Another oških came forwards. He was chuckling, broad figure blocking Fire’s light and arms crossed over his chest. “A’io, you’re not long away from joining us, I’d say. You’ve stones enough for it, even if they’ve not dropped yet.” He grinned, sudden. “Or maybe they have, a’io?”
“Either way,” the leader shrugged, “you’ve not yet claimed your indigo. We’ll say nothing to hearth-chieftain of thisdark, and you’ve no bond to us for that word, but you’ve no rights to be here and you know it. Any more than that one”—he jerked his head at Mordeleg’s hunched silhouette—“has rights to make rough with ahlóssa. In any fashion. Go on.”
Tokela grabbed up his clothing. Mordeleg’s furious gaze heated his spine as he slid out from the shadowy, heat-dank oških den and into dark’s embrace.
“THERE ARE empty places over there.”
The oških tipped her head in a demonstration her hands, busy with stitching a leathern belt, couldn’t make. Several dark strands escaped her head wrap and fell into her eyes; she blew at them, exasperated. Another oških leaned forwards and tucked the loose hair behind the first one’s ear.
“Ai, poor Saltha can’t tie her own hair without a playmate’s help!” another crooned, then squawked as the second oških merely lifted a foot and calmly booted the mocking one off her stool. The others seated at the banked-down hearth—about two fours of oških busy with like tasks—laughed.
Anahli watched it all, bemused. The second oških eyed her up then bent down to whisper something into the first one’s ear, garnering a return flush of cheek.
“Any empty place?” Anahli asked, thankful Inhya had been called away as she’d deposited Anahli on the top doorstep of the communal dwelling—some emergency in the cooking dens, it would seem. The fem oških den a’Naisgwyr hollowed deep and cozy, nearly half into the far side of the great Bowl; Anahli could hear River running through the open front windows, and see the Bowl spreading out beyond the back wooden decking.
“Depends on whether those rumours about dawnLanders are true.” The first oških—Saltha—grinned.
“Which rumours are those?” Anahli grinned back.
“At least give her time to settle her things before you tease her into play!” an older fem with a bright ochre headscarf scolded, snagging Anahli’s rucksack and swinging it over one shoulder.
Saltha, grin still tilting her lip, went back to her belt-mending. Clearly disappointed the entertainment had come to an end, the other fems bent to their own tasks; mostly Dance finery, Anahli saw, glad she’d tended her own before they’d set off towards dawn. Several also polished the long, curved wooden staff used for stickball. She’d forgotten to bring her own, squander it! It took time to break in a good stick.
“This way, friend,” the ochre-coiffed fem gestured. “I was told to hold a bedshelf for you, as you’re staying on even after First Running. A good thing, too, as there’s not much space what with all the guests. You’re to replace the little brother, aren’t you? Your sire—wait, your tribe holds to damline, a’io, and your dam is espoused to hearth-chieftain’s brother, isn’t she?”
Anahli tilted her head in affirmation.
“Then be welcome…” the fem hesitated.
“I’m called Anahli.”
“I’m called Čayku.”
Čayku led on and inward, past several tunnels burrowed deep into the stone. The noise from the hearthside quickly deadened as the rocks narrowed into a passage then another den, better for sleeping. There were some occupants doing just that. There were gleaming-stones set here and there in pots, radiating warmth. The space was just enough akin to the winter caverns where Anahli’s own tribe stayed, save here they’d bedshelves carved into the walls instead of round, well-padded sleeping pits within the flooring. Most of the shelves were adorned with bedding or clothing, personal possessions, or charms that hung from the ceiling or sides. The one Čayku gestured to—an upper one in a back corner—was bare and hadn’t been used in some time, but it had been dusted, and piled with fresh rushes.
“We made it ready for you.”
Anahli answered with a polite gesture known from dusk to dawn: fingertips from forehead to heart. Čayku returned it and smiled—and ai, but was she lovely when she smiled. Of all the possible picks from this den, Čayku seemed the least silly-giddy at the prospect of a new denmate. Which intrigued.
Another burst of laughter sounded from the oških at the hearth.
“I’m sleeping, here!” came a growl from a bedshelf across from Anahli’s.
“Stop drinking that midLands horse piss and you’ll not need to sleep so much!” someone else retorted.
Čayku snickered as the sleeper growled a little louder and once again disappeared beneath the furs. Čayku tossed Anahli’s rucksack onto the bedshelf. “I’ll leave you to it. If you need anything”—again, that lovely smile and a’io, it was an invitation—“come find me.” The smile quirked. “A long time since I’ve enjoyed a new Dance partner.”
Anahli watched her go; Čayku would have been right at home in a duskLands courting Dance; her skirts promised the graceful sway she would impart to fringes and fans. Tempting, to follow, but Anahli merely felt tired and dispirited. The bedshelf, however novel, however graciously prepared, seemed in retrospect a cold and lonely hollow when compared to the sleeping pits a’Šaákfo: the comfort of family all together, or the more-impassioned companionship of the oških wintering caverns, with the hot springs and several playmates.
Putting toes and fingers to the small carved-out footholds, she clambered in. In compensation for having no floor space, the upper shelves had more headroom, and larger hollows for possessions besides. With an agile twist, Anahli landed on her back and stared at the ceiling.
It wasn’t for forever. Or so she had to keep telling herself.
7 – Outlier
“I still can’t get used to it,” Našobok said around a mouthful of fried nutcake. Crumbs sprayed and he snorted, sending even more in a dense
