Tanners a’Šaákfo were the best, after all.
Having given the mare a sound hug, Kuli launched from her withers towards his sire. Palatan caught him midsail and threw him over one shoulder. Held him there, too, with just the one hand.
“Ai!” Chukfitohya snorted, admiration and chagrin. “Your bows are short, but drawing one’s like trying to run River waist-deep.”
More pride trickled through Anahli at the answering murmurs. Her sire’s charisma was underlain with a dangerous tension; whipcord strung in minimalist efficiency. No doubt the impressive old scar tracing a finger-length down from one tattooed cheekbone helped. And the well-muscled belly between leather vest and belted leggings, over which several of the matrons hissed approval amongst themselves. A grin ticced Anahli’s lip.
“Here come our chieftains,” Chukfitohya pointed out.
Anahli hissed approval as much for the old one as Naišwyrh’uq’s leaders. They made no less splendid an entrance, merely a different one. Sarinak Mound-chieftain made two of Palatan in breadth. His head was swathed in Sky-hued cloth, beads dangling, with only those few twist-locks concealing his nape. His crimson robe spilled in many folds over one massive shoulder, and one hand held a decorated spear. Just behind that spear strode little Madoc, full of himself as a strutting fowl… and well, that one wasn’t so little anymore, grown a full head since Anahli had last seen him. Tokela should be there, too, but no sign. Likely off larking with some playmate; he was only a few summerings younger than herself, no doubt had his indigo by now. Anahli brushed at her own Clan Marks, dismissing the thought, more interested in who walked at Sarinak’s other hand.
Inhya’s chin tilted graceful-high. The very picture of a respectable chieftain and matron, numerous bells jingled and swayed, equally graceful, from her Forest-hued kirtles, and she’d a turquoise headscarf bound round the thick, black knot impeccably braided, coiled, and oiled at her nape.
Inhya was who the leatherKeeper back home had meant, in a tone Anahli was no doubt meant to hear: Herself’ll tame eldest daughter, you’ll see.
Anahli returned the borrowed blanket to Chukfitohya's thin shoulders and began creeping forwards through the gathered welcome. She should be there, her own chin raised, doing honour to their hosts as… “eldest.”
Instead she halted as a hunched figure limped forwards, shrouded in a furred cloak and leaning on a staff.
As if she’d the right, part of Anahli’s Spirit sniped, and the other part growled, She has every right! She was Alekšu!
The crowd poured from about Anahli, greeting the newcomers. Palatan was giving his sister a fierce hug, whilst Sarinak knelt next to Aylaniś, speaking to Kuli and several other children.
Inhya said something, then Palatan’s voice wafted Anahli’s way upon a breath of Wind, tight with all-too-familiar exasperation. “She came on ahead. Hasn’t she given you proper greeting?”
Aylaniś, speaking with Sarinak and the children, let her eyes flick over the gathered crowd.
It was Chogah, shoulders twitching beneath panther pelts, whose gaze found Anahli. Her eyes, dark and knife-edged, glittered like trade beads.
Anahli backed into the gathering and disappeared.
HE, TOHWAKELIFITČILUKA a’Naišwyrh, was the first of his tribe since his dam to brave Šilombiš’okpulo.
It gave him the wherewithal to throw off the strange intimidation of the t’rešalt, tread the wood with eyes high, if wary. Before long, however, his belly started complaining. Easily ignored rumblings soon became overt growls—and made him realise how still the woods were. The constant pip and burble of water dribbling over soil and leaves was there, of course, and an occasional rustling that might be one of flyingKin, or a tree climber. Otherwise, Forest held an eerie, unnatural quiet.
Which meant he would go hungry for a while. Unless…
Tokela bent over one of the fallen logs, which lay twice as big around as even Uncle Nechtoun, whose meaty muscles had long softened with the privilege of age. Pulling at the rotted bark, which crumbled in his fingers, with his broad, copper knife he poked further and… Ai! Victory! Pale grubs and crawlers of all description went scattering. They looked normal enough, so Tokela tucked into the small feast. Perhaps he could find some roots as well.
A huge sickle of ebon soared past his ear with a great whoosh! Tokela ducked, one arm going instinctively to cover his head and the other flipping his knife from digging to defence. A sharp creak assaulted the quiet. One of the largest flyingKin he’d ever seen touched down on the log’s end and folded gleaming wings. Easily the length of Tokela’s torso, ša gave a cock of head as, from above, a second croak echoed. Tokela peered upward to see another three waiting, perched on a thick branch.
The first hopped closer, intent upon Tokela’s meal. The strange gleam within the beady eyes made Tokela hesitate; it seemed the Star-glitter of the t’rešalt had been captured there, all sparks and darkness. Maybe ša wasn’t Kin after all…
But there was not way to be sure. Tokela was in their territory, a guest. Pulling several of the choicest, fattest grubs from the log, he extended them upon a flattened palm to his feathered companion. A whisper, half hiss and half creak, sounded through his teeth. Some never learned the proper way of attempting animalKin’s talk, but Tokela felt most Suns he communicated better in this than with his own kind.
If such things held in this place.
Both offerings were considered—gravely, it seemed—then the bird hopped closer and accepted, pecking the grubs from Tokela’s palm so light he barely felt it.
The others flew down, expectant. With a soft chuckle, he broke away more bark.
Leaving his impromptu companions working
