Blood Indigo Read online

  Našobok juddered, hissed, “Sa yuškammanukfila ikšo!”

  Rut me stupid? Ai, Našobok didn’t know the half of it. Because too much was rising within Tokela, and he wanted it tamed and trammelled. Like thisSun’s rising, when he’d lingered beneath the wykupeh with Našobok, having been rutted just that deliriously, deliciously stupid. That sated. That silent. That real: flesh and heat, bone and blood and the pounding of a heart drum against his own. Power headier than any inward whisper or presence. This. This.

  Našobok pulled back. Tokela uttered a protesting murmur but Našobok touched his fingers to Tokela’s chin and raised his face up into Rain.

  There were Stars above, peeking through Wind-torn clouds… or there were Stars behind his eyes, Tokela wasn’t sure any more, and he had fallen into Fire’s grip and come away unburned.

  He wanted the burning, now.

  Tokela pulled Našobok against him, and there was no hesitation at his importunity, only a return ferocity that melted his bones to butter. He growled into Našobok’s neck as Našobok tightened his arms, picked Tokela up as negligently as one of the feathers at his temple, and shoved him against the wall.

  Rain came harder, seeking them. Wind gusted, swelling River beneath them, sending Ilhukaia rocking. Našobok didn’t so much as grab for balance; Tokela found his by clenching his knees tighter into Našobok’s hips. Muscle, sinew, and bone moulded close. No more whispers. Instead Wind flexed His wings, River foamed, Ilhukaia shuddered.

  “I want—”

  “I know what you want.” A purr against Tokela’s throat, and hands nimble at his clout. “For being such an undemonstrative sort, you certainly have an opinion on this, don’t you?”

  The ship lurched beneath them, River slapping her sideways. Našobok rode her easily, lifted Tokela higher against the wall. Taking one of Tokela’s hands, Našobok guided it up, curled it about a thick wooden spar. In answer Tokela tightened his knees and snaked his other arm upwards, grabbing the spar with both hands, rolling his hips forwards. Našobok growled low in his throat and thrust up against him, driving a small cry from Tokela’s lips.

  “Again,” Tokela pleaded. “Harder. Here.”

  Here. Wet locks spidering, hard flesh straining, damp leathers creaking, the fur and silk and taut aching pulse captured between them, trailing slick tears and tangling, belly to belly. Tokela’s heart pulsed deep into his toes and back up against his temples, a passionate drumming to drown out the rhythm inside, to echo the driving of water, Wind and wood. Rain spattered against his exposed throat, to be lapped up by warm breath and even warmer tongue. Shadows, water, the roaring nearness, the voices of both washing whispers into sighs and silence. He could drown in it, in the sound and the pitch, the sweet-hot skin against his own, the rhythm of heart and breath knocking in and against his breast… and only thisNow, this breath and beat to drum it outside, away…

  “Take it from me,” Tokela whimpered against Našobok’s temple. “Take it… take me. Please.”

  Našobok caressed him, rough and tender, and Tokela clutched to it, writhed against it, buried body and voice and heart into wet hair and flesh. His fingers tingled upon the wooden spar, his arms quivered, his thighs shook. They were literally steaming as Rain’s caress, commingled with sweat and saliva, heated gasps fogging about them. The wood scraping against his back, Ilhukaia’s rhythm an ever-present reverberation against his spine. Tokela’s voice rising, begging, as Našobok thrust against him with a shudder and a hoarse sigh, as Tokela’s own voice choked, as it all flared and finished within them.

  Retreat, then. A slow seepage that left him enervated, as if someone had slit him stem to stern and emptied him out onto the Rain-soaked decking. Strong hands holding him, fingers trailing from his lips to his nape, muscles shivering yet firm against his own. Whispers, again—but these couched in Našobok’s soft voice, murmuring endearments against Tokela’s hair. The creak of wood, his own hoarse gasps. Sky dark, rumbling against the trees as they swayed, moaned. Spirits, true, but manifested outside, voices soothing, voices welcome.

  Voices, sated. Silent.

  “Better, now?” was the soft murmur against his cheek. Tokela tried to answer and couldn’t. He felt hollowed out, replete, floating. Untouchable.

  “Tokela.” Insistent.

  “I’m… here,” Tokela answered, somewhat less than truthful as his head lolled sideways.

  “Believe me, I’m well aware of y…” The fond voice trailed off as Tokela staggered. Našobok leaned closer; a slat of Moonslight escaped the cloud cover and pinpointed his pupils, dousing their glow yet clearly illuminating a sudden frown. “Ai, Star Eyes. Are you well?”

  “I’m—”

  “I didn’t hurt you? You seemed to want—”

  “You didn’t. I wanted it. Wanted you to…” With a bit of effort Tokela made himself focus. “It was really good. I just feel a little, uhn, light-headed.”

  Našobok seemed unconvinced. An uncomfortable twinge fluttered in the pit of Tokela’s belly and he looked away.

  “I am well!”

  “Of course you are.” Našobok’s retort held a bit of acid. He bent to scoop up their discarded clothing. “But Wind’s picking up, and both of us standing here soaked with a bare rudder. Come down to my hold. We’ll dry off, get warm.”

  Tokela nodded, leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes.

  Dark. Quiet. Nothing Danced there, light or dark or shadowling not-whisper…

  “Tokela.”

  He opened his eyes just as Našobok leaned close and nuzzled Tokela’s temple, lingered there, then pulled him close against his chest. Tokela hung there with a delicious shiver.

  “Don’t make me go back,” he whispered, sudden, against Našobok’s shoulder. “When you go, take me with you. Please.”

  18 – Son of the Lost

  “She said you… sensed things. In her son.”

  A thrill of alarm ran through Palatan. He had never spoken of what had passed between him and Lakisa. A quick glance showed Aylaniś, too, apprehensive.

  Inhya seemed to realise anew the repercussions of an additional presence. “I… This matter, it must stay between us, within this tipo.”

  She spoke the talk a’Šaákfo, not merely courtesy, but because it had language for concepts dawnLands had long ago sloughed as dangerous.

  “You know it will not pass my lips.” Aylaniś reached down, clasped Palatan’s and Inhya’s joined hands, and rose. “I’ll pour fresh tea while you tell Alekšu what you must.”

  The familiar, ritual motions of guest-welcome reassured, but didn’t lessen the jangle of Palatan’s nerves.

  Lakisa had insisted upon the tradition of bringing her infant son to her grandmother’s Clan. NameKeepers were different along River’s thighs; her dam-right to have her child’s name Dreamt by the matriarchs of her birthing-tribe. Only both her mother and grandmother were dead, and Palatan closest in dam-line, so Lakisa had begged Palatan to Dream the infant’s Naming.

  He’d protested. While Dreaming with Smoke or peya was far from forbidden even along River, he knew it would be considered an affront to his Alekšu. But Lakisa’s protests had silenced his own: Chogah had turned from Lakisa, claiming she had tainted herself with Chepiś and deserved whatever it brought her.

  That last had made Palatan relent—he was newly a sire himself, found it monstrous to punish a babe for any transgressions real or believed. And Chogah, upon finding out, had been at first furious then oddly complacent.

  They’d never spoken of it since. Palatan could still remember the… the taste of a Spirit literally unravelling from within. As if carrying the babe had frayed vital threads, and the birthing had snapped and broken them.

  Lakisa had been too far within that… that place, and Palatan himself unsure how to broach it and stay whole. Even thisnow.

  And thisnow he balanced the Spirit-wealth of an entire tribal alliance upon his shoulders. He could no longer afford rash actions.

  “What th
ings, sister?” His prompt was soft, careful. “What talk did Lakisa a’iliq make to this?”

  A tremor twitched Inhya’s hands as he spoke the name, even with the pardoning suffix, but then, Inhya had been long a’Naišwyrh. She mouthed a tiny orison and continued.

  “In truth there was little. Only that his name disturbed her even as she decided he must keep it.”

  Inyha was hiding something. Perhaps an oath bound her as well. Perhaps one twined with the manner of Lakisa’s death.

  “Our dam spoke to me of it, later. Suleweya worried after you, said you were strange for Moons after,” Inhya clarified as Palatan frowned. Her talk began tripping over itself. “My brother, we all remember what it was like for you. Before. Had I known what La—what my lovemate meant to ask of you, I would have dissuaded her. You were so susceptible as oških, and the danger pervasive. So many Spirits can lie in wait, even beneath the guidance of Smoke or peya.”

  Smoke actually quieted ša’s brethren Elementals, while the peya could make them wild. The one time Palatan had been given the latter…

  Chogah had told his family it was to banish the Spirits. She had whispered to Palatan that it was a testing.

  And you, my eldest sister, stood amongst the ones who watched as she gave it to me.

  The resentment lingered, as did the aftermath of the drug’s effects: a faulty latticework with fragments still missing. It made Palatan brusque, somewhat heedless of his tongue. “And now you fear the same affliction visits the son she gave you. You come here and ask me to torture another.”

  Inhya blinked. “I never wanted them to hurt you. I don’t want Tokela hurt. I swore an oath, to protect him even as his dam would have.”

  “But?” He tried to blunt his talk, couldn’t. Inhya frowned, her confusion surely reasonable. As a hand laid upon Palatan’s shoulder he stiffened, then relaxed into Aylaniś’s touch. It transferred a soft-deep strength, and one that didn’t come from pain or rage.

  Palatan closed his eyes, gentled, and rested his cheek against his chieftain’s fingers. Repeated, “But?”

  Inhya’s gaze dropped, then her head followed suit, forehead resting upon their clasped hands for long breaths. Then she told him what she had witnessed in the Council den, alone with Tokela.

  As she spoke, Aylaniś’s fingers nipped, hard. With a tiny, choked noise, she moved away. Beyond Inhya’s view, beneath the pretence of pouring tea, her eyes sought Palatan’s, dark with disquiet.

  Tokela sketching Chepiś faces he’d never seen. Tokela drawn to Našobok, to River. Mordeleg’s claim of sorcery—and Inhya’s worries that it could well be true. The Šilombiš’okpulo, where Lakisa had gone and Tokela had followed… and perhaps, as Mordeleg had claimed, used the Shaper’s well to defend himself.

  Not only Inhya’s, but Palatan’s own thoughts running apace: Anahli stricken afterwards, hints of interference surfacing. Her change thereafter, asking her dam about Našobok, and River.

  Had she lied in Arbitration? Why would she?

  And now, it seemed Tokela could hold Fire as well as River?

  His thumbs stroking at Inhya’s temples, Palatan winged a silent question towards the hearth. Why did you protect Tokela?

  Fire gave no answer, Sent or Sensed.

  “Something must be done, Palatan. I swore to shelter him, to raise him as my own, yet at every opportunity he but proves he’s not… not…” The talk throttled into clenched fists; she’d revealed more than she felt wise. “I fear to even speak it, but I more fear…”

  “You fear,” said Palatan, “rumour could be truth. That your son is not your son, but a’Chepiś.”

  Inhya mouthed a negation, muted, and he could feel the underpinnings sending waves of chill over his scalp and down his nape.

  She doesn’t fear. She knows.

  “You are Alekšu.” Inhya raised her head, eyes glimmering. “You are now the one who, alone of all our People, has Grandmother’s leave to… to intervene. You can help him as Chogah helped you!”

  Chogah did not help me. Chogah hoped I’d not survive. Again, Palatan met Aylaniś’s gaze; again, hers lay dark—this time with sorrow.

  Yet another reason such secrets shouldn’t be easily shared. The toll lay heaviest upon those forced to bear their weight as mere witness.

  “I know you say torture,” Inhya pleaded, “and I know she hurt you, and I felt my own Spirit dying with every scream you uttered. But you were freed, brother, freed of what Spirits would take you. There was purpose to it, you know there was, for now you can aid others! You’ve walked their path, you know the horror of it!”

  You have, he whispered silent against her hair, no idea. Then, full of pity, Ai, Tokela.

  “You know what he could face. The only reason they never banished La—my lovemate—was because she showed nothing like to… that. She was merely lost, Spirit-lost. It holds shame, but such things are pitied, cared for, released if necessary. It is not… not true possession. And it isn’t Other. Isn’t Shaping.” Inhya gulped a harsh breath, tried to regain some control. “If Tokela is what I fear, if it is laid upon him, if the rumours are proven… I have done everything I can to protect him, to stop it. I have, I swear, but if we cannot stop it, expel what possesses him—”

  Cannot, she says. Ai, she knows this is not of us, knows it is truly Other.

  I can gather one a’Alekšuáhoklawyhahín. Indeed, I must. There is no choice; so few of us remain. Yet what do I do with one who is but half our kind? I cannot bring Chepiś sorcery into the beating heart of our most sacred places!

  “—there will be nothing more I can do. He will be made outlier, walk nameless and clanless.” Inhya lifted her head, met Palatan’s eyes. “There is none else before whom I can lay this. You must help my eldest son, Alekšu.”

  Palatan raised Inhya’s fingers to his forehead, where the scarified, ebon-and-white Mark still bore a tiny, new-made itch. Then he rose and walked over to the hearth.

  He could feel Inhya’s eyes follow him, and those of Aylaniś, but he didn’t respond, staring instead into Fire’s depths.

  “Alekšu.” It trembled, false force. “Palatan. Brother.”

  Still, no response. Rain poured, outside. Fire remained placid, as if Ša asked no more than to sear meat and give warmth. Was such refusal its own answer?

  Or was it that there could be no answers here?

  Aylaniś began to serve the bark tea. Palatan took his and did not drink, mouthing the warm clay of the cup and staring into Fire’s eyes.

  Turned. “He is only just oških, I know, but how long is it since his voice deepened?”

  “Two winterings. He had… an…an ill reaction to the Dreaming, and the Seer said he wasn’t ready. Breaking has come late to him.”

  “You have only seen small signs recently.”

  “A’io. And not all at once. In… surges.”

  Palatan nodded. “This is normal.”

  “Normal?” Inhya’s voice rose, almost shrill.

  Another knife cut, shallow and stinging. Palatan smiled at it, bitter, and gave emotionless explanation. “It means we yet have time.”

  “RAIN’S STOPPED,” Tokela half-whispered.

  Našobok turned from draping their wet clothing over a line of twisted hemp in the corner of his hold. Tiny hisses issued as he did, the garb dripping upon uncovered pots of gleaming-stones. Set below on gimbals, they gave off as much warmth as light—a luxury Našobok was glad to invest in. Their clothing would be mostly dry by Sun’s rising.

  Tokela stood by the aft lookout, staring out into the darkness. He swayed ever so slightly, not only from Ilhukaia’s motion, but some vibration deep within.

  Frowning, Našobok snatched up a length of fine-split doehide from a hook and padded over, draping it across Tokela’s bare shoulders. Tokela shivered, still swaying, and Našobok leaned forwards.

  “What do you See, Eyes of Stars?” he murmured, realising the horsetalker inflection even as he uttered it.

  “Everything.” A bare w
hisper, the like language parried quick as a spear. Then another shiver and louder, in dawnLands talk, Tokela murmured, “Nothing. Rain. Dark.”

  “Mmm.” Našobok started to rub the hide over Tokela’s shoulders, since it was obvious Tokela’d no interest in doing so. “Sometimes on River, if She’s flat calm and Sky is clear, you feel as if you’re swimming in Stars.”

  “Really?” So small, the voice. So remote.

  Našobok focused on scouring Tokela’s backbone. “Really. All you see is deep black and pinpoints of light, all you hear is water skimming against the hull. You’re flying in indigo dark, hung in another… now.”

  “Another now. I think I’d like that.”

  Našobok tipped Tokela’s chin, but those eyes evaded his, vulnerability skidding behind a cool, thick skim. They gleamed in the dark—no Seeing but nightsight, fled of the random flits and sparks like… like…

  Stars. Stars and clouds filled with Rain, and the deep, wild indigo of the dark Mare’s belly over us, never-ending…

  All of it left Našobok hollowed and breathless and twisted—and, somehow, in need of cover. Ducking his head, Našobok knelt and began to dry Tokela’s ankles and feet.

  Tokela submitted to the attentions. Then, with a sudden shy grin, “I like that, too. I didn’t think…”

  Našobok smoothed his fingers over one instep, gave an upwards smirk at what was stirring, obvious response to the caress, amidst the sparse, dark fur conjoining Tokela’s thighs.

  “I never thought those two things would ever be that connected.”

  Regaining both his feet and his equilibrium, Našobok laughed. “At your age, everything’s connected to your rudder.”

  Grinning wider, Tokela scratched behind one ear. Našobok traced one indigo-Marked cheek then the other, and once more Tokela’s eyes chased away. This time, however, from self-conscious delight. Another chuckle rumbling in his chest, Našobok threw the hide over his own head and started in on his sodden hair.

  Soothing, familiar: the tiny hisses of their clothes dripping, of River lapping against the wood hull. Then another soft rhythm, first in question, then increasing both pace and volume. Našobok closed his eyes with a smile. The muted beat of the drum—and the hands coaxing it—were as familiar to Našobok as his own heartbeat.