It was those eyes—large and unshadowed by any mask, gleaming and reflecting Fire’s light—that feathered the first, tiny thrill of recognition in Našobok. Several heartbeats, then everything set in and sunk him, and by then “interesting” was not quite the word he needed. Instead he said the first thing that came to his tongue, foul and flummoxed.
“Yuškammanukfila ikšo! Tokela?”
That forelock fell again, and the oških gave the first familiar gesture—a bothered blink, sideways tilt of head, and a tiny, self-deprecating flash of smile… and poke Našobok sideways, it was little Tokela. Only not little, not anymore, but grown tall and sleek and just this side of heartache-about-to-happen.
“Uhn,” Našobok said, tried to push up from his elbows only to have one slip on a slick patch of grass and send him sprawling.
Tokela lurched forwards, letting his spear fall with a clatter as he reached out. Našobok gave a small flail, wondered if it was possible he could look any more ridiculous.
He grabbed Tokela’s forearm, watched lean muscles clench and teeth grit together, felt a grin tugging at his face as, with a little determination and a lot of pride, Tokela hauled upward someone twice his own weight.
“Tokela?” Našobok repeated—inane, but he couldn’t stop it any more than he could halt his helpless repeat of, “Yuškammanukfila ikšo…”
“I really hope you aren’t,” Tokela said, as the half smile blossomed, sudden, into full-bore, heart-stopping intensity. “Too stupid for rutting. Because that would sort of ruin it.”
It wasn’t Tokela’s voice, either—at least, not the one Našobok remembered; this voice belonged to the agile stranger who’d given him quite the tail-trimming with a spear. All furry and low, with a hoarse tension running beneath it, and about as subtle as a buck in rut.
Or so it seemed to Našobok’s too-tight clout, anyway.
Tokela just stood there, quiet, as if waiting. They were out of the Dance, anyway, from the time Tokela had dropped his spear, but the drums still pounded for the remaining dancers. Našobok became aware, abruptly, of the strained hush in the watchers closest to them. Taken away earlier by the unfolding novelty and drama, now there were plenty who had, with the players stilled, come back to themselves. Thisnow, they remembered who—what—had entered the circuit.
Našobok’s gaze went to Palatan, who jerked his chin slight and sideways, plain as Sun on water: If I were you I’d consider making your talk somewhere else. Now.
Našobok tried to take his hand from Tokela’s arm, but his fingers seemed loath to let go. He hesitated further as dark brows, still beneath their inevitable overhang of forelock, drew together. Tokela angled back, ever so slightly, his gaze upon Našobok searching. Whatever he was looking for, it didn’t please him; face clouding, he released Našobok.
Našobok’s fingers still refused to do likewise. “Tokela. We should—”
“That’s enough.”
Sarinak’s voice shouldn’t have been much of a surprise to Našobok. Even more surprising was the reaction it tendered in Tokela. Suddenly the oških was gone, and if it wasn’t quite the shy ahlóssa Našobok remembered, it was a strange reflection of that memory, ramped up into an apprehension surely inappropriate to the situation.
Trouble, a’io. But not enough to kill them.
“Mound-chieftain,” Našobok started, respectful. “It s—”
“You. Outlier. Leave this circuit.”
Not only Sarinak, but Inhya was there, glaring an entire quiver of arrows at Našobok. Not so surprising, that; what was surprising was the flat stare Tokela turned upon his dam.
Another, larger surprise, as Inhya looked aside.
Sarinak reached out, grabbed Tokela’s arm. The oških stiffened as if the touch had burned, but Sarinak did not loose him. “Tokela.”
Tokela rounded on his hearth-father with a snarl. “This is my right. You can’t—”
“That’s where you’re wrong.” Sarinak, of course, was implacable. “I can. I do. I put a stop to this. And your rights—which you have taken, not had bestowed upon you as is our way—such rights do not extend to bringing an outlier into Circuit. Your Dance is over.”
Palatan had risen, padding without a sound to join them. There was a set to his jaw Našobok well recognised. “Perhaps there is a better place to settle such things?” The talk rang quiet, all too reasonable—definitely a new-acquired skill, that.
And one with which Našobok agreed. There’d already been one open humiliation thisSun, and despite Palatan’s offhand assessment of indifference, Tokela’s cheeks were blood-dark.
“There is nothing to ‘settle’.” Inhya’s voice went low but Našobok heard it. No doubt he was meant to. “Your heart is great, but not always wise, little brother.”
“You are tyah of horseClan,” Sarinak stated. “You are Alekšu, to whom I must give honour. But your ways aren’t ours. Do likewise honour. This isn’t your concern.”
Palatan met Našobok’s eyes, shook his head ever so slightly. Našobok gave a slight nod and returned his attention to Tokela.
Those cheeks were still flushed, but his eyes had gone flat, impassive. Našobok tried for intention in his own gaze, loud and clear. There was no need for any of this. They shared Dance; more could be shared later. After this unpleasantness was circumvented.
“I’ll go,” Našobok said, quiet, keeping his eyes on Tokela’s. He was quite unprepared for what he saw flicker there. Scorn… ai, perhaps not, he amended, but the truth was even worse.
Disappointment.
Yet had he not been watching, Našobok never would have seen it. The twinge of reaction vanished as Tokela looked down and away, forelock covering any further revelation.
“We all go,” Sarinak said.
They left the boundaries of the circuit. Palatan tried to meet Inyha’s eyes, failed, then gave Našobok another weighted glance and returned to his place.
A short way, the walk, into the cool mist-gloom of evergreens and, thankfully, away from further scrutiny. Tokela kept darting quick glances at Našobok, as if waiting.
Waiting for what?
This was becoming more tangled with every breath.
Tokela gave a sudden twist of his arm. Sarinak lost his grip, tried to reclaim it, but the oil that had aided Tokela in Dance did
