Wind breathed on his cheeks, and below River purled, satisfied.
A thatch of umber rose against tree boughs and Sky, framed in the open front of the wykupeh. Madoc’s unruly mane always welcomed summering’s return by streaking tawny. It refused to heed either oil or confinement, rippling wild about his Marked cheeks and making good attempts to escape the tight-wrapped ahlóssa braidlock.
With a grunt Madoc swung sideways, found the burl-and-branch front stoop of their hideaway. Bare toes grabbed, leather leggings creaked. Madoc’s tunic, the hue of grass and splashed with Sky tones, caught on the burl. Freeing it carefully, Madoc clambered up the rest of the way. Two steps in, he halted, eyeing Tokela.
“You look dreadful.”
“And may the Moons light your path as well, little brother.” Tokela rubbed the heel of his hand over his face, pulled his knees towards his chest, and laced his forearms around them. Slid a swift glance Madoc-wards.
Of course, not even wry affection swayed Madoc on a mission. Eyebrows twisting up into his forelock, arms crossed, he fairly radiated disapproval. Tokela rolled his eyes, started to growl how he was not of a mind to tolerate yet another lecture from Mound-chieftain’s Son.
Instead, those razored shards scraped against Tokela’s skull, sparking behind his eyes like to the flickers of the t’rešalt, as if Madoc’s ire curled about Tokela’s nape like intimate, intrusive fingers…
Tokela buried his face against his knees and clenched his fists against his shins, hard. One fingernail gave an unintentional scrape to a still-healing gash; the sting of it wrested him from oddling fugue.
“I was sleeping,” he muttered against his knees. “Trying to, anyway.”
Silence, then a quick thump of feet over to where he sat. Callused hands gripped at his own, gave an insistent tug.
Tokela took in a deep breath, then slowly raised his eyes. Almost a dare—can you see? is there anything to see?—but Madoc’s gaze, glinting slightly in the faint illumination of the wykupeh, reflected nothing of recoil. Of Shaping. Of Other.
“If you didn’t want me to find you, then you came to the wrong place.”
Tokela gave a soft snort. “Is it my fault I slept too long?”
“Granddam Giltha’ailiq always used to say we end up taking the path meant, whether we want to admit it or not.”
“So now I wanted you to bellow like a herdbeast and wake me.”
It was Madoc’s turn to snort. “I waited for you. Where were you lastdark?” That he would ask yet again unless answered, Tokela had little doubt.
“I went hunting.” The feint came easily; Tokela was well used to them by now.
“Ahlóssa aren’t supposed to hunt alone after Sun-goes-down.”
“So you keep telling me.”
“First Running has started, you know.”
“I know.”
“We have things to do, as hosts. Grandsire was looking for you lastSun. Aška looks for you thisSun.”
Tokela dreaded facing Inhya. Would she know by looking? Could she tell what Chepiś had done, even if he wasn’t sure exactly what had happened? She’d seen it before, after all, with Lakisa.
Those Chepiś had known his dam. The Matwau had known her name. They’d—
“Even the Spawn came after me, looking for you. See how popular you are?” Madoc folded his legs and settled down next to Tokela, leaned against him as if he were a favourite cushion.
Kuli just got up Madoc’s nose, and that was all there was to it. Usually Tokela tolerated the expletive. But thisnow, with all that had happened?
It wasn’t funny.
Tokela noticed Madoc was giving him a surreptitious onceover, and held his breath.
“Tokela, you look like you lost a battle with a prickly hedge.”
Tokela let the breath out. “In darkness such things happen.”
“Where do you go?”
Tokela shrugged. “I’ve nothing more to say.”
Madoc didn’t like to honour that prerogative; but this time he did, onto fresh game. “Anahli came lastSun, with Aunt Aylaniś and Uncle Palatan. I heard she’s to stay, and the Sp—" Madoc snuck a look Tokela’s direction, seemed to ken the word wasn’t welcome “—Kuli’s supposed to be going back home.”
“Maybe he’ll stay here instead, with his sister,” Tokela teased.
“Maybe he’ll stow in the wyrhling’s hold and leave that way.”
Tokela jerked upright. “Našobok’s here?”
Madoc treated him to another disapproving tilt of nose. “What do you care? He’s outlier.”
“You make talk like your father.”
“Our father”—very pointed—“is Mound-chieftain. How else should we be? It’s the way, Tokela. The wyrhling—”
“Našobok.” Just as pointed, with ire flickering deep in Tokela’s chest. Even if he wasn’t sure why he was angry, save for the faded memory of a nigh-grown oških bothering to sit with an ahlóssa after River had taken Tokela’s parents. Našobok had sought him out. Had sat with him, quiet and unassuming.
Had been rendered outlier not long after.
Yet, every First Running he was here, he still sought Tokela out.
“Uncle Palatan and Aunt Aylaniś acted like they were overjoyed to see him. Like he’s Clan.”
“Maybe he is.”
“He can’t be. He’s outlier. It’s the way.”
“Except when it isn’t, Madoc. DuskLands have their own ways. Every tribe does.”
Madoc grumbled acceptance of this, but kept shaking his head. “Everyone made too much talk about it. I don’t think Anahli liked it, either.”
Tokela grinned. “I think you fancy Anahli.”
A stammer, and a flush. “She’s oških! She’s fem!”
“A’io, out of your league. Best stay with your own, little brother.” Light, teasing…
Manipulative.
But it made Madoc laugh and lean against him again. “I am with my own. And not your ‘little’ brother for much longer, I think.”
True enough. Plump solidity was beginning to angle lanky and unfinished. Already Madoc’s nose brushed Tokela’s chin when they stood together. Of course, Tokela’s growth had been—
Stunted? Prevented, somehow? Disallowed, until…?
Whatever the cause, it wouldn’t be long before Madoc would pass him up.
“See. I have grown more than you.”
Tokela answered Madoc’s self-important smirk by smirking right back and darting a quick hand outward. Madoc gave a yip and rubbed his cuffed skull.
“Hunh,
