Page 221 of Mates for the Raskarrans #1-6

“I am so blessed,” I say. “I would speak with your tribe chief. I would…” the words stick in my throat and I am forced to pause, to take a breath, to free them.

“I would join with your tribe. So that my Sam may be happy here with the other females she has missed so terribly while the rains have fallen. So that I may be happy here with her.”

Walset’s brother’s jaw sets firm, but the bigger, silent male inclines his head, gestures for us to follow.

I am silent as we walk, my heartspace hammering in my chest. My Sam squeezes my hand, meaning to reassure me.

And I take much strength from her touches, but this is a moment that will haunt my memories long after it is passed, even if things go the way I wish for them to.

Always I will be thinking ‘what if it did not?’, for some seasons, I think.

The village we arrive at is one that is undergoing much change.

Huts are being built at the edges, pathways between them newly laid with stones against the mud of the rains.

A djossi field has recently been marked out in an open space, white chalk stones used to show the edges of it.

Many males are working together to carry branches and logs for the huts, or weaving together vines and twigs for the roofs.

There is a pleasant, busy atmosphere to the place, and my heartspace hurts and yearns in equal measure.

I have missed this. I have needed this. A tribe. A tribe around me.

The females are clustered together round the fire, a dainty one with hair like sunlight at the front of them, showing them something on a slate.

There are only a few of them, not nearly enough for there to be a mate for each of these males, and I realise again how lucky I am that my Sam came to my dreams, not the dreams of another.

Then I am nearly knocked to the floor in surprise, for it is a youngling that turns and spots us approaching, shooting to her feet as she points to us.

“ Hoosat? ” Her voice is loud, even above the busy noise of the village, and everyone turns to see what she is looking at.

And I should be wary because of the eyes now all on me, but I am too struck by this youngling.

My Sam said there were younglings, so I have known in my headspace that there would be younglings here.

But there is knowing in your headspace and seeing with your eyes, and they are two quite different things.

Then one of the females rises, another with brown skin and short curled hair.

“Sam?” Her voice is jagged with grief and elation, and my Sam drops my hand to run to her.

This must be Ellie, I think. The special friend that my Sam has told me about. The one who was in the same tribe as her, though they did not meet before coming to these trees.

I watch them embrace, and then all the females are crowding round, as well as the youngling female. A youngling male, smaller even than the little female, totters over, and the female with sunshine hair takes his hand, helping him along.

I am sure my face must be a sight as I watch my Sam wrapped in so much love by the tribe that has mourned her these past sunsets.

Their joy is bright and wonderful, and I know that it is right that we have come.

That my temptation to keep my Sam to myself was the bad part of me talking, the part that might have become like Basran, if I had allowed it.

I am heartened to think that, no matter what else happens, bringing my Sam home was right.

A voice rises above the crowd, a male calling for an explanation. I look and see Walset approaching with one other, a warrior of around his age, who carries himself like a chief. Gregar, I think, remembering the name that my Sam gave me.

A female peels away from the crowd, going to him.

She is pale like my Sam, but with none of the pretty markings on her face.

Her hair is long and dark, falling almost to her waist. A striking beauty, and when Gregar steps up beside her, he puts a possessive arm about her shoulder. My Sam’s chieftess, then.

They exchange quick words, and then Gregar looks to me. I see his eyes land on my scars, displeasure creasing his brow, but he smooths his expression as he approaches. I incline my head to him, wishing to be as respectful as possible. It is a big thing I must ask of this male.

“You return our lost sister to us,” he says. “There are no words to describe our gratitude for this.”

“Thank you,” his linasha says, using raskarran words in the human way of speaking. “For Sam. Thank you.”

I put my fist to my heartspace as I incline my head to her. “My Sam wished to be back with her people. She has talked much of all of you.”

I cannot help the smile that curls my lips. My Sam talks much on everything, but she has talked of these females most of all.

“You name her as yours?” Gregar’s voice is light, but I sense the edge behind it.

“I am blessed to name her linasha.”

Gregar considers this for a long moment, and I see the war in his features. Generations of knowledge on Lina’s ways, outcasts, and the scars on my face fight against the sight of my Sam, hale and healthy and returned to them against the odds, shooting smiles in my direction every few moments.

“It is nearly time for a meal,” Gregar says at last. “Would you join us? It would seem you and your linasha have some stories to share.”

My heartspace expands in my chest, filling fit to burst.

“And we would be glad to tell them,” I say.