The creatures arrayed themselves in a line with Kest in the center. The buzz of the tribe had risen to a roar, and the chief’s face had darkened, his lips drawing closed in a hard line. The young man’s heart was pounding. There was no going back now. This is how Kest had spent his five days in the wild. He had bonded with all of the proudest, noblest animals that could be found within three days’ ride. It was unknown. It was impossible. A Beast Rider might bond to more than one beast with many, many years’ experience, but never in all the stories had a new hunter bonded so many. Kest was showing the tribe something unprecedented.
He raised a hand and gestured to the animals. “Here are my beasts,” he declared.
He might as well have broken one of the great jungle hornet hives in the middle of the circle. One of the crones set up a wailing dirge, the men argued angrily with each other, and more than one of the children began to cry at the outburst. Pul swung his head from side to side, looking like an old bull rhino brought to bay by a pack of koira. His eyes were clouded and angry. Kest knew this would not be easy for him, and even less so for his parents. A quick glance around the circle and there they were. His father stood behind with his hands on her shoulders, and his mother stood with hands clutching her belly as if she’d been kicked. They looked small, and sad, and old. They both met his gaze, and the fear and confusion he saw there were worse than swallowing a fistful of flame paste. He looked away and around at the others, but no one else would meet his gaze. Many were too busy arguing to even notice, but some stood with eyes down, looking ashamed. Pretty little Binmara was one of those.
The chief gripped him hard by the arm, pulling him close and speaking low. “What are you doing, Kest? Are you saying that all of these animals hold your soul? That’s not…! How? Is your mind fractured? What is this?” He seemed genuinely baffled and hurt.
Kest grappled with his words, trying to find the way to communicate both the respect he felt and the need that drove him. “This… is what I can do, honored elder. I wanted to show you all. I am what comes next.” They were the wrong words, and he knew it even as they left his mouth. Anger sparked in the big man’s eyes, and he began to turn away. “Please, wait. Let me speak to them. Just for a moment. Please, my chief.”
He didn’t want to let Kest speak – he could see it in the set of his craggy, weather-worn brow, the stark lines of his frown. But Pul was a good man, a good leader, and he followed the rules. Kest had brought back a beast, and when a hunter wished to address the tribe, he could not be denied unless he hadn’t been bringing in his share of the game for more than a passage of the moon. A lesser chief might deny him out of pique, but not Puldaergna. He grunted at the young man – it was nearly a growl – and turned to the crowd of the Granaal tribe. Their circle had collapsed as families conferred and shared their outrage. “Quiet!” the chief thundered. Silence came gradually, but everyone turned to him soon enough. “A hunter wishes to speak.”
When they realized that he was referring to Kest, the talking and yelling began immediately. At least that old crone Marganna isn’t singing anymore. Pul had to shout them down again, and he moved aside to let Kest face them. Never had the young man seen so many hostile faces. Everyone liked him… or they had. Somehow the universal regard he’d enjoyed with the tribe before made the anger at him upending the Pacari way burn even hotter.
“My elders and my family, please hear me.” Kest had always had a smooth tongue, and he used all his charm and skill as he spoke. He knew he had to. “I’m sorry for surprising you. I didn’t know what else to do.” The eyes were still hostile. His grandmother, Father’s mother, spat on the ground as he looked at her. Thank you, Gran. Always the kind one. “We are Granaal, and I am one of you. I come to you and say that my heart holds the Rhino. Can you deny it? Have you ever seen such a perfect cow?” he asked, scratching the hide of the beast at his side affectionately. He noticed the older hunters appraising his catch. She was indeed massive and well-formed. He had chosen carefully.
“I went to her first. I knew I had to find the perfect one. I spent many hours in Oema lands to find her, and the desert tribes never once scented me.” A little bragging was expected of a new hunter. It made them feel like they understood him. He’d need that. “I was riding on her back on the first day of my bonding trial, but my heart said that my task was not done.”
There was low muttering again among the kin, but he thought it was tinged with a little more approval this time. A hunter should never stop halfway down the
