Sometime later, after they’d wrestled and revelled, sweated and tangled and howled—softly, to be true; they were not in their own place—they lay beside the hearth with heartbeats commingling, breath slowing.
“It will be better,” Aylaniś said.
“Better might kill me,” Palatan replied, drowsy and purposeful misunderstanding. He grunted as she poked his ribs—it, too, was lazy.
“My first few Councils, I thought I would die of boredom. Or fury.”
Fury. Ai’o, that he well understood. His eyes flickered to where Fire crouched, sullen with the damp but waiting. Always waiting.
“Yap, yap, yap, neverending.”
Palatan chuckled. “That’s exactly how Našobok described it.”
“Well, he’s right. Saying so much, doing nothing.” Aylaniś pushed up, stretched. Sleek with sweat, Fire gleamed over the curve of breasts and shoulders, caressing the soft swell of belly that had nurtured their children.
Palatan reached out, trailed fingers over her skin, always surprised how the dark glitter of it didn’t smudge his fingertips like hallowed, fecund Earth. “So remind me again, why?”
“Someone has to make sensible talk. Letting anger rule your head and feet does nothing.”
“I had to leave. Next time will be easier. I know what to guard against.”
Aylaniś nuzzled his hand, a keen understanding worth every oath strained, long ago, when he’d been forced to reveal what he was. She and Našobok… they knew all that could be known or shared.
“There are better things to consider.” Palatan smoothed his hand down between their bodies. She pulsed with heartbeat and heat, slick against his fingertips.
Aylaniś hummed pleasure into his neck. “Perhaps we should consider leaving nothing for our ungrateful Riverwalker. Abandoning our furs to roll in another’s!” Aylaniś slid her hips forwards then back against his hand, slow and thick and lovely. Fire fingered her ribs as they expanded, His light tonguing her nipples into peaks as rigid as Palatan himself was becoming—and exposed the stutter of her throat as Aylaniś threw her head back, ground down against him.
He rolled her over, pushed her down. She gave an abrupt, painful yip and kept rolling; they ended up on their sides, face to face.
“Wha—?”
Reaching beneath, her grimace turned to triumph as she brought forth one of the bone-and-feather pins she wore in her braids.
Palatan snorted, reached over and twined a fallen strand about his fingers, admiring the gleam like polished, darkest bronze. “No pointed sticks. No torture thisdark. You have my secrets.”
“Most of them, anyway.” Aylaniś leaned closer and ran her tongue over his lower lip, sank her teeth lightly there.
Most of them. He pulled her close, sudden and uncertain, shrugged it off by laying a trail, with lips and tongue, down the tattoo on her arm.
“Perhaps,” she said, breath quickening, “a little bit of torture?”
“Ai, are you two the only ones here, then?”
Aylaniś stiffened, sighed. Palatan gave a curse, rocking up to his elbows to glare at the ahlóssa standing on the other side of their small hearth.
“Kuli chieftain-son!” Aylaniś twisted about. “Where are your manners? Can’t you see we’re occupied?”
“I surely can see that,” Kuli said with a sigh. “But I’d truly hoped Uncle Našobok would be here too.”
As if cued, Rain began pelting them; huge drops, gaining in momentum.
They all three ducked for the tipo, startling both Arrow and Anahli from sleep, and ended up tucked together, laughing fit to burst. Just like before, Palatan thought, as his daughter and his spouse fussed at each other over a quickly cobbled meal of trail food, whilst his son went to milk the mares.
Perhaps the Vision was merely too much Smoke, too much tulapaiś, too much… yap-yap-yap.
“HE SAYS he was viciously attacked.”
“Without or with further provocation?”
Galenu paused.
“Surely,” Sarinak prompted, “provocation enough existed in Dance. I told Tokela to leave it, but oških hearts beat hot. Perhaps this matter can be solved between us alone, and the humiliation of being beaten twice by a slighter opponent”—a quick, proud smile ticced his broad face, slight but there—“teach a lesson in humility to your oških.”
As far as Galenu was concerned, Mordeleg likely earned that lesson. But his Clan’s honour also lay at stake. “The oških has demanded arbitration, as is his right. He says Tokela promised to lie with him and instead lay in wait to kill him. In light of that, he’s important evidence against Tokela that will prove his false nature.”
Sarinak gave a low growl, stalking from the door where he had admitted Galenu into his den. By the hearth, Inhya continued pouring fragrant bark tea into several birchbark cups. Necessary, the stimulant; it was not yet Sun’s rising.
“That’s a lie!” Madoc, on the rug beside his parents’ hearth, clambered to his feet. His dam stayed him with a look.
“Sit, son.”
Madoc obeyed, reluctant but taking advantage: Inhya hadn’t harnessed his mouth. “But it’s a lie! Tokela hates Mordeleg, and he’d never—!”
Another look from Inhya, forbidding.
“Kindly forgive my son, Galenu Hassun-chieftain,” Sarinak offered, even as Inhya said through her teeth, “You will excuse your rudeness, Madoc.” She pulled Madoc to his feet and gave a slight push forwards.
“There’s no need,” Galenu said, his eyes steady upon Madoc. “I don’t think he was calling me the liar—were you, chieftain-son?”
Big-boned and gawky, Madoc had the promise of his people’s height and breadth, as well as the tawny hue to his hair that ran sporadically through the Mound People. Inhya gave another push, Madoc grimaced and met Galenu’s gaze—ai, no midLands ahlóssa would meet an elder’s eyes so boldly. Madoc’s had interesting glints of carmine amidst sepia.
He would break hearts, this one. Handsome, likely a chieftain himself some Sun, Madoc a’Naišwyrh would have his pick of mates.
“Nevertheless,” Inhya prompted, bringing a cup of tea over to Galenu.
He took it with a grateful nod, sipped as she went over to stand with Sarinak.
Madoc tucked his chin, firm. “I wasn’t calling you false, stone-chieftain, but Mordeleg has to be lying. Tokela has every reason to take him down, but he wouldn’t…” Madoc’s Sun-bronzed cheeks darkened further. “Wouldn’t.”
Galenu took this in. “You are close with Tokela, then, ahlóssa?”
Interesting, how Madoc looked away. “He’s my
