“As I made plain, we will consider your offer, stone-chieftain.” Inhya’s voice broke into Tokela’s thoughts. “I can promise nothing more, since the time has not come.”
Tokela slid back slightly and turned over, peering at the stony ceiling barely an arm’s reach overhead.
Madoc’s face, upside down, entered into Tokela’s field of vision. Stabs and tingles shot through his fingertips; Madoc’s hand still clenched his, hard.
You don’t want to go, do you? Madoc signed with his other hand.
Tokela averted his gaze, gave the easiest answer. You know they won’t let me go.
But do you want to?
Nothing Tokela could say to that. Nothing to offer, in this heartbeat and many others, that wouldn’t hurt his cousin.
Particularly the truth.
Madoc possessed only a few summerings more than Tokela himself had when River had taken his parents. It was an age with little understanding of whys and hows, no room for subtleties. Only the realisation: when someone went away, it hurt.
So many things already filled Tokela’s heart that Madoc would never understand, should never have to know.
Only this. I am here. Tokela disentangled his hand to grip the curls at Madoc’s temple. I am here, thisSun.
And nextSun? Or another?
A tug, sharp but slight. Little brother, all we ever have is thisnow.
But Tokela—
Excited voices rose, echoing upwards. Mostly male, arguing back and forth, then another voice: fem, clear and dry with sarcasm. Sarinak’s powerful voice rose, overriding them all.
Until one deep voice curled wit into a whip. “Only fools believe that painting our cheeks and puffing our chests will solve such things!”
Madoc craned his neck, curious once more, scooting closer to the edge. Tokela felt as if he’d swerved from his own edge, one treacherous and deep. Neither could he muster up any remorse at his relief.
It’s the yakhling elder! She is making very strong talk. At least Madoc’s focus had shifted… for now. Yeka is annoyed.
This made Tokela scoot forwards and peer over the edge. The usual way he beheld Sarinak’s annoyance was in receipt.
The yakhling—Grass Weaver, Tokela recollected; their folk didn’t hold to the protection of Commingling-talk for their names—was a chieftain in her own right, and seemed eldest of all those present. She held her staff firm; her wrinkled face remained composed, daring any to oppose her right to speak in open Council.
“I mean no disrespect to your hospitality, Mound-chieftain, but I cannot sit by and hear these”—she jerked her head sideways, indicating two males with the close-cropped temples of desertClan—“young cockerels fart with their mouths!”
What do they make talk about now? Tokela signed to Madoc, who shrugged.
I think it was something about outLands.
“This is open Council,” Sarinak agreed, curt, “and thisSun the rights are given for all to speak. Including outliers.”
Tokela smothered a burst of irritation, wondering how exactly Sarinak could bend over with that spear haft he always seemed to have stuck up his tail split. Naturally, this wasn’t anything repeatable in Madoc’s hearing. Instead Tokela watched Grass Weaver. The medicine bag tied at the head of her staff betrayed her reliance upon the latter by quivering, albeit slight.
“All must speak, a’io. Truth, not foolish rumour.” Grass Weaver made a sharp gesture; the staff slipped from her grasp. A broad, dark hand snatched it before it hit the ground. Našobok rose, proffering the staff even as he cupped a hand at Grass Weaver’s elbow. Courtesy, nothing more, but Tokela saw the old yakhling lean against Našobok as she accepted her staff. More, Tokela caught himself leaning forwards, tense and observant, as Grass Weaver murmured something to Našobok. In return Našobok gave the old yakh-chieftain a slow, brilliant smile.
It made Tokela’s heart give a huge, ungainly flop against his breastbone.
Madoc, shifting perilously close to the edge, gave Tokela the jolt of reality he needed. Reaching out and yanking his brother back, Tokela glared Madoc’s burgeoning protest into silence.
If you fall in and fetch us into trouble, I will end you!
Madoc twisted his brows and signed apology. It’s just… He hesitated, then grinned. You know, everyone looks very fancy.
Tokela again found his gaze sliding to Našobok.
More than fancy. Both Našobok and Grass Weaver were no casual vagabonds of tales or even memory. She’d enough layers and finery to outshine any a’Naišwyrh, with plenty of beads and metal twisted in tens of long, silver locks braided small and tight. Našobok was even finer, though: a softweave tunic wrapped loose beneath his longcoat, exact match for the longcoat’s trim of vermilion beads and copper discs. Even his tall boots were trimmed with the colour of bright, new-spilled blood. A wealth of copper and silver bands adorned his fingers and wrists, valuable cowries tangled in that unbound mane of hair, his forelock pulled over and braided at one temple with three Sea-raptor feathers, those bound with leather and costly turquoise.
Shifting his hips against the stone, Tokela gritted his teeth. Why now? he asked, silent. As if there could ever be an answer.
But there was. River’s soft hum reached for him, through sandstone and bedding rock, to trickle along his nerves. The abrupt sound/scent/taste of Her were currents, filling his heart and rising his body.
N’da, he tried to conjure, not yet. After all, it had worked before.
Impossibly, it did again.
But even that wasn’t as impossible as the sudden yearning within his heart: that he could attract Našobok’s notice, and not as the peculiar younger cousin who used to follow him around, pesky as Madoc at his worst or little Kuli at his best. N’da, Tokela would have to puff his chest and daub his entire body with oških indigo like flyingKin in full mating plumage, assuming he possessed the cheek to actually strut up to Našobok and utter I beg your pardon, you probably don’t even remember me, and I’m so pissing ignorant about this entire business I’m not even sure how to ask, but… Will you?
Even thinking about the possibility made Tokela’s breath catch in his chest, his heart pound behind his ears,
