Page 61 of Last of Her Name

“I’ve heard of it happening, when an aeyla is almost old enough. Stress, injury, they jump-start the process.”

“What’s he talking about?” asks Riyan.

I turn to the tensor. “It’s a sort of coming-of-age thing with the aeyla. We all go through puberty, but aeyla have a second maturation event called a Trying. Basically, it’s when their horns grow in all the way.”

“It’s more than that,” growls Pol, curling up again.

I let out a puff of breath. “Yes, there’s a ritual about honor and pride and becoming a voting member of the tribe and a bunch of other stuff, but, Pol …”

My voice trails off. I stare at him, knowing he’s seized with pain I can’t even imagine, as the bones of his horns grow at an accelerated rate.

“His body attempting to heal has triggered the growth,” I explain. “The aeyla usually take a strong drug to numb the pain, but we don’t have anything left.”

“What do we do?” asks Riyan, looking alarmed. “Will he … die?”

“Not from the Trying. But if the ordeal affects his wound, he might. I don’t know. I’m not a blazing doctor!”

“I can … handle it …” Pol lets out a roar, a sound like I’ve never heard from him before. It’s a primal sound, bone-rattling. His entire body clenches.

“All right, this is happening,” I say. I pull up a chair and lean over him, gripping his hands in mine. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

I sit by him for the next ten hours. He grips my hand so tightly I can feel my bones crunching together. He doesn’t know he’s hurting me. He’s conscious but totally absorbed by pain. His horns are growing before my eyes, a half-inch per hour from my best estimate. He curses, he howls, he asks me to put a gun to his head and pull the trigger. I only squeeze his hand and make him drink more water. In his delirium, he rambles insensibly.

“I can’t tell you,” he whispers. “I can’t. I swore. I took a vow.”

“Pol, Pol, I know about your vow. It’s all right.”

He shakes his head, eyes shut. “Clio …”

I wipe sweat from his brow. “I know all about you and Clio. She’s loved you since she was a kid, after all.”

“No, no …” He falls to groaning again.

There are moments of relief, when he lies still, eyes shut, limbs trembling. Still clutching my hand, anticipating the next wave of pain. I hate these periods almost more than the painful ones, because of the apprehension that builds up waiting for the next fit to seize him.

“Remember Soro’s Trying?” I ask him, to distract us both.

He nods, not opening his eyes, but a smile curls his lips. “He paraded around Afka like he owned the whole town, tossing his stupid new horns for anyone who’d watch.”

“He got them tangled in a slinke tree.”

“Stars, I forgot that part! Didn’t you set him loose?”

“Yes. You and everyone else were laughing so hard, you couldn’t move.”

He gives a short chuckle.

“I miss home,” I sigh.

Pol’s eyes open and find mine. They’ve turned red, some of the veins burst from the pressure in his head. I swallow hard but don’t let him know how bad he looks.

“Remember the Vanishing Tent?” he whispers.

I study him a moment, then stand. “Scoot.”

He shifts, and I settle onto the bed beside him, still clutching his hand. We lie on our sides, facing each other, and I draw the sheet over our heads. It billows and then settles around us, sealing out the world.

“See?” I say. “I remember.”