Madoc’s face twitched and Tokela felt his will begin to fragment: too close, too possible.
“N’da, if I was to go away, go to River, be outlier—wyrhling—what would you do then? Would you love me then?”
“That isn’t fair!”
“Answer the question, Madoc.”
For once, Madoc seemed bereft of anything resembling speech. He stared at Tokela, fists clenched, and his mouth opened several times, yet nothing came out. Finally, with a strangled groan, he whirled and sped away.
Tokela watched him go. He knew he should be feeling something. Anything. Instead the chaotic and nonsensical hum rose behind his eyes, heat slicking his throat and runnelling down his spine; his fingertips twitched, uncontrollable, as if they wanted—needed—to craft something. Anything.
This wasn’t feeling. It couldn’t be, because he was cold and stilled, as if he were game for the board hung and up and split open, entrails removed. Heart taken. Bled out, with nothing left in his veins but…
But chill Riverwater.
Tokela stumbled in the opposite direction, away from Madoc, the drums, the compound… everything.
13 - Breaking
Anahli preferred standing firm over running—she’d in truth never met anything she cared to run from. But there was no standing against that sea of hostility. She’d kept her head high, true, but her swift, angry walk had been a retreat, nothing but. Where to, she wasn’t sure, but for now, away from these withering, hidebound, fish-stinking cliffs.
Her dam’s ire was easily understood. Her aunt’s, less so. But her sire… disapproval from him had always put salt to any wound. And it seemed since he’d taken upon Alekšu’s horns, his gaze had turned, more suspicion than sympathy. As if he waited for some strange happenstance, one both feared and hoped-for.
Palatan had always concealed things . His heart and smile had never been withheld; his love for his spouse and children—indeed, for all horseClans—was there for all to see. But he cloaked his eyes any time Anahli spoke of anything concerning the Elementals they must inexplicably deny even as they revered them.
Anahli wanted to rip that cloak away. And she’d found a keen, sure weapon: talk.
You mean to give me to River, even as you gave him up to Her! You let him abandon us! Let him turn his back on caldera’s Fire for cold-cruel Rivertalk, even as you would abandon me in this place where fems are barely warriors!
Anahli’s feet had eyes in them, and a good thing, too. The woodland lay tangled with new growth, what paths she discerned made for short hoofedKin, not lanky horsetalkers. Nevertheless, she took the smallest, ill-travelled one she could find and kept going, both heat and wet spilling over her cheeks. A bramble slapped her, then one of treeKin clawed at her hair. Giving an angry dash of hand across her face, she looked up, ahead.
The trees had thinned, dwindling into a small meadow. Across from her hunched…
What was it? Some ancient cavern? A gate such as the midLands herders used to corral their sheep? To be sure, the tangled hedge to either side seemed impenetrable.
The thing was nearly tall as the ancient trees curving around it, shining ebony and—somehow—silver. If it were indeed some kind of stone, it bore no moss or greenery. She could see now that even the close-hemmed trees and bracken hugged—but didn’t touch it. Even the Riverling that had followed her had retreated from the thing. Narrower now, a mere burble and tumble beneath thick bracken and a clump of grass that waved in Wind’s breath, dotted with tiny budlings and braver blossoms. The Riverling disappeared—or seemed to—beneath the cavern’s entrance.
If it was a cavern.
Anahli rose to a half crouch, wiping her hands on a patch of moss thick as a horse’s fur during snowMoon. Head cocked, pace measured-slow, she advanced upon it.
As if in answer to the tens of questions vibrating upon her tongue, the thing seemed to shiver. Something akin to SkyFire chased across its surface, followed by a thick crack! that made her start. Frowning, Anahli reversed her steps, her eyes never leaving the thing.
It was then she heard the approach. Quiet, but clumsy, at a two-footed half trot that occasionally stumbled.
And was there anything she desired less at this breath than encountering a clumsy someone?
Anahli, still keeping an eye upon the ebony cavern, slid behind a thick quartet of trees and hunkered down, silent.
NAŠOBOK KNEW how many hiding places there were within and without the Great Mound. He had, after all, frequented most of them—and, it seemed, for many of the same reasons Tokela had.
So. If he were a pissing-angry, hemmed-in oških again, where would he go?
Hunh. There were too many places still.
He had to narrow down to what he knew—which wasn’t much, but it was something. Tokela was drawn to River. Tokela liked his own company. Tokela liked…
Two places suddenly came to the forefront in Našobok’s mind. One was a place where he’d found a small ahlóssa wandering, several furlongs downRiver from the Mound. The other was an overflow, a Riverling several leagues distant, with a lovely cavern in which to make camp, and a deep pool perfect for a soothing swim. He knew it well, knew Tokela was aware of it—the last time Našobok had visited, Tokela had let slip he’d found the very place a young Našobok had once made his own.
Of course, either of those made the supposition that Tokela wanted to be found.
Well, perhaps he didn’t or perhaps he did. But something in him yearned for… something. Else Tokela would have never invited a wyrhling once-cousin into Dance.
The strand first, then on to the little cove. If that wasn’t it, then…
Našobok narrowly avoided being bowled over by a half-sized, Sun-haired projectile. More out of instinct than anything resembling sense, he grabbed the missile by ša’s ahlóssa braid, skipped forwards a few steps until Madoc had slowed, then stopped.
Truly, Našobok wasn’t prepared for the small fury that descended upon him.
“Let go of me!
