Stars had tried to overtake, use him—Tokela wasn’t certain the opposite was possible, even now felt it anathema, evil. But the Spirit-presence bound down to Grandmother’s soil, the flames behind his eyes; those were welcoming-warm, buffering infinite chill. Tokela sucked in a breath and opened his eyes wide, letting the coppery light within. Without.
He raised the spear. Flames twisted upwards about the shaft, hissing in sheer delight as the edge traced patterns in the dark.
“Tokela!”
“I am well.” The talk lingered, grew into a snarl. Like, yet unlike Našobok’s attempt, the not-voices reached outwards. His dam’s horsetalker blood uncoiled beneath his tongue, adding layers heard as well as unheard. Shapes flowed up the spear and into Tokela’s chest, smoke and heat and Spirit all a vortex of wilding flame. Fear and desperation were moulded into a spear of command and thrown, unerring, to the target’s heart.
Within one heartbeat, the pack was steadily advancing with one objective, one heart. In the next they were broken; separate and cowed individuals scattering and slinking away, melting into all corners of the desert.
Gone.
Slowly, Tokela became aware that he had stepped forwards, over the flames and towards the pack. The -tracings hung in the air, faded and disappeared. He still gripped the spear in his hands, corposant…
Burning.
Tokela dropped it on the ground, stared disbelieving at his undamaged palms.
The flames upon the spear writhed, lighting the sandy pan with indigo and silver. They flickered, guttered, then sucked away, leaving merely a sturdy, unremarkable spear, its bronze head a dull gleam, gut lacings and wooden shaft not even scorched.
Tokela staggered, unsure what he had just done. Unsure, in fact, of where he was, only that he was suddenly burning from inside out, shivering and sweating and filled at fever pitch.
Reality came to him, strong and solid, in a firm handclasp pulling him close. He wanted to give to it; reason fought instinct and dictated otherwise, sparked recoil.
Even Palatan had done.
“Not now. Don’t… don’t touch me.”
But Našobok didn’t retreat—more, didn’t let Tokela retreat and pulled him even closer. “This is me, remember?” he whispered against Tokela’s cheek. “I can touch you. You cannot hurt or change me.”
Ai, it was true: Našobok was a worthy wall to batter against. A rock in the rapids to hold to; someone to remind Tokela he was… here.
Even when he wasn’t.
A teasing murmur in his ear, a nip to that same ear. “Rut me stupid, but you are the most amazing and beautiful thing I’ve laid eyes on in a while.”
It sent Tokela further sideways—an utter mystery that Našobok did, somehow, actually think him lovely, didn’t shun or fear this… this whatever it was, lying within him. Another draught of reality, shivering his body from the strange hold/trance.
Yet it remained, heart-deep, waiting white-hot behind the eyes he clenched so tightly. “I think that’s a good thing. Because we’re safe for the moment and I think…” His voice creaked; a faithless reality tried to pull itself out from under him again.
Arms caught him, held him—real, and solid, and here, as present as Našobok’s breath heating his temple. “I think,” it was wry, “that you need to stop thinking, and start asking.”
Tokela twisted about and practically climbed Našobok’s muscular frame, breathed his breath and shut his own eyes. Asked.
Begged.
25 - ShamanKin
“Alekšu? What is—?”
“Let the drums talk!” In one smooth motion, Palatan dismounted and slipped the rope from his mount’s nose. “Lapis Council convenes soon!”
The drumKeeper was seated on the edge of camp, greeting the fingerlings of Sun’s rising. She stroked the taut, wide skin with callused fingers, whispering a query; the talking drum hissed and vibrated like a wakened, wise serpent. She smiled at Anahli, eyes following Palatan as he ran off in the direction of the chieftain’s tipo. Then she started to drum.
The rhythm pounded within Anahli’s breast, thick comfort, as she released her own mare and followed.
A horse waited, ground-tied just outside the chieftain’s tipo. Anahli’s youngest sister, Vinka, was grooming the horse’s sweaty, dusty hide. The other two were eating, dipping flatbread into the large pot upon the outside cook. Cavern or tipo, the stone kettle was always heating with good things.
“I thought you were both gone for—?” Samke’s query trailed away beneath the drum-talk. “Yeka’s called Lapis council. What’s happened?”
“Let her eat, first.” Nishe handed Anahli a rolled-up piece of flatbread, soft and warm. Anahli took it and bit down gratefully. She was famished.
“Whose horse?”
“A message-talker just arrived,” Vinka said, in rhythm with her strokes—and the drum. “From midLands, and the old khatak.”
“Vinka!”
“Well, that’s what Aška calls him.”
“No drumtalk?”
“Private.” Samke shrugged. “Aska and Yeka are both in there, so we’re stuck outside.”
“At least it isn’t pouring,” Nishe reminded.
“Ai, but we need Rain.”
“Anahli?” Aylaniś pulled back the door flap. “Your sire wants you.”
With a shrug, Nishe passed over another piece of hot flatbread. Anahli grinned thanks.
The message-talker was rising from a guest blanket; clearly he’d finished his errand. Palatan stood in a shadowed curve, frowning thoughtfully whilst Aylaniś told the message-talker, “Please. Eat at our hearth until you’re ready to depart. My daughters will see to your comforts.”
“My thanks, horse-chieftain,” the message-talker said, and with a polite gesture, slid out past Anahli.
“Galenu sends word,” Palatan spoke quietly. “Našobok has taken Tokela to River. The outLanders are hunting him.”
Anahli shifted uncomfortably. It merely confirmed what they had already found, upon the connexion of Elementals.
“I’m glad Galenu thought to warn us,” Aylaniś said, bending to roll up the guest blanket.
“His mother was of the night flyers, once,” Palatan replied, soft.
“Surely Galenu knows nothing!”
“He knows less than nothing. Nevertheless, it’s enough to look outside his own concerns upon such things. He knows it’s a matter for Lapis council to decide upon.”
“Despite thinking he could take Tokela to Chepiś!” Aylaniś snorted like an angry mare, resumed rolling the blanket in a tight-taut fashion that suggested she wished Galenu within it.
Anahli
