The claws taken from the shigala creature were shoved back into the pouch, deep-hidden.
Unplaiting the cloth-and-bead lanyards already in his hair, he put his palms against his doubled knees, contemplating his wealth. Not much, gathered all together, but they were things of quality. And after thisSun, after he made his Marks and Danced, Tokela would be able to claim more.
He hoped his treasures were… Ai, what did he hope? Suitable? Appealing?
It felt odd, to care so much about his appearance.
Yet he had to care. Tokela was under no illusions he could physically outshine the other oških who would Dance beside him, but he knew the steps from watching and imitating them his entire life. He had some grace, was nimble on his feet. He was also nimble with his wits, which was a good thing. He’d surely have to outwit Našobok. Trick him, somehow, mask what he was and once had been. For Tokela knew—knew—if he didn’t? Našobok would only see the little cousin he’d carried on his broad shoulders, the ahlóssa who’d pestered him for Sea tales, who’d followed him, eager and determined, in long walks on River’s thighs.
He did not want Našobok to see that ahlóssa. Not anymore.
The next was tricky. But a bath was necessary. He rose, taking hesitant steps into the shallow Riverlet, then clenched his teeth and dove in. Breath escaped him at the shock of Her, bubbles glistening bronze and pinkish-green, rising to catch in his hair. Buoyant, drifting, closing about him, touching him, yet…
She filled him with nothing but peace, and the sound of Her made soft accompaniment to the drumming of his heart.
Tokela waded out, bending over to shudder away the wet. Wind nipped at his damp skin—affectionately, it would seem. Black-chestnut hair gleamed with wet and dusk’s shadows, clung to him as he shook… save the braidlock snugged to his skull, slapping at his cheek.
He had forgotten it. Forgotten, and suddenly he couldn’t wait to be freed of it. Fingers shaking in their eagerness, Tokela raked the unbraided locks sideways and held the braid taut. His new obsidian knife was just as sharp as the old one shattered upon the Shaped beast; it made a ripping sound as he cut the braid a handspan from his scalp. Tiny prickles of chill raised the scant fur on his thighs, groin, and belly. His scalp tingled as he loosed the remainder of the braid to drift across his face—forelock, not braidlock, no longer.
Plait end in one hand and his knife in the other, he knelt and passed both above the remaining honour: Fire. Cleansed by River, severed by Earth, set free upon Wind and now, the visible Power of Their commingling—Smoke—wafted over him. Tokela sniffed gingerly and held the wisp within his lungs, disallowing the luxury of a cough, then bent over his finery and exhaled the misted breath in a faint orison.
Warmth rashed over him, dispersing any chill. He took that as a good omen, and poured from the first pot a grainy, loose powder the colour of conifer needles. Setting the bowl into Fire he took up the second vial, poured the oil. As it runnelled and beaded over the dry matter, he began folding it together with a peeled stick, adding small amounts of steaming water—another commingling, this. Another Dance.
His fingers faltered. What if even indigo made no difference? What if he made his Marks, and Danced, and still Našobok only saw an unremarkable younger cousin?
There had to be a way. Something. Somehow.
If only he could be invisible. Or a true skin-changer, like the ancient tales of Šaákfo…
He couldn’t believe he was even thinking such a thing. But for perhaps the first time in his life, Tokela did not want to be thought of as unremarkable.
All the while he rolled the shorn braidlock on one thigh, watching as the oiled powder lifted then thickened, altering with River’s coppery Power, shifting like a Dance mask…
A Dance mask.
Tokela smiled. Testing the mix with his smallest finger, he took the pot from Fire’s palms and paced over to squat in the shallows. Then, using the Moons-bright River as mirror, he dipped the twisted skein of hair into the indigo and began to trace across his cheekbones.
11 - Dancer
The mask called him, pure and simple. Perhaps it was his blood—his dam had been over half of horseClan, after all. The fur-trimmed, grass-woven half mask of Hare seemed to speak his name, make promise:
We are alike, you and I. We are creatures of speed and thought, guile and skill. Be one with me, Tohwakelifitčiluka. Be the clever one, the one who hides in plain sight, the one whose heart can outwit and outspeed almost anyone.
Tokela stood leaning against the whitewood stave of his spear, eyeing the mask where ša hung, amidst many others. The other oških males milled around him, murmuring, making their own choices. Torchlight flickered over their bodies and glinted along the points of their spears: bone and sinew and obsidian. Ceremonial Fire had been captured in torches to illuminate the oških in all their finery; the torches smoked the tall ceiling of the weapons den, cast shadows along the clean-swept expanse of testing ground, as well as the long, smooth walls where
