Inhya looked down, held her tongue behind her teeth. It was not the first time she had wished herself forsworn; this oath grew heavier with each Sun’s rising.
“Hunh. Tokela mightn’t have the maturity,” Sarinak ventured, “but he does have enough ripe wilfulness for any oških. If Galenu desires sire rights—if, for despite Nechtoun’s support, I’m not sure the old midLander will make any claim—I think fear isn’t the emotion you should have, my heart. Merely relief.”
“Sarinak—”
“I speak without consideration.” Both his voice and face echoed his quick regret. “There’ll be nothing more said thisSun.” He grasped her hand again, brought it to his breast then leaned forwards and nuzzled her temple. “We’ve many things to think of. Better ones. Our youngest, for one.”
“Who sounds more a herd of draught animals than your oških mob all combined.” Inhya’s lip curled into a teasing, proud smile. “Madoc is indeed and altogether a’Naišwyrh.”
Sarinak’s laughter boomed into the Council den, inviting hers to join in.
AS MUCH as Palatan loved his life and how it had centred upon tribe and Clan and family, a sharing cherished past almost anything in his heart… well. At times a surge of unattainable longings took him, regardless: run away, far away where none can find us, just to follow Sky and Stars, heed nothing but our hearts and horizon’s call…
But Aylaniś understood. As Našobok understood.
Hearts changed, but never forgot.
Sun trickled down through the conifers, dappling shadows across their bodies. Some sleep, mostly talk, a bit of loving. And now Palatan rested his head upon Našobok’s shoulder, fingers running a light ripple over Našobok’s breastbone, then down to trace the tattoo over his belly. Aylaniś, always up with Sun, had departed, not only to help her spouse’s sister with host duties, but also to give her lovemates their own time.
“Later,” Palatan mused. “After Council.”
“After Council is Dance,” Našobok murmured against the numerous, coppery-black braids at Palatan’s temple. “You promised me a seat, remember?”
“On my blanket.” Palatan smirked. “We’ll watch all of Dance, make our own after… squander it, I nearly forgot. After Dance is chieftains’ Council.”
“And that one they won’t let me into, not even as Alekšu’s oathbrother.”
Palatan gave a muted growl against Našobok’s chest. “I have to go. And then a pipe and more talk, talk, talk.”
“The price of respectability.”
“Shut it, you.” Palatan curled it into another, louder growl and smirked again as Našobok shivered. “After that, then.”
“After that you’ll be half-crazed from what Power they’ll unknowingly raise and fling about—”
Palatan’s fingers moved up to Našobok’s mouth, pressed for silence.
“Well,” Našobok mumbled against those fingers, “it’s true. And none here to hear a whisper. D’you think I don’t know the edge you’ll be riding after all the prattling and posturing?”
Palatan pressed firmer. “Hsst, before your mouth stretches greater than even your heart.” He softened, then, and stroked at Našobok’s lower lip. “You know me too well, fellow outlier.”
“By happy chance, I do.”
Happy chance wasn’t exactly how Palatan would term that long-ago expedition into Dead Plain. There were only several such places festering on their Land—the Šilombiš’okpulo here, the place amidst dryLands where the very ground would swallow one up, the icy, twisted waste that led to Everwintering Mountain from snow-packed upLands—but those were enough. Upon that plain up from the territory a’Šaákfo, something had tried to take Palatan’s power—and nearly succeeded. Only Našobok had anchored him to sanity.
Našobok had always known what Palatan was. But he’d never let on he knew until they’d nearly not escaped the Dead Plain.
“I’ve spent enough time in solitude,” Palatan huffed. “After I took the horns from Chogah, I had to; it’s the way of any Journey. And the way of any return, to be battered by what waits. Many voices, wanting to be heard.”
“Too many.” Našobok nuzzled the callused fingertips. “So you’ll need me, after, in truth. Or Aylaniś. Or both of us, depending on how high Fire is blazing behind your eyes.”
“I don’t want to wait so long,” Palatan purred against Našobok’s chest, then raised his head. “I need you now.” Fire… Ai, there was plenty behind his eyes; he could see them in Našobok’s, overcast Sky mirroring Forest gilt. “It’s been nearly three turnings of Hoop. Three. Can you not know how much I’ve missed you?”
Našobok didn’t answer, just cupped Palatan’s face in his hands and ran them back through his hair, fingers teasing his nape, tracing a soft breath from forehead to chin.
How much I’ve missed you.
How long it’s been.
How they could give each other everything—except the thing they each needed the most.
Almost painful, this; conjuring too many ghosts, too many memories.
Palatan broke it with a nip to his lovemate’s nose. “So. What’s the point of waiting?”
“Never any point to waiting for anything,” Našobok chuckled. “See? I told you it was useless for me to put on leggings thisdawn.”
“Hunh.” Palatan was making his way down Našobok’s chest, a brush of breath and dart of tongue and ai, teeth there, right there; Našobok gave a small, shivery jerk. “As I recall,” Palatan murmured, tonguing where his teeth had grazed, “you can drop your leggings and clout in the time it takes me to count a four of heartbeats.”
“And I can strip you from yours even faster—”
“Promises, prom—Yai!” Palatan gave a yip as Našobok grabbed the back of his clout and tugged.
“Threats, Horsetalker. I’m Riverwalker, wyrh-chieftain a’Ilhukaia. I don’t promise, I threaten—”
“Rotten fish entrails! Another several heartbeats and you’ll be rutting like oških. Will you never grow up?”
Palatan whipped about with a snarl on his lips—he knew the voice as well as Palatan. More.
Sure enough, Nechtoun a’Naisgwyr strode closer, broad arms crossed over his even broader chest, a mighty
