The situation was so absurd, so implausible—three of them stood down before a weaponless not-yet-oških—that Tokela choked back a sudden urge to laugh.
“I think,” Maloh said, her eyes flickering from her companions to Tokela and then back again, “he is no longer poisoned.”
6 – Hearth
By the time Vox returned, the Moons had begun to peek through the branches of the canopy. Maloh had started a Fire and hung meat over it for warming. Not the shigala’s, Tokela was glad to see; it smelt like normal meat. Indeed, Maloh showed a good grasp of common manners by inviting Tokela to be the first to be seated at Fire’s circle.
She also returned his knife to him.
He took it, watching her all the while. Maloh merely sat next to him, motioned for him to be seated. “We do not offer harm to a guest at our hearth,” she told him. “Be easy. You have startled my oathsister, that is all.”
Tokela peered over to where Sivan and Rann had been in soft conversation for some time, now joined by Vox. “You… have… oathsisters?”
“I do. We do.” The Matwau smiled and peered at Sivan across the small, cheering blaze. “She is as near to as I will ever claim.”
It was, again, such a normal sentiment that Tokela accepted not only the seat, but the first helping of their meal.
They ate in silence—Tokela would have termed it companionable had he not been sitting, a questionably welcome guest of Chepiś, in the middle of Šilombiš’okpulo, at what Fire a Matwau had brought forth.
Inwardly, he felt no such silence. Instead he felt… exposed. Sore, as if he’d been dragged over rocks. The silence… roared, almost; as if with Wind’s hoarse breath. StandingKin pressed about him, lurking like shadowlings. He could hear River-children burbling, and Fire’s heat tongued his cheeks, popping and hissing as if Ša would speak a tongue Tokela might fathom, did he listen.
Instead Tokela focused on the roast meat and the Chepiś’s hushed voices, wondering what had happened.
For something had happened.
“Do they have young?” It was the only question he could form upon his tongue.
Maloh didn’t take offence. “They do. Like my people”—her eyes slid to meet his—“and yours. You have the markings of a young one, yourself.”
He met her gaze.
“And now you’re wondering how I know so much of your people. I have known some of them in my time, you see.” Maloh took a bite of the meat with oddly blunt, strong teeth.
I have known some of them.
Again, questions crowded his brain, thankfully drowning out the strength of the woodland’s presence. Yet Tokela feared speaking even one.
“There is an old sgral—” the dark eyes flickered to him as Maloh replaced the word with barely a beat “—one of firstPeople who claims to be chieftain over one of your tribes. But he is a charmer, that one, and tells stories for the fun of it.” She seemed to be speaking more of lies than any deeper storied truth; nevertheless she took note of what must be scrawling itself over Tokela’s face. “I wrong him. He is a good soul, if more—uh, how would you say it?—trickster than any his age should allow. We call him Little Fish, for he always seems to wriggle off any hook and back into water when landed.”
A smile quirked Tokela’s mouth. It melted into a troubled frown at what this Matwau was saying. Chepiś wandered into their Land even now, despite the ancient truce? Wandered in, and had… acquaintances? Of his People?
His attention swiveled, sharp—too sharp?—as the others approached, slow, the impromptu hearth.
Maloh paid no heed. “What is your name, young one?”
“He is called—” Sivan began, but Tokela finished it, swift:
“Tokela. I am called Tokela a’Naišwyrh.” He looked up at Sivan, thought, I’ve not given you leave to the sounds of my blessing-name.
Sivan’s pale eyebrows rose, then she nodded.
Tokela dropped the piece of meat he was holding. Lowering his gaze, he busied himself with recovering it. So the rumours were true: Chepiś could sift one’s inner voice, hear and speak it.
Vox came slowly over and sat down, stony eyes dismissing Tokela; behind him, Rann no longer seemed unsteady. Her eyes—unlike Vox’s—held little mistrust. It seemed perhaps… compassion?
“Was it your mother who gave your name to you?”
Maloh’s question came unexpected; had she somehow heard, too? Whilst the three Chepiś seemed… puzzled? Disapproving?
“Your father, mayhap?” Maloh offered. She was trying to be friendly, but her eyes kept flickering from Tokela to Sivan.
Father. Sharp, stinging, this time with the poison of doubt. If they know. Perhaps they do know.
Tokela’s hands tremored against the bowl. Perhaps Chepiś could bring this into some shape as well, like Rann had neutralised the shigala’s poison. Yet…
What if they did know?
What would it mean?
Tokela had never thought, faced with the possibility of any truth, to find such abject terror in it.
Instead he focused on the question without its treacherous undercurrents. “Tokela is what I’m called by my family. Any other namings we might have are given by elders who walk closer to Grandmother’s path.”
A snort from Vox, followed by a quick, albeit heated, exchange of flatTalk. Not Sivan, this time, but Rann.
“What was your dam’s name, Tokela?” Voiced very distant and formal, as if Sivan somehow knew it was a chancy thing, to voice the names of the dead. Nevertheless the pale gaze was a demand.
“Lakisa… ’ailiq.” It was a relief to speak, even with the whispered honorific attached: I mean no disturbance to you, motherSpirit, only remembrance and honour.
Maloh was peering at Sivan, her dark brows twisted in a frown. Sivan didn’t respond, by glance or return frown; in fact, her face seemed more stone than flesh as she asked, very soft, “Is she still alive?”
“N’da.” Tokela swallowed hard, then said, low, “Did you know her?”
Maloh kept peering at Sivan, frowning. Vox uttered a fierce and unintelligible commentary; he was displeased, no question.
Sivan held up a silencing hand, her eyes meeting Tokela’s. “And if we did? Why would it matter to you? Your people are afraid of
