Blood Indigo Page 32

  Aylaniś looked fit for the highest of Councils. Her bronze hair was immaculately oiled and braided, her bare legs and feet touched with woad and chalk, her tunic spotless. About her shoulders was a beaded doeskin shawl pale as Brother Moon.

  Rescue! Našobok wanted to laugh with relief—and with genuine amusement as Galenu’s expression swerved from annoyance to surprise, then appreciation. Then came the charm.

  Ai, well, if Našobok possessed even half that charisma when he gained that age…

  Aylaniś let herself be beguiled, allowed Galenu to bow over her palms and even to brush one cheek against her knuckles. Then she firmly grasped Našobok’s arm and began to steer him into the tipo.

  “—know how it is, StoneChieftain, nutcakes are best still warm… and here’s several for you. I’d invite you for some tea, but after I feed Našobok, I’m taking him to the furs for a while.” Aylaniś smiled, every bit as charming as Galenu. “A long while, I’ve hopes. So if you will excuse us, stone-chieftain?”

  Was the old khatak blushing?

  He was! Našobok started to comment. Aylaniś reached up and shoved a piece of nutcake in his mouth.

  “You never know when to leave it, do you?” Aylaniś murmured against Našobok’s ear. “Next time I’ll just leave you to argue yourself sideways, you stubborn k’šo.”

  Fine and fragrant Wind upon tall fems; Našobok didn’t have to bend much to nuzzle Aylaniś’s cheek, mouth full of nutcake and all. He knew a rout when he saw one.

  Galenu did, too, from the hastiness of his retreat.

  “But if you’re too tired to have a good go in our furs even after I feed you, I will go find that oških and smack him.”

  Našobok allowed her to put an arm around his waist and staggered, playing along.

  He didn’t need the nutcakes. All it took was having a look at Palatan lounging in the furs, looking tousled and thoroughly done to—and ready to be done again.

  “Are you staying, this time?” Low, vibrating into a growl.

  Našobok loved it when Palatan growled.

  Aylaniś raked Našobok’s hair over one shoulder and bit his nape, making him judder like a first-rutted oških. “I think this time he’d better.”

  Ai, well, Moons’ rising was some time away, and sleep was overrated. Našobok let Aylaniś feed him another nutcake, watched with no little appreciation as Palatan rolled to his feet and ambled over.

  Arrow let out a small whine, rising from his hearthside doze. Not a breath after, there was a chirrup from outside the flap, and a familiar voice.

  “Palatan?” Inhya.

  Ignore her, Našobok wanted to say, but the timbre of Inhya’s next words stayed him.

  “Please, brother, are you there?”

  Palatan heard as well. He frowned, slid a glance to his lovemates and, slinging a blanket over himself, went to the door. Arrow followed on silent feet, nudging his narrow head against Palatan’s thigh as Palatan shoved the hide flap aside.

  Inhya stepped in, as carefully put together as ever, save that her kirtles swung silent, devoid of bells, and her headdress also was naked of adornment. “Brother.” Hoarse-soft, and a-tremble. “It’s urgent. I must…” She trailed off, seeing Našobok beside Aylaniś. Her face—swollen, lined with tears both shed and burgeoning—closed. She wrapped her shawl closer, her talk clipped, formal. Almost angry. “It is a matter for family. For Alekšu.”

  Palatan reached out and stroked a comforting thumb to her cheek, turning to Našobok and Aylaniś with a twist of brow.

  And there went another promising dark, sailing past. Našobok sighed, muttered, “I’ve a promise to keep by Moons’ rising anyway.” Squeezing Aylaniś’s hand, Našobok snatched up a discarded blanket, openly gave Palatan’s nape a stroke as he passed. Said, merely, “Inhya hearth-chieftain,” as he bent through the door flap to let it fall behind him.

  TOKELA STAYED in the den until he heard stirrings from the outer ways: others coming, perhaps, to prepare for additional gatherings. He took up a blanket, wrapped it close about his neck and shoulders, and slunk out the way he’d come before anyone could find him.

  It was late, and wet. The talking drums began to boom out the call to supper. The traders and merchants had already started to close their stalls, with grumbles cheerful and otherwise about Rain’s light and steady persistence. Tokela pulled his blanket closer, kept walking. He couldn’t fight; too numb to take flight.

  Or perhaps it was flight after all, though he wasn’t even sure of where he was going. Other than in the opposite direction of that cursed t’rešalt. A surge of guests and residents closed in about him. Chatting and laughing amongst themselves, they too strode the Bowl, some moving off towards the dining dens. The traders travelled opposite, towards the tall carved entry arches: some were laden with packs and baskets, some accompanied by dogs pulling hitching poles and slings for extra goods, and a few, more well off, had an ox or pony to haul their wares. And others, like fishKin swimming upstream, were coming in.

  The latter smelled of Smoke, which also hung heavy upon Wind’s breath, albeit weighted by Rain and the thick trees. The latest fishing haul was still being cured. Not even for First Running did fish preparation stop.

  Tokela was supposed to have been there earlier, to help repair nets.

  Instead he was invisible, merely another traveller hunched against Rain’s patter, heading to thisdark’s shelter. And if he had no shelter and was heading nowhere, it didn’t matter, not yet.

  The ones ahead of Tokela all spilled onto the embankment where the overpath joined the frontis road. Heading to the wyrhcraft, or to the flat that would ferry them to those waiting caravans. Still unsure of what he was doing, or why, it wasn’t until Tokela half-leapt, half-slid down the embankment that he realised.

  River.

  She was there. She had never left. Even when Fire had… recognised him, River had pushed back against the burning presence, importunate—yet comforting—behind his eyes.

  And how appropriate that another was there, waiting upon Her flanks? Tempting, to just flit past Anahli like a shadow and disappear into the Rain and Sun’s setting.

  But.

  He owed her. She had stood with him. Had lied for him. And he still wasn’t exactly sure why.

  On silent feet, Tokela walked over, took Anahli’s hand and held it between his own. Silent, the vow, and much more than mere thanks as he drew it to his forehead. Oathsister. There is a bond between us, from thisSun onwards.

  Anahli’s brow twisted, as if unsure. A smile appeared, if trembly in the corners, as she performed the same service for him. Closed her eyes as his fingers brushed her brow.

  As they both heard the not-voice:

  Eyes meet eyes to waken Spirit;

  Spirit wakens our Mother’s heart…

  “Are you…” He quavered silent, unwilling to so much as voice the possibility.

  “I only hear the… voice… when you touch me,” Anahli answered, quiet. “It’s you.”

  “It can’t be. I don’t want—”

  “How can you not want it? It’s a gift, Tokela.”

  “A gift? The Chepiś gave me a curse!”

  Her brow furrowed. “Are you saying you believe what people say? That Chepiś sired you? That’s absurd!”

  He loosed her and fell mute, thoughts a-jumble, chaotic.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that, but… Tokela, I didn’t mean anything to do with Chepiś. I meant River. No Chepiś could have given Her to you. Chepiś twist things. River… it’s obvious even to me that She’s… yours.”

  “And if I give in, She will see me outcast! No People, no Clan, nothing!”

  “Perhaps you need to make your own, Clan, then.”

  This seemed incomprehensible. “Make my—”

  “What you have is a gift!” Anahli insisted, her eyes a-glitter. “Our People once had such things, and they called them gifts, talents, blessings! Don’t you know that? In my tribe we tell the stories. We don’t fo
rget, even if we snug too close to memory’s cautions. Do those a’Naišwyrh fear the Elementals so much that they’ve purged even the memories of what once was?”

  “Memory”—soft, yet tugging-strong as undertow; was it his voice?—“depends upon the one recalling it, doesn’t it?”

  “Don’t let them take this from you, Tokela. Maybe you can go away, should go away. Go with Našobok. Be Riverwalker. He’s of River; he can take you away from here.”

  “I thought you hated him.”

  Anahli sobered. “He… it hurt me when he left us. He was my father, my uncle, and I… I didn’t realise. How strong an Elemental can be. Until you showed me. Tokela, if I had what you had, I’d let no one take such a thing from me!”

  “You don’t… understand.” Tokela tried to say it, couldn’t bring it to life through voice. I won’t be that. I don’t want it. I want to be here, of my tribe, belonging!

  “I’m trying to.” It was like shade from hot Sun, or a roof against hard Rain.

  Trying. To understand.

  With a half smile, Anahli leaned forward and touched her forehead to his. Then she turned and left him there, with Rain and River and…

  And Ilhukaia, lying in deeper water, bobbing gentle in the current.

  Tokela watched Anahli go.

  For long, halted breaths, he thought to follow her.

  Instead he dropped his blanket on the strand and raised his bare face to Rain. He toed from his boots, started to shuck from his leggings and tunic, left off. He was sopping; it didn’t matter. As he walked forwards, River tickled his bare toes, made many promises, swore cool, clear bond.

  Riverwalkers have scant ties with any but their own kind—and even that lies questionable.

  He didn’t want to remember Inhya’s talk, but it rose behind his eyes and hissed at him like venomous, tiny avatars of serpentKin. “Shut it.” The growl went deep, shivered back upwards. “I will not hear you.”

  Their own kind.

  A’io. Better to be outlier. Outcast.

  Better than being Other.

  Tokela took several running steps and dove forwards.

  Well used to the undertows and currents lying beneath Her surface, Tokela was pleasantly surprised by River’s accord. He swam, fleet and nigh-silent upon Her undertow, and reached Ilhukaia with ease. The trading galley rose over him, wet and sleek as a breaching Sea-wolf, her sides too slick to scale. Lapping Ilhukaia’s circumference, he found a length of rope knotted into a ladder.

  River clung to him as he rose from Her, tonguing his spine like a lover; Tokela gritted his teeth, shuddered against the rope. “I’ll be back,” he whispered.

  It seemed, to his overwrought senses, She answered. I know. Still, you are missed.

  A shudder, an exhaust of heated breath, and Tokela resumed his climb hand over hand. The rope made a soft creak in his palms. Reaching the railing, he quickly scaled it, coming to a soundless crouch on the deck.

  The clouds parted for several breaths, allowing a rising Brother Moon to reflect against the wet decks, with His siblings to add a skim of bronze and blood to bright silver. Tokela padded across, dripping, his feet leaving wavering outlines on the wooden planking. Rain also left patterns, small circles of strike melting into gloss. Other than his own breaths and the wet patter, Ilhukaia lay quiet.

  Too quiet. Deserted, almost. Surely some of her crew would have returned by now? And the old one, Našobok called him uncle… Munro was his name. Surely he would be here, at least. But Tokela saw no one.

  Našobok had forgotten.

  That’s what it was, and all it was, and with the realisation came a drowning misery as merciless as River. Tokela wanted to kick the railing, hiss curses, weep with frustration.

  My own. So clear, vibrating, a rush of hum and heat that skimmed his skin and stoppered his breath. Do you truly believe you are so easily forgotten?

  Tokela whirled about. No one was there.

  Clouds cloaked the Moons. Tokela paced over to the railing, quiet but worried—hurried—and looked down. Still no one. A sharp call echoed from a neighbouring craft against the cliff face, was muted beneath a sudden gust of Wind and wet. The deck rose and fell beneath Tokela, River slapping and tossing against Ilhukaia’s hull. It sounded like… laughter.

  “I…” A hoarse whisper as he tottered back. “I don’t—!”

  He bumped against something. Tokela tried to shove it away; instead strong hands laid upon him. Reaction came instinctive and instantaneous; he twisted, and when the hands didn’t let go he writhed downwards. His feet slipped on the decking as he lurched sideways, trying to yank free. The grip tightened, shook, and finally shoved Tokela up against a bulkhead.

  Tokela panicked, letting fly with a hard kick. It made solid impact. His attacker staggered hard against him and cursed roundly in Našobok’s voice.

  “Yai!” Pain, and real aggravation. “What ails you, Tokela?”

  The breath slipped from his lungs in a long sigh of relief. “You’re here.”

  “She’s my craft; where else would I be?” Nigh wet as Tokela, Našobok grimaced, bending down to rub at his right shin. “You kick like a mare defending a new-dropped foal—whatever have I done now?” Našobok’s glanced sideways, eyes glossed by a torch held against the murk. “You’re right, Uncle, you heard someone. Only this one was actually invited.”

  Old Munro, bald, tattooed scalp glistening beneath the torch he held, padded up beside Našobok. He’d a thick spear in his other gnarled hand. “Then next time offer the oških a canoe, ’stead of him sneaking up smooth as otterKin and nearly getting spitted by an old Riverwalker.” He spoke Rivertalk, with all the slurs and stops.

  It had been overlong since Tokela had heard such. It gave him focus upon something other than Rain on his skin and River filling his heart.

  Munro peered at him, face cragged further in a frown. Našobok said something Tokela didn’t understand—perhaps couldn’t, because his own senses were set to overflow—and Munro shrugged, turned, ambled away.

  “…is it?” Našobok’s voice overrode the hum and heat. Tokela slumped against the wall. “You’re white-eyed as if shadowlings are after you.”

  You’re not far wrong. Hysteria narrowed itself into a hiccup of not-quite-laughter; once again Tokela tossed the sodden hair from his eyes. “I thought—” It was a croak; he tried again. “I didn’t mean to kick you.”

  Našobok propped one hand just above his shoulder. Belatedly, Tokela realised they were against the front wall of the den leading belowdecks. “When I said you were welcome on Ilhukaia,” Našobok chided, fond, “I didn’t mean you had to swim here.”

  “I… I like swimming. I didn’t mean to… to intrude.”

  “You aren’t. Don’t mind Munro—he’s had a few try climbing aboard without an invitation. He’s quite good with his spear, is the old one; gave them a poke. Not quite the same sort of poke or spear, mind, as you and I’ve shared.” The sly smile made total robbery of Tokela’s ability to answer. “I was about to paddle ashore and wait for you on the strand. But I’d hoped Rain would ease up even a little.” Našobok grimaced as, in seeming answer, the wet just got wetter “No such luck.” He hesitated, peered closer. “You thought I forgot you, didn’t you?”

  Again, talk lay useless. “I… It was—”

  “Ai, do you really believe I’d forget you, Star Eyes?”

  Do you really believe you are so easily forgotten?

  I’m no one. Tokela’s teeth were abruptly chattering. I’m no one. There’s nothing in me.

  Našobok leaned in close, body blocking the pelting Rain. His deep voice and presence seemed a refuge from any voice, internal or… Other.

  Shelter from whatever storms would rise. The only haven. The only sanctuary.

  Go with him. Run away. Make your own Clan…

  Tokela reached up, fingers clutching at damp leather. “Našobok?” It was a choke.

  Another frown. Našobok leaned closer, put his forehead against Tokel
a’s. “I gave you a start, didn’t I? I didn’t mean to.”

  “Našobok.”

  “What?” Našobok’s breath wafting soft across Tokela’s cheeks, spiced sweet-sharp—he’d been drinking. His hair fell over one tattooed cheekbone, his tunic gaped unlaced beneath his longcoat, his leggings slung low about his hipbones and barely held to propriety by clout and shell-and-lanyard belt… everything about Našobok including the lithe, well-lubricated bonelessness of his pose spoke to possibilities, abandon. Shivering, Tokela found his gaze following a long stream of wet dripping from Našobok’s turquoise-feather chieftain’s lock and onto his collarbone, trailing down his breastbone and disappearing sideways. Blood pounded in Tokela’s temples, accompaniment to the sticky singsong of panic still lingering in the pit of his belly, trying to overcome the not-quite-whispers of unknown/unknowable urging him just to let go, give in, dive in.

  “I didn’t mean to, either,” Tokela blurted thickly. “I didn’t mean it.”

  “You didn’t mean to kick me? I know. You said.”

  “I didn’t mean it.” Tokela’s fists tightened, squeaking against wet leather and fabric. The not-whispers were even louder.

  “I know. It is well.”

  Leaning forwards, Tokela put his lower lip to the runnel of wet on Našobok’s chest, caught it with his tongue. Našobok made a small, startled sound, and his hands tightened on Tokela’s arms. With nary a wince, Tokela followed that tiny line of wet down and over muscle-sprung ribs.

  They expanded with a sucked-in, sharp breath. The not-whispers curled into sighs.

  Fingers tightened at Tokela’s nape as he suckled Rainwater and damp, risen flesh, then tightened, pulling him away.

  “Tokela, I—” Našobok said—or started to say, for when Tokela’s eyes met his, Našobok left off the talk as if someone had taken his tongue.

  Half-afraid of what might be limning his eyes, Tokela ducked forwards once more, this time reaching for the neck cords lying beneath the sopping braidlock of feathers and hair below Našobok’s left earlobe. The pulse beneath doubled as Tokela latched his teeth there.