He drinks. It sets him mercifully dull. The deep ache in his heart lies numb, the shards in his Spirit still cut, but their edge is blunted. Everything is… diminished.
His eyes open, take in Inhya. Perhaps it should make him feel something, but nothing rises. Or speaks, as he closes his eyes and goes… away.
Quiet, in this far-flung not-place. No whispers, no senses vibrating undeniably as a beaten drum, no breath against his ear, no rush and soundless hum behind his eyes.
No remembrance.
And he wonders—is this death?—even as something in him disagrees, tries to rise and speak. But he submits, closes his heart, refuses any wonder, bespelled beneath the silence.
Then, as if his name has been spoken—a chord of silver song into the silence—he wakes.
Quiet, still. Tokela smells spicebark tea, and Rain, and River.
Galenu a’Hassun is sitting next to the hearth, sipping at a cup and watching him.
MADOC WOKE, startled, wondered if Tokela had shouted in sleep. He peered across, toward the sleeping den, merely to find the hide was flung back. And the den beyond looked…
Empty.
He lurched up, kicking aside what furs didn’t fall away, and made the mistake of kicking with his injured leg. A shrill yip escaped, and an oath for which his aška would’ve dunked his head in the washing basket.
Only she didn’t. She merely watched him from the carven-smooth entry to her bedding den. “Tokela’s gone, Madoc.”
He stared at her. For a half heartbeat he thought she meant Tokela was dead—but for the fact she’d named him. Panic skittered away, to be replaced with dread. “Gone? Gone where?”
“Galenu stone-chieftain has taken him to his hearth.” Inhya’s talk came slow; she seemed more intent upon his reaction.
Only Madoc wasn’t sure how to react. Only… “He… he wouldn’t have left! He wouldn’t! Not without…” His eyes were stinging-hot, his voice tight, stammering though he tried to halt it. “W-without saying goodbye.”
Inhya came over to the bedshelf, placed her hand on his chest. Something rolled beneath her palm, and she murmured, “He left this for you.” As she pulled her hand away, a small parchment roll wobbled on Madoc’s breastbone. Leaning over, Inhya laid her forehead against his and furthered, even softer, “See it for what it is, son. I shouldn’t need to tell you to take care with it.”
Then she was gliding from the alcove into the main den, her voice normal. Sarinak’s answer sounded satisfied.
Madoc sat up, concealing the parchment between the fold of his knees—just in case—and unrolled it.
See it for what it is.
A sketch, obviously recent, of Madoc; a hasty sepia profile that nevertheless mirrored what Madoc saw in a still pool.
Eyes stinging, Madoc rolled the parchment closed, and tucked it in his tunic sleeve.
SHARP, THE smells, but familiar: the contained burn of dried greensap and leaf in a pipe bowl, exhaled across her cheeks like the brush of feathers; charcoal, vermilion, and indigo for the Marking; a thin, sharp-acrid taste of blood and sweat; the blessing Smoke of sweetsage and braided grasses; ground šinc’teh and pollen mealy-sweet at throat and hips and feet; woven blankets lain with dried petals and seedpods.
Underneath that, the sounds: a tenor thrum of a small drum singing to the ash and blood between her eyes, upon her palms, her insteps. The rhythm—four-and-one, four-and-one—to bring the body waking from the Elemental thrall…
Anahli woke.
She was home. She lay in the Breaking Ground, hair unbound and a white blanket across her torso. The Ground was deserted, save for Sun’s light, and the drum Chogah caressed, and…
Here, beside Anahli, with her, bending over her, fanning her with a beaded owl-feather fan, and garbed in white regalia edged with the lapis of a falling-leaves Sky. Her sire was here, but not only that. He was Alekšu, here, the Smoke and smudge wafting about them like mist as he painted the white blanket with indigo and Sun-hued streaks. Singing her, with a soft tenor so like to the drum.
“One of us, now, you are one of us, now, Lapis Walker, Owl Sister, you are one of us. Sing the Wind, protect our Land…”
Palatan finished the song, leaned over Anahli, and put a thumb to her forehead. “Once,” he whispered, so soft, “I was told that no child I sired upon my chieftain would follow me to this place.” He cupped her face, smoothed fingers over her cheeks. “They were wrong.”
THE CART was small and sturdy; the pony equally so. Galenu had spent much of the journey making cheery talk; Tokela found that he needn’t reply much, or often. The talk was all over, from assurances that Mordeleg would be sent to relative upLands, to stories about the flatstone hills, where Galenu’s tribe lived and farmed. Their šinc’teh grew short but powerful, and their weavings some of the best, traded all over…
Tokela was watching Land’s scape change, from thick trees to less, then less still, smaller and sunk into sandy hills. Sun came from behind her cloud veil, and River faded, too, until She was a mere, thin whisper behind his eyes. He wasn’t sure he cared about that, either.
Maybe it was the drug, still runnelling through his veins, dulling everything.
Maybe it was better this way.
Lost in the pressure of Galenu’s chatter and the heavier weight of his heart, Tokela didn’t hear the galloping hoofs until they were nearly upon them.
The cart creaked to a halt. Galenu stood up with a glad shout: “Back already, River-chieftain? Do you have my cargo?”
River-chieftain? Tokela spun about as Našobok charged to the side of the cart and round the front. His horse halted, dancing.
“Rot your cargo!” Našobok snapped back. “Where are you taking him?”
Galenu blinked at the first, and at the second. Našobok leaned in; he looked furious, ready to leap over the cart and atop Galenu. It made no sense.
So Tokela answered, “Galenu’s offered me his hearth. There was… well, it was decided—”
“You’re pie-eyed as a downdocks outlier,”
