A set of feet passed by, hesitated, then thumped back. “Wind’s grace upon you, lucky oških!” a cheerful voice greeted. A broad, brown Riverwalker with a riot of twistlocks pinned at his nape knelt into view. “There’s food on deck if you’re hungry. Wyrh-chieftain had to leave, but he’ll be returning soon.”
“THE RAINBOWS come; I can feel it in my bones.”
“We’d best be away before then. They cloud River more than any silvers.”
“We’ll be out of here by evening drumtalk, if wyrh-chieftain has his way.”
“A pity to miss the lastDark bonFires.”
“We’ll greet summering as Riverwalkers should, riding downRiver with lanterns upon our bow!”
Laughter greeted this last, and the fem who’d made it—Odina—obviously in charge second only to old Munro: short, stout, and fierce-looking, her hair braided back from a moon-round face tattooed, as they all were, with wyrhling Marks. Sun-bronzed arms bare and rippling with muscle, she was shortest and darkest of all the River People, though her bearing made her seem tall as Matwau.
Like Maloh, Tokela mused, and took a drink with the rest. The liquor burned a sweet trail down his throat. He’d liked Maloh, even though he knew he shouldn’t.
He hadn’t realised Ilhukaia was leaving so soon. He’d said “Take me with you” amidst fright and dread, without contemplating the consequences of leaving.
Madoc, who likely was now even more angry with him. Inhya and Sarinak, who had loved him as their own—until he wasn’t. Nechtoun, his Clan, his Tribe, his People. The oških den that he hadn’t yet occupied since painting the indigo upon his cheeks. The Great Mound looming over Ilhukaia’s bow, a seat of security, stability. The Great Mound was the only home he’d ever known, and perhaps he’d miss the lastDark of First Running…
Wyrhlings had long grown used to leaving such things behind, but would he ever see them again?
Of course, did he have a choice?
Did Našobok even mean to take him, at that? He’d not agreed, not said he would.
Tokela blinked the heat from his eyes, let them cool into something more akin to River stone. Perhaps with a sharp edge of obsidian should any venture too close. It seemed he was going to need it.
Munro offered Tokela more meat. He took it with a grateful gesture, and the elder smiled.
All of them, really, had made him so welcome.
Suddenly, the male who’d knelt at the porthole—Kalisom, he’d said his name was—leapt up and gave a long, piercing whistle. An answer shrilled from just off the bow. The wyrhlings all leapt to their feet, lively with greeting.
“Ai, River-chieftain!
“Našobok, you’re back!”
“Is it time to set to?”
“We’ve your cousin here, safe and fed!” Kalisom called down, and Našobok’s voice answered from below:
“Good! Where is he?”
“I’m here,” Tokela answered, clutching to the railing and looking down to see Našobok alone in the canoe, pulling close to the rope fenders of Ilhukaia.
Našobok wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Come down, then! I’ll ferry you myself.”
#
“I can’t go back.”
“A’io, you can.”
“You don’t understan—”
“I do.” The canoe bobbed, gentle, midway to the shore. The oar clacked against the sides, and callused hands gripped Tokela’s shoulders, tried to turn him around. “And you have to understand, too.”
Ai, Tokela understood, all right. And had no right to expect anything else.
“N’da,” Našobok growled, “you really don’t.” His hands tightened, gave another shake. “Tokela!”
It was gentler than the fierce grip. Tokela made sure his gaze told nothing of what he was thinking, and turned around.
Only he hadn’t prepared himself for Našobok’s expression—gentle as the shake, as his voice. “Listen, Tokela. There are many things to be considered. There are difficulties.”
“There are always… difficulties.”
“There are,” Našobok concurred. “One being you aren’t listening.”
“When bodytalk gives answer, what’s the point of talk?” It might have been set in stone. Ai, Sarinak would have been proud.
Našobok was not. A puzzled frown gathered his brows, shivering a fissure through what Tokela had so carefully set in place.
It cracked, bled. “If I can’t go with you, then… I don’t… know where…” Tokela choked off, humiliated, tried to turn away.
He’d forgotten how strong Našobok was; those broad hands denied any movement. “I know, Tokela. I know.”
You don’t know, not really! It almost came tumbling out, then: what Inhya had seen, what he himself had done. Just in time Tokela clapped his hands over his mouth. Usually his tongue would tangle, foul what he wanted to speak—why now did it seem to spew?
“If I didn’t have this commission from the old khatak, it would be done. You would stay, and shadowlings take the consequence.”
Tokela was frozen in place, hands still over his mouth, staring at Našobok with his thoughts all garbled. There was fear. Despair. And, the ultimate cruelty, hope.
“But there is not just you and I in this Dance we contemplate. This will be a dangerous sail—”
Tokela shook his head, opened his fingers enough to say, “I’m not afraid!”
“And that,” Našobok shook him, gently, “is why you can’t go. I’m afraid of this one. You’re not one of my Wyrhmates. Yet.” A half grin, a promise swelling hope just that much higher. “You don’t know enough for this journey, and that might get you or one of my People killed. The landwalkers like to say wyrhling have no home, no Clan, but they’re wrong. My Wyrhmates are my Clan. I don’t hold their lives cheaply. Or yours.”
Taking a deep breath, Tokela nodded, looked down.
“You have choices, my heart. Perhaps more than coming with me. Perhaps better ones.”
“Better?” It tore from Tokela’s chest.
“Listen. Whatever has happened”—Našobok’s grip tightened, then loosed—“whatever happens, you must consider what comes from this heartbeat. You are not powerless.”
You have no idea how ‘not powerless’ I seem to be. Tokela closed his eyes, gritted his teeth. There seemed more consequences than any choices.
And found himself thinking again, sudden-sharp, upon Madoc.
Consequences.
If I was to go away, go to River, be outlier—wyrhling—what would you do then?
But
