Her face leached into ash. Somehow he’d struck a nerve. “You know nothing, outlier!”
“A’io, you’re right. I don’t know, not near enough. But neither do you, I’m thinking.”
“I know you’ve been nothing but a disruptive influence every time you’ve deigned to show yourself in decent society. Particularly for Tokela.”
“Because I gave a few snatched heartbeats of notice to a lonely little ahlóssa?” Našobok snapped back. “Because I answered an invitation to an oških’s first Spear Dance? Perhaps you should wonder why he keeps seeking me out!”
Again, it pinked her. “And what will you do this time but confuse him more? You’ll guide him as an elder cousin should? Only you are not, and all you’ll ‘teach’ him will be the tricks and games you should have outgrown long ago—”
“Careful, you’re parroting my sire, now.”
“—and then leave him to chase after a forbidden Spirit. You’ll abandon my son, just like you did your Clan and my brother.”
“That,” Našobok grated out, “is something I refuse to speak to with you. What talk you spout!—your brother, your son. Not everything is about you.”
“Of course this isn’t about me! Can’t you underst—”
“I think you’re the one who doesn’t understand.”
“Tokela is the one who doesn’t understand!” The raw plea in Inyha’s voice startled him. “He doesn’t ken what he’s doing! He’s like his dam, reaching for Fire even if Ša burns, and you’ve no right to encourage him!”
Ai, there. Truth, dripping blood.
“You have no right,” Našobok growled suddenly, softly, “to cloak him with the memories of the dead. Even to protect him.”
He should have expected the slap. Perhaps he even deserved it. But he was not prepared for the glitter of tears in Inhya’s eyes as, breathing hard, she shook her head and backed away.
“We have nothing more to say to each other.”
But as Našobok watched her turn and go, he imagined before this was over they’d have a lot more.
TOKELA SHOULD have expected it. Should have known he never made the right choices even when he tried. Instead it all… twisted, somehow.
Twisted. Maybe he couldn’t. Couldn’t make appropriate choices, couldn’t be normal, couldn’t belong. He was half-breed to Other. It didn’t matter that all he wanted was to be one with his Clan, because he wasn’t. It didn’t matter that he didn’t want to spend First Running in constant upheaval against almost everyone that mattered.
Inhya. Sarinak. Nechtoun and his odd friend Galenu. Mordeleg—not that he mattered—and then, Našobok.
“Tokela?”
Of course. Only Madoc was left.
Tokela didn’t stop walking, didn’t hesitate at all and he wasn’t sure why.
I fought for you! The small wail built, silent, behind his chest. Why didn’t you fight for…?
His hearth-mother would say he’d indeed sunken low, to hope an outlier would speak for him. Fight for him.
“Tokela!”
Even that wasn’t truly his, merely a naming given in denial of the inevitable.
Tohwakeli. Tohwakelifitčiluka. Eyes of Stars.
Another call, and the sound of approaching feet, running to catch up.
Always, Madoc tried to catch him up. Always, Tokela couldn’t help but leave him behind. And still Madoc kept running after, ardent and determined, and Tokela hadn’t the heart to stop him. No one else bothered.
“Tokela!”
“What?” He rounded, quick and fierce.
Madoc just barely managed to not run head-on into him, and backed so swift, Tokela found himself wondering what Madoc saw in his expression. Maybe he needed to cultivate it more.
Then he saw the wide-wary eyes, the tension quivering along the half-grown frame. Seeing such disquiet, such wariness—and in Madoc, whom he’d never wanted to see with that look…
It broke something in Tokela. There was a crack, then a shiver, then it all went shattering into friable, uncountable, irretrievable pieces.
“Why do you keep following me?” Tokela snapped.
“Because you keep running!” Madoc shot back. Then, with a small quaver in his voice, “You never used to run from me.”
Too much hurt had piled itself atop Tokela; he was not inclined to remorse or mercy. Not thisnow. He peered at Madoc with flattened eyes, silent.
Waiting.
Madoc had never been good at the wait. He shifted, back and forth. “I didn’t mean what I said. When you’re not… Here. It’s not the same as what Grandsire does.”
You meant it, Tokela wanted to say, and then, What if it is like? What if it’s…
Worse?
He remained silent, forelock falling into his face.
Madoc only lasted a breath longer. “You… you made your indigo.”
Tokela turned his head, still said nothing.
“You never said anything, never…” Madoc faltered, tried to re-gather his indignation, like a bellows against Fire. “I didn’t think it mattered. I mean, you were taller, but so was I. Your voice changed, but it didn’t seem to matter either. Even when Yeka… when he spoke to you of you taking your oških Journey, you wouldn’t talk about it. I heard. To him, or Aška. You never speak of anything important.”
“Maybe I don’t want to.”
Maybe he couldn’t.
“You’ve always made a Dance with me, with all the ahlóssa. Instead you made your Marks and a Dance with that wyrhling!”
“That wyrhling is your Uncle Našobok!”
“You’re the only one who says that!” Madoc challenged. “Even he knows what he is! What makes you so special as to ignore what’s right?”
“What makes you so special as to say what’s right?” Tokela blurted out. Talk, so often slippery and unwieldy, suddenly wouldn’t be silent. “Shunning people because they’re different, that’s right? Rendering someone outlier because they do something, hear something, feel something the people around them either can’t or won’t admit to? That’s right?” Thick, salty heat filled Tokela’s eyes, as uncontrollable as the sudden flow of talk. “Is that the sort of leader you want to be? If it is, and that’s ‘here’, then I don’t want to be here!”
“But you’re my brother! My cousin! I love you!”
“Našobok is my cousin. Your uncle.”
Madoc’s lips quivered and he looked down.
Still,
