“Come!” Našobok grabbed Tokela’s arm, tugged. “Let’s go!”
Let us have them, Fire urged.
Spoiled and shifting, Earth held full agreement. For what they have made of us—made of you!—let us have them.
Instead, Tokela headed for the downed Chepiś.
They were surrounded. The Shaping place had leaked outwards, not in water but sand and rock—heaving, spouting, moving—and far too quickly for any escape. Nevertheless, the tall ones sought that escape. Maloh bent down, flung Jorda over one broad shoulder. Beside her, Sivan cast a hand towards it almost wildly. Thinking to control the sand-pits? How?
You know how.
Našobok followed—though he rumbled Rivertalk curses with every stride. “Tokela, what are you doing?”
Tokela wasn’t sure he knew, but instinct proved, once again, a boon. The curling, heaving sands let him pass. Let Našobok pass, albeit on Tokela’s heels, to slide to a halt beside the tall ones.
“Are you out of your mind?” Sivan demanded. “Go! Get out!”
Tokela peered at her for a breath, then turned towards the Shaping well and knelt. His hair stung his cheeks, whipping in the wind. Sand fuzzed his sight, watering his eyes and nose, but he ignored all of it.
Splaying his fingers in the sand, he took in a long breath. His fingers, as if of their own accord, began tracing pictures, shapes. Drums and dancing figures. Clouds and wind-swept trees. Things he didn’t have names for, abstract, abstruse. When the breath escaped him, it was soft, a whisper, a rhythm. “Peace. Peace. Sleep, o wounded Grandmother. Sleep.”
Našobok didn’t turn his back on the tall ones, eyeing them with wary, storm-dark eyes. One hand did reach out to touch Tokela’s shoulder. It trembled.
“Earth won’t take us,” Tokela whispered assurance. “Not thisSun.”
“Either way,” Našobok’s voice tremored like his hand, “I’m watching these.”
“These” were talking, rapid back-and-forth full of disbelief. But they made no move, and Tokela knew why. In thisnow, he was somehow the only thing to save them from what they had made.
Grandmother’s face was twisted, here, angry. Ill and mad, twitching as if from fever. Nevertheless, as he sketched indescribable images in the dirt, whispered Her name, She retreated. Slow, and obstinate—but in the end, unwilling to retaliate if it meant taking Her own.
Her own. See? Fire, down to sand-blown coals. You are Ours, Star Eyes. You belong to Us. You are not alone.
Wind died to a soft breath. Earth smoothed, went still.
Silence.
Tokela stood up and wiped the dust from his face, turned around.
Našobok stood, knife in hand, daring the tall ones. Maloh still had Jorda across her shoulders, and Sivan had drawn close. As Tokela turned, she stepped towards him.
Halted with a sideways glance as Našobok’s knife gleamed, and merely asked, “Why?”
“Did you do this?” Tokela gestured towards the Shaper’s well.
Sivan frowned, shook her head. “This was done long before I was born.”
“And him.” Tokela angled his chin towards Jorda. “He’s my sire. Isn’t he?”
Maloh muttered something. Behind the amber lenses, Sivan’s eyes had gone wide, yellowed-white. “It isn’t,” she finally answered, “so simple.”
“He saved your scrawny pale necks.” Našobok stiffened, ready to pounce. “You owe him more than that.”
“The Spirits here said your people made them,” Tokela persisted. “Even as you made me.”
“He… He did make you what you are. I’m not sure your language has a way to tell you how—”
“You assume,” Našobok growled, “a lot.”
“—any more than you can tell me how your… Spirits work in my tongue.”
Tokela slid a quelling gaze at Našobok, who grumbled a sigh.
“If you’re asking if he physically copulated with your mother, then, no. But still he… made you, Eyes of Stars, more than any other. You would not be alive, had Jorda not Shaped your living.”
There was no meaning to it, compared to one truth. But upon another, it made horrific and heavy sense.
“It’s the truth,” Maloh put in. “I swear it upon my mother’s bones.”
Našobok blinked, eyed Maloh then Tokela. Said, “She’s Matwau, but I believe her.”
“Go.” Sivan’s directive came abrupt and almost fierce. “It was never right, our coming here to take you. Go. And don’t look back. Leave now, because they’ll know what we’ve done.”
“They?” Tokela repeated.
“Our leaders. You must hide yourself, because I warn you, in the end our leader will come for you herself. She sees you as a threat to us. She chained her own when they became a threat to us.”
“And what of your threat to us?” Našobok snarled.
“Neither of us can do anything about that.” Sivan shook her head, started backing away. “Go. Now. Run.”
A’io, Fire hissed. Run. Keep running, and do not stop until you reach River. She alone can help you now.
THE CAVERNS dripped, cool and close.
Palatan sucked in a single, harsh breath, and loosened his grip, opened his eyes.
Fire flickered, spastic warmth, over joined hands. Chogah had slumped forwards, shivering, murmuring to herself. She was too old for this… but she had insisted.
Palatan was beginning to like her despite himself.
And the other, also sometimes unlikable, but always loved. Anahli sighed, rolled her head on her shoulders, and opened her eyes.
There were Stars there, faint, behind clouds tossed by Wind. “Yeka.”
“Ehši.” Fond, quavery, but exhausted. This was the sort of work that needed many.
“We did it.”
“You did much of it. You are the connexion.”
“He’s my oathbrother.”
Palatan lifted his chin. He understood.
“If only we can convince owlClan of the same.”
RIVER WAS close. He could smell Her, feel Her…
Tokela wasn’t sure he cared. Lioness surely didn’t; walking head down, muddy to the thighs from slogging nonstop through leagues of chancy ground. Her riders weren’t much better; they’d taken turns walking and riding to spare her, were woozy with lack of sleep, nervy and keen from constantly looking over their shoulders.
They’d found the mare not far from the Shaping well, grazing in a wallow that had seen recent Rain and sprouted new grass. Lioness had been glad to
