talk. Letting anger rule your head and feet does nothing.”

  “I had to leave. Next time will be easier. I know what to guard against.”

  Aylaniś nuzzled his hand, a keen understanding worth every oath strained, long ago, when he’d been forced to reveal what he was. She and Našobok… they knew all that could be known or shared.

  “There are better things to consider.” Palatan smoothed his hand down between their bodies. She pulsed with heartbeat and heat, slick against his fingertips.

  Aylaniś hummed pleasure into his neck. “Perhaps we should consider leaving nothing for our ungrateful Riverwalker. Abandoning our furs to roll in another’s!” Aylaniś slid her hips forwards then back against his hand, slow and thick and lovely. Fire fingered her ribs as they expanded, His light tonguing her nipples into peaks as rigid as Palatan himself was becoming—and exposed the stutter of her throat as Aylaniś threw her head back, ground down against him.