“Palatan?” Inhya.
Ignore her, Našobok wanted to say, but the timbre of Inhya’s next words stayed him.
“Please, brother, are you there?”
Palatan heard as well. He frowned, slid a glance to his lovemates and, slinging a blanket over himself, went to the door. Arrow followed on silent feet, nudging his narrow head against Palatan’s thigh as Palatan shoved the hide flap aside.
Inhya stepped in, as carefully put together as ever, save that her kirtles swung silent, devoid of bells, and her headdress also was naked of adornment. “Brother.” Hoarse-soft, and a-tremble. “It’s urgent. I must…” She trailed off, seeing Našobok beside Aylaniś. Her face—swollen, lined with tears both shed and burgeoning—closed. She wrapped her shawl closer, her talk clipped, formal. Almost angry. “It is a matter for family. For Alekšu.”
Palatan reached out and stroked a comforting thumb to her cheek, turning to Našobok and Aylaniś with a twist of brow.
And there went another promising dark, sailing past. Našobok sighed, muttered, “I’ve a promise to keep by Moons’ rising anyway.” Squeezing Aylaniś’s hand, Našobok snatched up a discarded blanket, openly gave Palatan’s nape a stroke as he passed. Said, merely, “Inhya hearth-chieftain,” as he bent through the door flap to let it fall behind him.
TOKELA STAYED in the den until he heard stirrings from the outer ways: others coming, perhaps, to prepare for additional gatherings. He took up a blanket, wrapped it close about his neck and shoulders, and slunk out the way he’d come before anyone could find him.
It was late, and wet. The talking drums began to boom out the call to supper. The traders and merchants had already started to close their stalls, with grumbles cheerful and otherwise about Rain’s light and steady persistence. Tokela pulled his blanket closer, kept walking. He couldn’t fight; too numb to take flight.
Or perhaps it was flight after all, though he wasn’t even sure of where he was going. Other than in the opposite direction of that cursed t’rešalt. A surge of guests and residents closed in about him. Chatting and laughing amongst themselves, they too strode the Bowl, some moving off towards the dining dens. The traders travelled opposite, towards the tall carved entry arches: some were laden with packs and baskets, some accompanied by dogs pulling hitching poles and slings for extra goods, and a few, more well off, had an ox or pony to haul their wares. And others, like fishKin swimming upstream, were coming in.
The latter smelled of Smoke, which also hung heavy upon Wind’s breath, albeit weighted by Rain and the thick trees. The latest fishing haul was still being cured. Not even for First Running did fish preparation stop.
Tokela was supposed to have been there earlier, to help repair nets.
Instead he was invisible, merely another traveller hunched against Rain’s patter, heading to thisdark’s shelter. And if he had no shelter and was heading nowhere, it didn’t matter, not yet.
The ones ahead of Tokela all spilled onto the embankment where the overpath joined the frontis road. Heading to the wyrhcraft, or to the flat that would ferry them to those waiting caravans. Still unsure of what he was doing, or why, it wasn’t until Tokela half-leapt, half-slid down the embankment that he realised.
River.
She was there. She had never left. Even when Fire had… recognised him, River had pushed back against the burning presence, importunate—yet comforting—behind his eyes.
And how appropriate that another was there, waiting upon Her flanks? Tempting, to just flit past Anahli like a shadow and disappear into the Rain and Sun’s setting.
But.
He owed her. She had stood with him. Had lied for him. And he still wasn’t exactly sure why.
On silent feet, Tokela walked over, took Anahli’s hand and held it between his own. Silent, the vow, and much more than mere thanks as he drew it to his forehead. Oathsister. There is a bond between us, from thisSun onwards.
Anahli’s brow twisted, as if unsure. A smile appeared, if trembly in the corners, as she performed the same service for him. Closed her eyes as his fingers brushed her brow.
As they both heard the not-voice:
Eyes meet eyes to waken Spirit;
Spirit wakens our Mother’s heart…
“Are you…” He quavered silent, unwilling to so much as voice the possibility.
“I only hear the… voice… when you touch me,” Anahli answered, quiet. “It’s you.”
“It can’t be. I don’t want—”
“How can you not want it? It’s a gift, Tokela.”
“A gift? The Chepiś gave me a curse!”
Her brow furrowed. “Are you saying you believe what people say? That Chepiś sired you? That’s absurd!”
He loosed her and fell mute, thoughts a-jumble, chaotic.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that, but… Tokela, I didn’t mean anything to do with Chepiś. I meant River. No Chepiś could have given Her to you. Chepiś twist things. River… it’s obvious even to me that She’s… yours.”
“And if I give in, She will see me outcast! No People, no Clan, nothing!”
“Perhaps you need to make your own, Clan, then.”
This seemed incomprehensible. “Make my—”
“What you have is a gift!” Anahli insisted, her eyes a-glitter. “Our People once had such things, and they called them gifts, talents, blessings! Don’t you know that? In my tribe we tell the stories. We don’t forget, even if we snug too close to memory’s cautions. Do those a’Naišwyrh fear the Elementals so much that they’ve purged even the memories of what once was?”
“Memory”—soft, yet tugging-strong as undertow; was it his voice?—“depends upon the one recalling it, doesn’t it?”
“Don’t let them take this from you, Tokela. Maybe you can go away, should go away. Go with Našobok. Be Riverwalker. He’s of River; he can take you away from here.”
“I thought you hated him.”
Anahli sobered. “He… it hurt me when he left us. He was my father, my uncle, and I… I didn’t realise. How strong an Elemental can be. Until you showed me. Tokela, if I had what you had, I’d let no one take such a
