Small noises, coming from the bedding den. Madoc’s nape hairs vibrated as recognition set in: Tokela. Only, not.
Inhya stilled. Then she snatched up the cup from the window and hurried into the bedding den.
Tokela was there, Madoc knew it.
More sounds—not speech, not at all, but more like an animal’s whimpering. Then a silence, enduring so long Madoc thought his nerves would snap.
Inhya came from within, the empty cup dangling from nerveless fingers.
Madoc couldn’t stay quiet, not any more. “What did you give him? What is that stuff?”
Inhya started, as if her heart had been leagues absent, and turned. Her eyes shone brilliant in the dim with some emotion Madoc couldn’t comprehend. Then she seemed to shake herself, and padded over to sit beside him. “Everything is well, son.”
Madoc didn’t believe her. He realised suddenly, when it came to this one thing, he’d not believed her in some time.
And it hurt.
“I want to see him.”
“Madoc—” Fingers covered his lips.
“I want to know he’s all right.” He wanted to be strong, angry—instead his voice betrayed him, slipped up high and wavering.
Inhya peered at him for long heartbeats, then tilted her head, relented. She helped him rise, let him lean heavily against her as he limped into the tiny alcove. Pain shot up and down his leg; Madoc was glad when they stopped at the lowered hide covering the alcove’s opening. Inhya reached out, pulled it aside.
Acrid smoke fingered out, drawn to the larger space: a bowl of dried resin smouldering just inside. Beyond it, on a pallet of rushes and furs, Tokela lay stretched out, twitching in some senseless reaction, arms thrown up over his head and hair flung over his eyes. Inhya hooked the door hide then ambled over and bent down, fingering the dark forelock back. Tokela frowned, drew up an arm as if shielding his face. He didn’t wake. Madoc’s breath caught in his throat. Tokela looked nothing like himself; not the brother Madoc had run wild through woods and fields with, wrestled with, argued with.
It seemed Tokela had gone away to somewhere far and unwelcoming. What had returned, Madoc didn’t know.
Suddenly Tokela went lax, arm falling back. Madoc’s breath squeaked and hung; his dam took his arm as he leaned forwards. Pain shot up his leg once more, and with clearer eyes Madoc saw the pulse, steady-strong, in his cousin’s throat.
“See,” Inhya murmured. “He’s sleeping, nothing more. I gave him a strong draught. It’s like what I give to your grandsire at times; to let him rest without—” She took in a breath as if to bite back her talk, and Madoc felt his stomach sink.
She knew. Somehow, she knew.
Madoc refused to say the first, or even the second thing demanding voice. But what did come out surprised him. “You can’t.”
It was louder than he intended, into the close den, but Tokela didn’t hear. Didn’t stir. Nevertheless, Inhya put gentle fingers once again to Madoc’s lips, helped him limp, slowly and awkwardly, over to their bedshelf. To his surprise, she flung back the furs, nodded him in.
“You can stay here. For a little while. You can let me know if he gets restless again.” Inhya shrugged. “But he shouldn’t.”
“You can’t,” Madoc repeated.
“I can’t what?”
“Send Tokela away. You’re going to send him away, aren’t you?”
She finished tucking him in, knelt beside the bedshelf and put her chin upon her folded hands. “You know we must.”
“I don’t know that! I don’t want to!”
Inhya reached out, gave a gentle, intimate tug to Madoc’s braidlock. He wanted to jerk away, rebuff her; he couldn’t.
“Ai, Madoc.” A sigh, resolved. Weary. “Denial won’t help any of us anymore.”
23 - Exile
It was a tiny and private gathering, held in a small alcove off the great Council den. Usually such things were taken care of in Council, in public, but all things considered…
Galenu was not surprised.
He kept still until Sarinak finished speaking, and knew all along there was more, much more, than Mound-chieftain let on—or likely ever would. But what was said told enough. Galenu let Sarinak’s voice ring into silence, let Inhya pour him another cup of copperbark tea. Took a great draught, tasted sharp green needles and sweet honey, and stared at the curve of rock overhead.
“So,” he finally said, “you think Tokela is mad.”
With one hand Sarinak made a quick, sideways gesture, ward and negation.
“Isn’t that what you’re saying, avoid the topic as you may? You’re keeping him drugged and locked away, as if he were some dog with the foaming sickness!”
“He has a Spirit ill.” Short, from behind Inhya’s clenched teeth. “You should know, Galenu—son to Mituna ailiq a’Šaákfo—the healing ways of duskLands. Draughts and resin are best for such things.”
“Ai, and a brother of such Smoke is often used to quiet hiveKin, when one thinks to steal what is theirs,” Galenu riposted. “You’re not Alekšu, yet you think to use such strong Medicine?”
“Alekšu is not here,” Sarinak broke in, a clear threat within it. “Aylaniś and Chogah gave us the draught. Not that I must explain anything to one who has raised no offspring nor cared for Spirit ill. You’ve no rights to criticize anything my spouse must do.”
“I’m afraid I’ve every right, since you seem bent upon tossing me the mess you’ve made!”
“We,” Inhya rocked forwards, “have not made this situation, Galenu a’Hassun.”
“I think I could speak to many who would disagree. Našobok saw it. Your brother saw it. Nechtoun has shared his heart to me on this one thing of import: that you, Inhya, and Tokela, were bent upon colliding. We can debate the making of this situation as you will, but you’ve certainly put a finish to it!”
Sarinak lurched to his feet and strode forwards, burly but graceful in his anger. Galenu gained his feet, both defence and vehemence. Inhya also had angled forwards, fists clenched.
All right, perhaps Galenu had gone a bit too far.
And ai, but Sarinak was all a’Naišwyrh, and they were big.
“How dare you come to my place and speak to me so? If any
