Page 7

Chapter Four

D rafe ran his girda stone along the shimmering blade of his father’s sword—a slow hiss, a flick of his wrist, and repeat. The suns had yet to crest the Ki’irinzi Mountains to the east, bringing with it the unbearable heat. This day, he would make his ancestors proud.

His symbiotes hummed with anticipation, thrilled at the impending match.

He was ready, having practiced with his father’s sword since he could wield its ungainly weight.

His nose twitched as Larya stirred in a fresh batch of tulsig.

Bitterness saturated the air. He paused and drew in a long inhale, filling his chest to maximum.

The sunbaked soil merged with his sweat, the sweetness of water, and the salt cakes she was frying in garak lard.

Her shadow fell across his outstretched legs. He flicked his gaze to hers while he sharpened the sword. His muscles knew the back-and-forth glide without endangering his fingers on the razor-sharp blade.

“Morning, Drafe.” She lifted her face to a stray breeze. “It is a good day for dying.”

“Morning. You have your mate to see to.” Although, he was grateful for the meal she prepared. If this was farewell, it would be the last meal she ever made him.

She met his gaze, her yellow eyes so like his. “Come, break your fast.” Pushing off the rock wall, she dusted her pant legs and entered their home.

The smooth pale rock had been carved with water in a time long gone.

The little rooms now served the Meorri. Their home was on the outskirts of their village and received the brunt of the heat.

Mating Kael hadn’t improved her status by much, but the male adored her, and that was all Drafe needed to bless their union.

He pulled himself to his feet with a grunt. Yesterday’s adventure had taxed him, and his muscles were stiff. While he slept, his symbiotes had healed his burns and grazes and eased some of the pain.

“Morning, Drafe.” Kael appeared at the door, carrying a rack of drying meat. The sprinkle of salt crystals showed the meat had been spiced. “The elders wish to see you.”

Drafe grimaced, then bit into a hot salt cake, relishing the savory flavor.

“I will deliver this to our home, gevatia .” Kael winked and was gone.

“My heart? Endearments already?” Drafe couldn’t resist teasing her, especially when her cheeks paled to gray.

She shoved two cakes into his hand, held out his sword, and gestured to the door. “Best see what they want. I will clean up and follow.”

He trudged to the village well where they held court. Many were gathered, obscuring the older Meorri seated on smoothed stone blocks. As Drafe neared, the crowd parted. Smiles, frowns, and a few glowers greeted him.

“Elders.” He bowed his head as soon as he stepped into the small clearing. This was it, his punishment announced, all symbiotes recording this moment to be remembered for an eternity.

“Young Drafe, primary male, we have much to discuss.” Elder Bavu rose on wobbly knees to stand in the center. “You mated Larya without seeking our permission.”

Kael growled, shouldering his way to stand beside Drafe.

Bavu’s cheeks paled, but he cleared his throat to continue. “This can be forgiven in the light of recent events. For an absent primary male cannot serve his family.”

Foq, they were going to exile him. Drafe snuck a glance at Kael. He had done well to mate his sister so quickly.

“Bringing a vasquva to our borders is beyond foolish. Helping the guards to kill it and in doing so supplying this village with food for a year, impressive.”

Drafe frowned. Wait, what was the old male saying?

Bavu continued, “The Ivoyan aldermen are en route for this year’s rite of Uhann. Are you prepared to challenge this day?”

Drafe jerked back and bumped into Kael, who nudged him forward. “I am, Elder Bavu.”

“So am I.” Ulvus thrust his way into the clearing. “This is garak shit, Elder Bavu. Had I lured a vasquva, you would have skinned my ass.” He folded his massive arms across his chest.

“You would have run and hidden behind your mother’s skirts,” someone called from the crowd.

“Who said that? Face me.” Ulvus spun, his face darkening as his eyes paled.

“Challenges happen in the circle, Ulvus. Confirm you wish to challenge Drafe for Qaldreth training.” Elder Bavu stared him down, his gaze unflinching.

“By Kreta, yes. I will show this son of a—”

“Ulvus has declared challenge. Do you accept, Drafe?” Elder Bavu met Drafe’s gaze, but laughter twinkled in his eyes. All knew, he had no patience for Ulvus or anyone in his family.

Drafe grinned. “I do.”

“Let the rite of Uhann proceed.” At Elder Bavu’s announcement, the crowd cheered.

As one, they shoved past Drafe. Just south of the village, stone pillars had been settled into the dunes in a circle. Over the centuries, as the sands shifted, more stones were added. How deep they went, no one knew, not even the symbiotes.

When Kael drew Larya against his side, Drafe faced them. He smiled, cupped her cheek, and slapped Kael on the shoulder. “May Osnir bless your mating.”

“May Kreta whisper your name in fear.” Kael gripped Drafe’s shoulder.

“Make him suffer, Drafe,” Larya whispered, her paling eyes belied the strength in her words. She feared for his life.

Drafe grunted and strode through the water-carved tunnels to the circle.

Many gathered, eager for entertainment. The symbiotes robbed them of storytellers when everyone knew the history of the Meorri from the first symbiotic relationship.

Merchants who traveled between tribes brought fresh stories.

Meorri discarded most of their tales as nonsensical.

A sky village, tribes with too much water, food in abundance, slithering or flying predators? He huffed. Absurd.

Ulvus waited in the center of the circle, spinning his Cainus sword. Drafe’s family could never afford such a blade, but one day, he would bless his son with the finest. Perhaps, if Osnir smiled upon him, hi3s mate wouldn’t be a Meorri but from a land blessed with much.

“Only you would escape judgment,” Ulvus hissed when Drafe entered the circle.

Raising his sword, Drafe spread his feet, preparing for Ulvus’s usual charging like an enraged hudu. Drafe smirked. Ulvus was the size of one and as awkward on his feet.

A silver object darted across the sky, close enough to stir up spiraling eddies and plumes of sand.

Drafe squinted, his symbiotes hurrying to shield his eyes.

Through thin film, all watched the craft descend.

Like a single drop of water, it glimmered in iridescent silvers and grays.

Its door slid open, and two Ivoy stepped out.

Their orange bodies glowed in the morning suns’ light, and their dark blue garments flapped in the breeze.

They descended, marring the sand with their footsteps.

Tall, with long limbs and bulbous heads, they moved with efficiency on four-toed feet.

Masks hid the top half of their faces. Visible were two holes for a nose and a small mouth drawn into a grim line.

They paused on the outside of the circle, alongside a smiling Bavu.

He chatted away, bobbing his head whenever the Ivoy spoke.

Drafe strained to listen above the shifting sands, despite it being futile.

Only Bavu spoke Ivoyan. An Ivoy stepped closer and gestured with his four fingers for the match to commence.

With a roar, Ulvus charged.

Drafe stepped to the side without looking at him.

Settling his gaze on his challenger, he waited and watched.

Ulvus pushed his foot deep into the sand, preparing to lunge.

Drafe sighed, wishing this was done, that he was en route to Ivoy, the heat of the suns no longer baking his head, shoulders, and his future optimistic.

He could serve as a warrior or spend endless years mining the salt plains.

His stomach churned as a weight settled on his chest.

Ulvus grunted and swung his sword.

Drafe leaned back, the whisper of a breeze trailing the blade’s path.

Another strike, another dodge.

Sidestep, duck, back step, and repeat.

For every attack Ulvus made, Drafe evaded.

“Stand still, you son of a Kreta whore.” Ulvus panted, his great shoulders jerking. He whipped his sword from side-to-side. Sweat glistened on his skin, and his yellow eyes paled.

Just a little more. Drafe smirked. “Why? Not everything in life is handed to you, Ulvus. This time your mother cannot help you.”

Ulvus growled and lunged again. Instead of stumbling past Drafe, he switched tactics mid-charge and caught Drafe in the stomach with an elbow.

He grunted and raised his sword in time to catch Ulvus’s downward swing.

The force of the colliding blades rippled down his arms. He pinched his lips to smother a moan.

It would do no good to reveal a weakness.

Swing, swing, backward leap, duck, roll, and block.

Exhaustion tugged on his limbs, but Drafe refused to concede, to allow Ulvus a victory of any kind.

At the edge of the circle, he fought for air, his lungs burning, crisscrossed wounds bled clear blood while sweat dripped off his chin.

Ulvus stood on the opposite side, worse than Drafe.

A horn blew, marking the end of the first half. Drafe strode across to Kael and Larya. He handed Kael his sword and accepted the offered water pouch. After squeezing five droplets on his tongue, he faced the circle for the last battle.

As if a phantom finger ran down his spine, he shivered.

Ulvus drank deeply from Drafe’s stolen water pouch.

On the edge of the leather was his father’s star.

Fury rattled his bones, and he ground his teeth, almost biting his tongue to remain silent.

He had to win the challenge first before accusations flew.

“Is that Father’s—?”