“Ai, but it was very special cargo.” Našobok threw a wink at Tokela, who couldn’t help but smile into his hand.
Šaya snorted up a laugh. “Was this your cargo, then?” she demanded, giving Tokela a cheerful repeat of Našobok’s greeting, including the fierce hug, after which she pushed him back, eyeing him. “N’da, you’ve the Marks of the Great Mound. New crew, or visitor?”
“New crew,” Našobok answered. “This is Tokela, son to my sire’s sister.”
“Ai, that’s why he’s so young. I imagine he’s pretty under all that mud—I know you, after all—but I haven’t seen you court an oških this young since you were that young!”
“I’ve seen nearly twenty winterings,” Tokela put in. Perhaps face fur would be a good thing, after all. “I’m not that young.”
“Well, believe me you’ll have more liking for those youthful looks when you’re older.” Grinning, Šaya bellowed several commands that carried to the outwards reaches of the hostel.
In short order they were lounged in one of the largest bark-and-stave tubs Tokela had ever seen, with their mud-spattered, sodden clothing and furs whisked away to be brushed clean and spread to dry by the huge hearths in the far alcoves. Šaya even offered Našobok a shave. He politely declined, saying it was more likely he’d fall asleep in the process and end up with a cut throat instead of a smooth cheek.
Finally, back in the main den of the longhouse, hide scrubbed a-tingle and hair let loose to dry, Tokela found himself cross-legged across from Našobok and focusing on his first real meal in some Suns. Tubers, roasted meats, fresh bread, and a side bowl brimming with cracked šinc’teh parboiled in bone broth. The Elementals had subsided beneath River’s gentle croon. Between the relief of that and the meal, Tokela was nodding off. For the second time, he barely saved himself from landing face-first into his well-scraped plate. Across the board, Našobok was dozing—snoring, even. Somehow he hadn’t yet fallen over. Tokela smirked, leaned over and gave him a push. Našobok woke up just in time to topple over, legs still crossed.
Fire hissed approval. Tokela chuckled.
Šaya led them to a huge pallet, a privileged one right beside the largest of the hearths, wide enough for a tangle of four and piled high with colourful midLands blankets. Tokela willingly shed his borrowed robe and burrowed in. The blanket threads were worn soft, sliding thick comfort against his skin and wafting delicious spice past his nostrils.
Našobok crawled in beside and gathered him up. But not even the sensate enticement of that hard, heated body sculpting close could keep Tokela awake any longer.
THE GROTTO was dark, seeming uninhabited.
The Domina was present, nevertheless. Her anger sparked reflections, trailed luminescence in her wake. They have failed.
“The vortex—”
Was merely a factor. Did you think I wouldn’t track them?
“I assumed you would.” Cavodu crossed his arms, waited.
Sure enough, You sent the wrong ones for the job.
“Under your orders, Domina,” he reminded. “They know this world better than most.”
Which means they are tied to it. To the world, and moreover, its people. White fury underlaced it. And so they let the little savage go, for no more than some unfathomable… ephemeral reason!
“The fault is mine, Domina.”
Yes, it is.
Silence. Then, just as Cavodu was about to turn away and head from the grotto, the silent threat whispered from the brine.
Well. Better to take care of it oneself, after all.
TOKELA WOKE to the smell of burning leaf. Našobok sat, a bronzed silhouette drawing Smoke from a beautifully carven pipe.
Lying on his side, Tokela peered at the pipe for some time, eyes following the lines of leaping Seawolf chasing smiling fish, watching the shells dangling from the bowl dance and shiver.
Rain pattered on the thatch, a relief. No clear skies thisdark, no Stars. Only the echo that had, since the desert, been ever-present but bearable. Tempting, to let ša lull him back into slumber; instead Tokela sat up and scooted close to Našobok. Opening the blanket he wore across his shoulders, Našobok gathered Tokela in.
The longhouse lay so quiet. For a displaced brace of heartbeats Tokela was confused, almost reached out to see if… well, if They were even there. He had slept hard—his first real bed in some Sundowns probably had much to do with that—and bit by bit the uneven tenor of his dreams came back to him. That awareness made him doubly conscious of the unfathomable echo humming just beyond true hearing, of the more Earth-bound presences conjoining within his Spirit…
Of River, keeping all submerged. Contained.
Even outwards, though, silence broke itself, here and there. Muted noises came from the alcoves that held the cookFires. No stirrings from their sleeping neighbours, bundled in various cloaks, blankets and furs… Ai, perhaps one. A movement flickered from the corner of his eye and Tokela turned to see one of the herdClan females shifting in her blankets, putting an infant to nurse. She flitted her eyes up at the movement, and Tokela smiled. She returned the smile, then settled her attention back upon the infant.
She had met his gaze. What was humming within must not be evidencing itself without.
Perhaps… if he loosed himself into their Dance would it be easier? Maybe he should go to the shamans, learn the way. Earth seemed willing to the try, Fire importunate as always and Wind whistling about the eaves, filling his chest and…
No more pain, My own, only the undertow of dreamings to wash them clean. An ache in his heart and a shiver through his limbs, River’s presence a tandem comfort as Našobok’s hand settled over his. It displaced an unthinking yearning, bringing Tokela back into reality.
Našobok was reality: sound, strong, sane.
“Did you sleep well?” Našobok murmured, subvocal hunting-talk that carried only to the closest set of ears.
Tokela answered in like fashion. “Well enough. Better than I should, perhaps. How long have you been up?”
Našobok shrugged, offered a puff of the pipe. It was tempting, but Spirits were soft enough
