He straightened, one eyebrow raised. “Say again?”
Seguin smiled—more a smirk, and one Palatan longed to wipe from him. Not in Council, of course, but later, facedown upon Grandmother’s apron. “I merely state how long it’s been since Alekšu has graced this Council. Since you are not your predecessor—”
“Thankfully,” Inhya put in, wry.
“—surely you’ve opinions?” Seguin continued. “Particularly since you are known to have… uh… close relations? With outliers?”
Palatan leaned forwards with a slight snarl. Fire, in Ša’s place of honour, gave a flare upward; Palatan chided his co-tenant to silent patience. Not easy, considering the challenge nigh flying about the room; Palatan could See the bodytalk with eyes closed.
Sarinak leaned forwards and tended to the hearth, muttering about dry fuel and sap pockets.
“I have opinions about many things,” Palatan finally answered, soft. “And considering my… close relations, as you say, you’ve also already guessed at least one. Unlike Chepiś or Matwau, outliers aren’t Other. They’re of us.”
“There has already been too much talk of Other thisSun,” a chieftain from dryLands demurred.
“For good reason,” Aylaniś pointed out. She kept sliding her eyes to Palatan, query and concern.
Not that he blamed her. His heart hadn’t felt properly in his body since he’d stepped from the Breaking Ground with victory in his hands. Chogah had carried her birthright carelessly, but many turnings of Hoop had given her ease beneath the added weight of so many Spirits. Perhaps emerging from the dark and solitude of Awakening and diving headfirst into Council busytalk hadn’t been the smartest of transitions. And since crossing into River’s territory, Palatan’s nerves scraped all the more raw. He wasn’t sure why, either.
The chieftain from midLands—the farmer at the centre of the debate—protested, “By their actions, outliers and outcasts choose Other. They are not my people. Why should I allow them to scavenge my Lands?”
“I was not aware any portion of thisLand belonged solely to you.” Palatan didn’t bother to so much as look up, kept peering into Fire’s eyes.
There is not enough Smoke in thisLand to shut them up—or out. Ai, my co-tenant and Spiritmate—lend me strength!
And Fire answered in Ša’s not-talk, soothing warmth that coalesced into Always, my own.
Several disapproving hisses echoed in the chamber—nothing to do with Fire, or Palatan. Agreement.
The farming chieftain held up his hands. “I meant nothing of the kind! Seguin is not the only one to note the… ah… lenience of those a’Šaákfo.”
Palatan lifted his gaze then, subtle challenge belying the mild tone. “This much is true: my People aren’t as willing to discard a tunic merely because it ill fits us. We prefer to find one who can wear it easily, give it a place. Less… wasteful.”
Inhya, from her place beside Sarinak, gave a warning roll of her eyes. Aylaniś hid her smirk beneath a scratch of nose.
Galenu’s soft chuckle echoed through the Council den.
“Brother of my spouse,” Sarinak ventured, “your heart is great. But—”
“My heart’s no greater than yours, spouse of my sister,” Palatan riposted. “But my confusion, perhaps, holds greater. When we’ve Chepiś and Matwau upon our doorsteps—a fact those outliers you so vilify have bothered to share with those of us as have Clanrights—I have to admit I see little wisdom in worrying over our own kind.”
“They are not!” the farming chieftain, stubborn as wabadeh, insisted.
“Our. Own. Kind.” Rolling to a half-crouch, Palatan shrugged away his blanket. Fire reached upwards to hiss covert heat behind Palatan’s eyes. Inwardly quieting his co-tenant, Palatan and smiled.
It was not a pleasant expression.
“They’re of us. Blood of our blood. Cousins. Sisters. Brothers. Anyone who’d waste energy barring thisLand against our own kind? Instead of welcoming their help and using their knowledge to dampen a wild that might well scorch us all? That one is a superstitious k’šo who not only uses outLander’s talk, but deserves what ša receives of it.”
Silence. Palatan slid a swift glance to Aylaniś. Her mouth quirked in wry agreement.
Still in silence, Palatan quit the den.
QUIET, TOO quiet. Even the oddling not-sounds that had dogged his steps since… since Chepiś… those, too, were silent. Only the Riverling sink pool, feeding from top to bottom, lapping at Her banks as Tokela climbed the weeping tree wykupeh and settled against the weeping tree’s sturdy bark.
Normally, he was good at the wait.
Normally, he didn’t mind being alone.
But too much spun through his Spirit. What had happened with Mordeleg? With the t’rešalt?
With Anahli?
Tokela stared at the hareKin mask, hung up on the doorway, willing ša to answer.
Ša didn’t, but the sink pool did; beckoning and promising, if not answers, at least easement of questions. As Sun sank beyond the far trees, Tokela clambered down.
He took the mask with him, setting ša carefully on the sandy bank like a guardian, and went for a swim. Not merely a swim, though; he glided through a haze of water and thought, diving deep and coming up for breath only when he absolutely had to, and finally everything went numb and slow and chill.
Aware, this time, when he’d company. But this time the murk was clean, silt and water as opposed to treacherous slime and undertow. The Riverling seemed to encourage, press him forwards.
Tokela didn’t want to fathom any more complexities, not now. Nor did he have the courage to approach. He stood, River tickling his belly, as Našobok squatted on the bank, also waiting.
“I was afraid I’d have to come looking for you again.”
I was afraid you might not come looking. Again, awkward, too complex, too exposed. Talk stuck to the back of Tokela’s mouth. Again. He trailed his fingers in the water, tiny sketches, then noticed what he was doing and stilled his hands.
Was Našobok just giving Tokela breath? Or had he reconsidered sharing such breath?
“What did you do with Mordeleg?”
“Hunh.” Našobok shifted, foot to foot. Tokela suddenly realised: his cousin was uncertain, too. “Let’s say I set some things in motion. And if none will finish
