Winter

Servant of the Seasons The night of the first snowfall, Tywyll’s hair turned white. “Good morning, old man,” I said wh...

Author: Benoit Lee

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Servant of the Seasons

The night of the first snowfall, Tywyll’s hair turned white.

“Good morning, old man,” I said when I saw it.

Tywyll looked at me blankly.

A Torquere Press Chaser - 1


“Your hair. It’s gone white.” He pulled a knotted lock over his shoulder to look. “It snowed last night.” It was not my first lesson on the Novigi ignorance of irony. We were bundling up to walk Tywyll’s trap lines, while Lys plied us with tea and biscuits made from bean meal, warm and dense, like the air inside the turvy. It felt good to step outside, though I knew I’d be cursing the cold before too long. I’d certainly be cursing it before Tywyll would. “Don’t forget your cap, vjellja,” Lys murmured, addressing his ‘brother’ from beside the little hearth in the center of the room. Tywyll shook his head, but took it anyway, kissing Lys’ fingers as he did. “You’d do better to remind Edor -- he’s the one who withers in the cold.” He grinned over at me, his bright green eyes startling in his pale, pale face. I mumbled something rude about men who looked like icicles and leaned down to gather my package of walking food from Lys, claiming my own kiss in the process. “Careful, madi, be safe,” I said as I lifted the door flap and pushed against the door. Using my nickname for Lys still gave me a warm, proprietary thrill. During one of our long nights of hollowing out volo poles, I had asked Tywyll the Novigi word for “sweet.” He said there were many, so I asked for the one he thought best described Lys. “Madi” meant the kind of sweetness that never cloys. He nearly spat out his tea when Lys brought us each a cup and I said, “Thanks, madi.” Evidently the Novigi had as little knowledge of nicknames as they did of irony. Lys’ pale eyes had widened, and so had his smile, and since that evening I had never called him anything else. According to Lys, the Novigi word for something small and fierce was “lomi.” He dared me daily to use it on Tywyll. “The longest night is soon,” Tywyll said unnecessarily as we walked. We both had new boots lined with strips of felted wool from Tywyll’s avala fleece, and truly, it wasn’t terribly cold, but my toes were numb by the time we reached the furthest trap line. I stomped my feet and blew on my fingers while I checked the three snares. Checking traps doesn’t take very long when all of them are empty. Tywyll was a blur of motion, but it wasn’t in an effort to keep warm. It was a good thing I had become accustomed to my own company in the months before my amichus arrived, for traveling anywhere with Tywyll afforded ample opportunity to renew my acquaintance with myself. It came as a surprise to me that I was more tolerant of myself than I had been; when I looked inward, I saw not the man the turf agents had stigmatized, but the man Lys and Tywyll had chosen for friend and partner. He was Mèco, a much more appealing fellow than Edor had been, to be sure.



I munched a handful of dried gaeren berries as I walked to the next line, making my way slowly closer to home. Three more empty snares. In our several treks along the lines since setting them, we’d netted only one rawboned cudo. I squatted down to wait for Tywyll at the bend in the river. There was a broad mound of sticks caught there, and I became mesmerized by the swirl and eddy of the river around it. I had noted the pile on earlier treks, but never thought it was anything but a natural accretion of river-borne debris. As I watched I heard a splashing noise. There, on the river side of the pile, was a chunky brown animal, its thick fur standing in wet spikes, slapping the sticks with its broad tail. Unlike cudoes and mules and birds, this was something I had never seen in any of my books. The creature lumbered over the mound of sticks, pausing to turn and slap here and there, before finally humping to the edge and diving under the water. I crept closer to examine the structure. Could this be something like a bird’s nest, only upturned? It certainly had a deliberately interwoven look to it. I was still working out its architecture when Tywyll burst from the trees and came to sit next to me, panting, grinning and grabbing at my small collection of gaeren. “You have found cousin majava’s lodge, clever Edor. He is an edor, too, you know.” ‘Edor’ was my title back in the dome. It applied to anyone involved in building, and was the name I’d used since being turfed. I shook my head and said, “You’re making less sense than usual, Tywyll.” “Did you see him?” “I saw a fat thing with a flat tail. It dove underwater a few minutes ago.” “Time for his lunch, perhaps,” Tywyll said. He tapped his foot on the ground. “All warm underground.” “He lives in the river bank?” “The lodge is his roof, or dooryard, if you prefer. He has a nice cozy tunnel, maybe a nice fat female. That would be good.” “That’s what you meant by it being a builder? It makes the lodge and tunnels?” Tywyll nodded, and we watched quietly for a while longer, but the creature didn’t resurface. “The lodge slows the river.” “Nice quiet pond to live in,” Tywyll agreed. He peered at me. “We could do something like this, come spring. Slow the river, have a pond for irrigation.” Tywyll nodded. “We’ll wait until after flooding. Then you can build like cousin majava.” “The river didn’t flood last spring,” I said. “This year, it will flood.” A Torquere Press Chaser - 3


I sighed and stood up. Pressing Tywyll for clearer information was usually pointless.

“Where did you go?”

“To check on the cudoes. They are sleeping well. Now I must check the avalas,” Tywyll said,

standing up. I nodded and tipped the last few gaeren from my palm into my mouth. “I will see

you at the last set of snares, yes?” And with that he hared off into the trees again.

I examined the majava lodge from as many angles as I could without falling into the freezing

river, then set off for the third trap line.

These snares, too, were empty. I wondered grumpily why I bothered to come out with Tywyll at all. He clearly didn’t need me to make his visits among the animals, nor did he need my help carrying game back from empty traps. Still, I conceded to myself as I stamped my feet and blew on my hands, I would not have seen the little dam in the river had I not ventured out, and I knew I would have been incredulous if Tywyll had simply described it to me. Tywyll hadn’t joined me yet, so I decided to head for home; he would catch up soon enough, I reasoned. As I swung the empty carrying basket over my shoulder, I spotted movement. Four silvery streaks zipped by, flashing through the bare bushes. I narrowed my eyes to see through the black branches; what I saw made me gasp so sharply I began to cough. With yips and snarls, three of the creatures beyond the bushes loped away, only to turn, whining and pawing the grainy snow when they realized their fourth was not following. That fourth was shouldering through the bushes, coming straight for me. I was still scrabbling frantically in my pockets for my sharp little tumi when the pale shape broke

through the branches, launching itself directly at my chest.

“Ooph!” I landed on my back in the snow. Whooping to get my wind back, I tucked my chin to

protect my throat and brought my forearm up to cover my eyes.

Warm breath gusted over my exposed mouth and chin. Panicked, I tried to roll in an effort to

dislodge my attacker.

I felt a cold nose burrow between my jacket and muffler, and I froze as a hot, slick tongue

dragged over the big vessel in my neck, blunt teeth scraping dully.

Blunt teeth? I struggled for some distance, my fear backing off to admit curiosity.

“Tywyll?”

His grin, gleaming white teeth between red lips, was lupine.

“Tywyll, where are your clothes?”

“Navdi need no clothes.”



I wriggled, trying to get out from underneath him. At any moment he would feel what his attack and current proximity were doing to my body and I wasn’t at all sure I could trust this Tywyll to let it go without comment. I wriggled more desperately. Tywyll responded by pressing my wrists into the ground, now muddy where our bodies’ heat had melted the snow. He grinned that unfamiliar grin and narrowed those strangely-lit eyes, the look pinning me even more effectively than did his hands and hips. “Tywyll, please let me up.” I winced when my voice came out breathy and thin. He responded with a noise like the animals made, something between a growl and a whine, and ground his hips into mine. His eyes went wide, and his next smile was more human. “I have frightened you, Mèco.” He pulled off me and helped me up, rubbing my wrists and looking pointedly at my groin. “Is that all I have done?” I didn’t reply, didn’t even look at him, but instead angled my gaze towards the stand of bushes where the other three animals still circled. Tywyll’s eyes followed mine, and he raised his head to issue three short yips. The bushes crackled as the animals approached at a lope. They came close and watched us, their tongues lolling. I would have run, but Tywyll continued rubbing my wrists, and he held me fast. “It has been so long since I ran with navdi,” he said. Beside them, with their magnificent white pelts, Tywyll looked fragile and naked, his white skin pink with the blood flowing underneath. I tried to look away, but I couldn’t help but notice how that made the white wreath of fine hair around his cock stand out starkly. Speaking of standing out, Tywyll was hard, the tip of his prick almost as red as his lips and nipples. I made a small, desperate noise, which I hoped Tywyll wouldn’t notice. No such luck with the animals, however; at the sound I made they set up a chorus of low purring growls, pawing the ground, coming fractionally closer. “Tywyll,” I whispered, “what are they?” Tywyll grinned. “Navdi. Predators. Those who balance. They are the first I have seen since I was very young. To run with them here, with you, that is very... special.” He finished with a shrug, as if the word was a poor one for the way he felt. While he spoke, the navdi inched closer still, until I could feel the heat from their panting mouths, see the gold of their eyes. Tywyll reached out to the nearest and it leaned heavily into his hand, moaning in its throat as he scratched its pointed ears. Another approached and Tywyll guided my hand to its shoulder, finally releasing me so I could bury my fingers in the thick, coarse fur. The creature leaned as I stroked and scratched, and I found there was another, softer layer of fur closer to its skin. “With all this fur it’s no wonder they run in the snow,” I said. “But what about you?” I was a little concerned -- yes, let us agree that is all it was -- over Tywyll’s nudity.



“I don’t feel the cold. Especially not now.” Tywyll’s eyes drifted closed as the animal he was petting licked the skin of his shoulder. “They won’t hurt us? You said they’re hunters, didn’t you?” “No and yes, my Edor.” Tywyll kept his eyes closed, and I gave up trying to draw his attention away from the cold nose and warm tongue sliding over his skin. The animal I was stroking pulled away from me, and the third came in closer. Soon I had been shouldered aside and all three surrounded Tywyll. My heart was thumping; for all Tywyll’s confidence these animals would not injure him, they were still killers, and he had not seen one in many years. My hand, warm and oily from touching the creature, found my sharp little tumi within my clothing and held tightly to its handle. Tywyll rolled onto his back, exposing his throat and belly and privates. I gasped and moved forward, pulling the little knife as I did. “Mèco, hold. Watch.” He was smiling, and his body, for all its tumescence, appeared relaxed, so I held, and concentrated on breathing. The three animals licked and nuzzled and sniffed their way up and down Tywyll’s body. I was transfixed. The largest of the three found its way to Tywyll's neck. It set its teeth over Tywyll’s throat and Tywyll began to whine plaintively. The other two backed off to flank me; they were watching as intently as I was. Tywyll and the big creature held their position for long, intimate moments. Finally, climactically, Tywyll arched up and the navdi bore down, nipping Tywyll’s skin, drawing blood. I could see the trickle down the side of his neck. The other two surged forward, licking their leader’s muzzle and Tywyll’s throat. Tywyll’s hand was up, staying me, or I would have been unable to hold back. Perversely, watching the four of them together, I felt lonely. Finally, Tywyll sat up and all three navdi sat back on their haunches, their tails fanning the trampled ground. Clouds of vapor rose from their mouths and noses, reminding me to take a breath, a detail I’d forgotten easily while Tywyll was submitting to the navdi. With a chorus of barking cries, the three navdi dispersed into the bushes, and Tywyll sat up, rubbing his fingers over the bite mark and smiling dreamily. “They claimed me,” he murmured. I offered him my hand and hauled him upright. He still showed no sign of feeling cold, but I was at a loss for something to do, so I grumbled, “We’d better find your clothes.” Tywyll didn’t say a word on our way home, nor did he don the clothing I retrieved piece by piece as we walked. My mind worried at the puzzle of the navdi, but I was loath to disrupt Tywyll’s reverie with my questions.



We reached home to find Lys atop the turvy, hard at work on a chimney. I had helped him to design something to conduct smoke out of the house so that we could have a hearth inside but not admit the elements. He made and fired small bricks and set them with sticky mortar made from clay mixed with sand. I looked forward to a warmer winter than the one I had passed alone. When he saw us, Lys scrambled along the berm and ran down the slope to greet us. He gave me a quick kiss and a squeeze, and then turned to Tywyll. “Vjellja?” Tywyll lifted his chin to show his small wound. Like the navdi had done, Lys whimpered softly and tucked his face into Tywyll’s neck, licking. I felt as supernumerary as I had when Tywyll had been with the navdi. I started to walk toward the kitchen, but Tywyll pulled away from Lys and grasped my shoulder. He pulled Lys and me into the turvy, the rumbling sound in his throat thrilling me. “Oh, vjellja, you smell--” Lys broke off to take a long, noisy sniff of Tywyll’s neck. “You smell good. Like pack. Kettu? Nyma?” He trailed off to sniff again, pressing his body close to Tywyll’s and rubbing. My face heated and I turned away, but Tywyll still had hold of my shoulder, so I couldn’t leave without being rough about it. “Navdi,” Tywyll said, and his voice was lower than usual. “So good,” Lys said, and he pulled away. Tywyll rumbled again, following as Lys crawled onto the sleeping platform. To do so, he had to release me, and, both relieved and reluctant, I made for the door. “Stay, Mèco,” Tywyll growled. “Yes,” Lys echoed, rolling onto his back, taking the same submissive posture Tywyll had taken with the big navdi. I didn’t know if he was talking to me or to Tywyll, but the longer I watched, the more transfixed I became. Embarrassment gave way to excitement in an almost painful rush, and I sidled to my own platform and sat hard, my legs falling open to accommodate my arousal. With none of the furtive gentleness I associated with their lovemaking, Tywyll braced his arms on either side of Lys’ face and, with a nudge of his nose, forced Lys’ chin upwards. Thus exposed, Lys arched back. He canted his hips, but there was nothing to press against; Tywyll was straddling his body too high up for that. As Tywyll licked and snuffled, Lys subsided onto the platform. When at last Tywyll set his teeth to Lys’ throat, as the large navdi had done to him, Lys



was completely compliant, his eyes slitted, his mouth slack, his limbs splayed heavily on the blankets. After long moments, the tableau shifted. Tywyll rocked back to kneel at the foot of the platform and Lys rolled onto his belly, stretching his arms before him and groaning deep in his chest. The languid pose was more familiar to me from my secret observations; this was how Lys looked at the end, when he was sated. Tywyll’s every muscle was still tensed, however, and he growled impatiently, running his hands up the backs of Lys’ thighs. Mewling, Lys raised his hips, pushing them up and back in a display that dried my mouth. Tywyll dove, burying his nose and mouth between Lys’ buttocks. “Mine, mine.” His voice was low and raw. Lys responded wildly, arching his back so deeply his belly touched the blankets and spreading his legs so wide I listened for his joints to crack. “Yours, vjellja. Your own.” How can I describe what Tywyll’s domination and Lys’ submission awoke in me? Their ordinary lovemaking engendered longing, sharpened my lonely edge. But this, this was something else altogether. I projected myself into Tywyll’s position, mounting his lover, demanding his compliance, and my palms and armpits tingled and sweated. In my heated imaginings, I flipped myself over, offered myself as Lys did, to be covered like prey, and my teeth and belly clenched with need. Around and around I went, in my mind, but my body experienced it all as a steep incline at the top of which must lie a precipice, an inevitable tipping into oblivion. In my flickering moments of sensibility I was aware of my scrotum contracting, my cock stretching and firming, the heel of my hand coming down to protect, to encourage. I was panting like an animal. I almost missed the moment of penetration, it happened so quickly. With great force, Tywyll drew his hips back and thrust forward, sealing his groin to Lys’ bottom in one plunge. Lys yowled, his hands clawed in the blankets. His posture prevented him moving forward and back to meet Tywyll’s body, and he began instead to circle his hips, almost to wag them. It should have been obscene, but it was wild and wanton. Feral, yes, but beautiful with it. That was my last conscious thought. Tywyll shoved forward with a ferocious howl and Lys froze, his mouth open in a silent scream. I smelled seed and felt wetness spread under my palm. I sagged and shook, swallowing air and tears in great gulps. I glanced across the room. The other platform had never seemed more distant. Reaching it had never felt so natural or necessary. I waited, poised, desperate. Two sets of half-lidded eyes fixed on me, and that gulf narrowed to nothing. I crawled across the floor, my shoulders rolling, my head low, and climbed in among the arms that reached for me. Huffs of breath buffeted my face; rising and falling chests thudded against mine and retreated. I sucked in the sweat and fuck smells, sliding through sweat and seed and tears into sleep. *** “What’s all the noise?” I called down to Lys from the crest of the berm. “Tywyll,” he called back. He pointed down the chimney. “He won’t let me in.” A Torquere Press Chaser - 8


“Chimney finished, madi?” I asked. Lys nodded, coloring slightly at the endearment. “Need any help?” I made to jump from the berm to the roof. “No! Mèco! You’ll break the roof again.” Lys glowered and pulled his muffler indignantly around his neck as I shook with laughter. “The damage wasn’t so bad last time, madi. And the roof is stronger now, yes?” “Stop teasing. The roof won’t hold two, nor one, if it’s you. If you want to help, fix supper. I want to eat well before I sleep.” The nervous quaver in his voice leached the fun out of my jape. Tonight was midwinter. I made my way down the slope of the berm, slipping here and there on icy grass, and stirred the fire in the kitchen. We wouldn’t be able to cook in the turvy until Lys’ brick chimney had cured for some time. I examined the contents of the storage shed. Stew with bean cake would be hearty and good, so I popped a few strips of smoked avala into one of Lys’ clay bowls, covered the meat with water, salt, and onions, and set it among the coals to soften. I filled the big pot with water for washing up. I went back to the storage area and rummaged behind sacks of beans for the gifts I had made, unwrapping them to make sure the cold hadn’t damaged them. Satisfied, I busied myself hollowing out volo poles until I could smell the meat and onions steaming, and then added more water, tubers, and a few peppery seeds Tywyll had collected from vines he found while checking on the avalas’ winter forage. I smiled ruefully to think that at this time the previous year I had been shivering alone in the turvy, subsisting entirely upon uncured beans and water. Even without a reprise of the wild scene of a few nights past, my quality of life this winter was immeasurably better than last for the food alone, not to mention the companionship. The banging sounds from the turvy stopped abruptly and Tywyll, white hair swirling, bounded across the dooryard to where I sat. I hastily covered my presents with my jacket, which I’d shed in the warmth of the fire. “Mèco!” He gave me a kiss, which I was too slow to return as he spun away toward the bathing area. “Your present is finished! You can’t wait to see it!” I laughed. “But I must?” I made no secret of watching Tywyll undress. He watched me watching him, his green eyes alight. “You must.” I mimed pouting. “Only until midnight, though?” “Not even that long. Lys will sleep at midnight.” A Torquere Press Chaser - 9


“For how long?” This was a familiar conversation. Tywyll’s first “sleep,” at midsummer, had occurred under the extraordinary circumstances of the amichus’ captivity and maltreatment. Both Lys and Tywyll insisted it was unusually long and hard, and both worried that Lys would face a similar ordeal. I reasoned that better health, freedom, and a place of their own must surely mitigate Lys’ experience. Exhaustively though we argued and speculated, there would be no avoiding the inevitable, no matter how harsh. Come midnight, Lys would reach the lowest arc of his waning. Given Tywyll’s experience, he would no doubt survive, even if his recovery proved slow or difficult. According to Tywyll, Lys’ first experience of what the Novigi called “nagir” should have been a cause for celebration and pride at achieving adult status. Instead, we faced midwinter’s night with dread. Tywyll paused in his washing. “Time will show us, Mèco. We will help him to have sweet dreams.”

He rinsed a great deal of dust from his hair, dressed again, and joined me on the bench. The fire

sizzled as he shook his wet hair.

“You look like the navdi when you do that,” I laughed.

Tywyll narrowed his eyes and growled at me, bringing the night after the navdi encounter to

mind and a rush of heat to my gut.

He flared his nostrils, leaning toward me. “Smells good,” he rumbled. “When can we eat?”

Momentarily ruffled -- did the stew smell good, or did I? -- I replied, “Soon, lomi. When Lys

comes down.”

“Lomi?” He was grinning at me.

“You are, you know,” I mumbled, embarrassed to have let the nickname slip out.

“Yes.” He slapped his chest proudly. “I am. Small and fierce.” He flicked his eyes up to meet

mine and he added, “But not too small.”

“Vjellja! Stop teasing our Mèco.” Lys came to sit with us, bringing our wooden bowls and

spoons.

“Supper should be ready, madi,” I said.

“I’ll bathe after, then.” Lys slanted a look at Tywyll, who nodded as if something important had

been decided.

Confused, I ladled stew over bean cake and handed bowls around.

“Almost as good as mine,” Lys said.

“Yours is better,” I replied. “Wish I knew why.”

“Novigi magic,” he said with a straight face.



“Come, vjellja,” Tywyll said, his solemn expression deflating the light mood. “Time to prepare.” “Haven’t you prepared enough?” I asked, thinking of our months of fossicking and farming.

“That was to prepare our place for winter. Now it is time for me to prepare. Will you help?” Lys

fixed his pale eyes on mine and smiled the shy smile I found so impossible to deny.

“Anything you need, madi. I hope you know that.” I took his hand and he towed me to the

bathing area.

“Here is your present, Mèco. I hope you will share it with me.” Behind the screen sat an

impossibility: a large, oblong wooden tub, already filled with water.

“How...?” I looked from Lys to Tywyll to the tub, my heart tripping. I tried again to speak.

“Where did the wood come from?”

“The river,” Lys replied simply.

I dropped his hand to examine the tub more closely. Sure enough, the lapped strips of wood were

of different types, shapes, and ages. The driftwood was sealed with some black and shiny

substance. I cast about in my mind for the right word. “Pitch?”

“Only if you catch!”

“Vjellja!”

“Ignore him,” Lys said airily, dismissing Tywyll with a wave. “He can carry the water. Will you

bathe me?”

“This is part of your preparation?” I asked.

Lys nodded and stripped, gripping my arm for balance as he climbed into the tub. It didn’t leak.

“Needs more hot, vjellja,” Lys said with an imperious finger-snap that had me laughing. Tywyll

growled, but went for the water I’d heated, delivering a sharp pinch low on my ass as he passed

by.

“What? I didn’t say anything!” I protested, and he raised his white eyebrows at me.

I knelt by the tub and picked up the washrag, trying to cover my nerves with activity. Lys sighed

and slid down into the tepid water, scrubbing his hair, making the sere locks float. He came up

with a whoop.

“So good! Do my back?”

With trembling hands, I cupped water and let it trickle over the sharp wings of Lys’ shoulders,

watching, fascinated, as it wended its way over and around the knobs of his spine. Emboldened,

or perhaps too enthralled to fret, I slid the washcloth in the water’s path, then my bare hand.



When I reached the upper swell of Lys’ bottom, I changed direction, washing out and over his ribs, gently leaning him back so I could wash his face. This I did with great care, mindful of my roughened fingers on the fine skin. I washed his ears, which made him giggle and press his ears to his shoulders. I washed his armpits, marveling at the heat there and laughing as he squirmed. He arched his back a little, causing his tiny little nipples to break the surface of the water, and I dropped all pretense of using the washcloth. I scrubbed gently, watching intently as the pale flesh darkened and peaked. Such a sensual little thing, was my madi. My reverie was rudely interrupted by Tywyll upending the heated water over both of us. Spluttering, I whirled and glared into his grinning face. “You’re the evil twin, lomi. I always knew it!” “But I have presents! Come, vjellja, you must be purified by now.” I pursed my lips in Lys’ direction, trying to convey my regret that the reverent mood had been broken, but he grinned and shook his head, leaning on me again as he climbed out of the tub. He was right, of course. Whatever was to happen tonight, dreading it made little sense when we could laugh in its face instead. “Just don’t shake all that water on me, like Tywyll did. I’ve only just gotten dry.” This plea had the predictable effect, and soon Lys’ was helping me out of my sodden shirt and into the tub for a quick wash. Tywyll prowled the kitchen, tidying up and pouting at us to hurry. “Presents, you know?” Lys looked sad. “There were no presents at midsummer.” I gathered my gifts from the kitchen, careful to keep them covered, and followed Lys and Tywyll into the turvy. The new stove squatted in the center of the room, homely and solid-looking. I smiled proudly at Lys. “Soon we can get rid of the hearth, eh?” He beamed and I reveled in the uncommon delight of having pleased him. Tywyll launched himself onto the bed on the other side of the stove. “Admire the stove later,” he grumbled. I took a step to the side to sit on my bed. Then I took another. And another. My bed was gone. Tywyll’s grin gleamed at me in the dim room. “Joyful Night, Mèco,” and I could hear the capitals in his inflection. “For... for all of us?” Lys bounced into the middle of the bed, tackling Tywyll and crying, “Perfect, vjellja!” I stood on the empty side of the hearth and stared. “You want me to share your bed?”



“No. We want you to sleep in your bed. With us. Our bed.”

“Not just sleep.”

There was no decision to make, really. “We can start with sleeping, yes?”

Twin pouts assailed me. “If we must,” said Tywyll.

“But it is such a good bed,” Lys said. “Too good for sleeping only.”

I was too rattled to say anything, so I crossed the room on stiff legs and held out my two bundles.

“I’ve never given a gift before,” I hedged.

“Why is his bigger?” Tywyll demanded.

“Because it is my first sleep.” Lys held his arms out and I placed the larger bundle in his hands. I

passed the small, narrow bundle to Tywyll and stepped back into the shadow by the stove.

“Mèco! You made this? For weaving!” Lys turned the little loom over, catching the shuttle and

spindle as they tipped out onto the blankets.

“Tywyll helped me. I wouldn’t have known how to make it.”

“That’s what all your quizzing was about?” Tywyll was unwrapping his own gift. “I thought it

was idle curiosity. What’s this?” He held up the slender, weighted rod for an explanation.

I crossed the room again, forgetting my shyness about the bed in my excitement to show Tywyll

what I had made.

“It’s for... I don’t know your word. A projectile.”

“Ulu,” Lys said distractedly, fitting the pieces of the loom together.

“For throwing an ulu. You fit it here,” I showed Tywyll, using a skinny scrap of volo to

demonstrate. “Then you fling it, like this, and the... ulu goes further than you could make it go by

your arm alone.”

“You invented this?”

I would have liked to take credit for the innovation, but I ‘fessed up. “I read about it in an old

book, a long time ago. I remembered when you went hunting, but it took a while to work out.

I’ve tested it in the field. It takes practice. Aiming is different, and the motion of your arm is

different, too.” I trailed off, ashamed of my eager rambling.

“Come here, clever Edor.”

I sat gingerly on the edge of the bed, fisting my hands in the mass of blankets, curiously moved

to find mine there among Lys and Tywyll’s.



Tywyll wrapped his arm around my shoulders and kissed the side of my face. “It is a most

worthy gift, Mèco. Thank you.”

“Thank you for the bed,” I said, self-consciously.

“Look!” Lys held a bit of avala fluff to the spindle, wrapping it around the hook and setting the

wooden disc spinning, letting it drop as it pulled the wool through his fingers. “Now I will have

yarn! And a loom. Mèco, thank you.”

I huffed as he hugged me. “I couldn’t test the loom as I did the thrower or the spindle. I didn’t

know how. All the parts are there, but you’ll have to work it out. I wish...”

“I will have a project for winter, for while I recover.”

Lys eyes dropped as his words brought us back to the reason for all the gifts.

“How do you feel, madi?” I ventured.

His eyes flicked between me and Tywyll. “Tired. Scared.” He carefully set the loom and spindle

on the floor and crawled across the bed to Tywyll, who opened his arms.

Seeing Lys curled up so small tore at my heart, and without thinking about it I fitted my body

around his, curling my arm around Tywyll’s legs to bring us all close together. “We will protect

you.”

Tywyll patted my elbow. “We will help you to have sweet dreams, vjellja. Won’t we, Mèco?”

I nodded and dropped kisses over Lys’ hair, not knowing how to give comfort in any other way

than how he might offer it to me. Lys cuddled close and sighed.

We lay that way for long moments, Tywyll’s hands stroking and patting over our clothes and

hair. I felt the heat from the fire, smelled the heavy smoke of the peat, underlain by the damp

animal smell of Lys’ drying hair. I was starting to drift, myself, when Lys’ body stiffened and he

gave a tiny cry.

I rose up to look at him. His eyes were open, staring, and completely drained of color except for

the sharp black pupil. I glanced at Tywyll.

Tywyll kissed Lys’ eyes closed and rocked us, humming tunelessly under his breath. His

shoulders were tense, but his voice was soothing. I pulled him down to lie on Lys’ other side.

“He’s changing. The year is turning. Just hold him.”

So I did.

“It’s a good bed, lomi,” I murmured before I slept.

***



The next day I left the bed only to relieve myself and to fetch food. Watching Lys sleep was absorbing work. I curled around him and watched his lax face. I wrapped his knotted hair around and around my fingers, letting it spring free. I lay my hand on his chest and counted the soft inhalations and exhalations. Tywyll was not so peaceful as we were. He paced and prowled in and out of the turvy. He stirred the fire and climbed up to the roof to check the chimney. He came back in and told me about the weather. By the time the early dusk began to gather, I was ready to clobber him.

“You’re worried for him, I know. Is there anything you can do to shorten the sleep?”

He scowled. “No.”

“Does Lys seem to be suffering?”

“No.”

“Then why don’t you join us and you and I can sip tea and tell each other stories.”

He hesitated, looking about the small room as if in search of something else to occupy himself.

“Tywyll, are you upset because I am here, in bed with Lys?”

“No! He is lucky to have you, to have this place, your care.”

“Well,” I pressed on, trying to understand, “are you remembering what it was like for you? Do

the memories make you angry?”

“I don’t remember much. I know how horrible it was from what Lys told me. I know how

miserable I was afterward.”

“Maybe you’re jealous? That his first nagir is better than yours was?”

“I hope not.”

“Just fretting, then. What would help you stop fretting?”

He wouldn’t look at me. Gently, I extricated my limbs from Lys’ and scooted to the edge of the

bed. “Tywyll?”

“Being with the animals calms me, but so many of them are sleeping. And...”

“What?”

“You know.”

“I will if you tell me.”



“What Lys and I do. Jebazh. Fucking.”

“That’s what you call it?”

“What do you call it?”

I had to think for a moment. “Making love.”

“Caru? Yes. We make love.”

I thought of what happened after Tywyll had met the navdi. “Sometimes you rut.” I smiled in

what I hoped was a sly, knowing way.

Tywyll shoved my shoulder. “Are you offering?”

“To... With you...? I wasn’t...”

Tywyll was chuckling. I was blushing hot enough to steam. Lys slept on.

“Is that why you made the bed for all of us?”

“You know I want you. We both do.”

“I...want you, too. I’ve never been with anyone, you know.” I didn’t realize I was rubbing the

scar on the back of my hand until Tywyll lifted my fingers away.

“What’s this to do with it?”

I shook my head, trying to get my hand back, but Tywyll raised it to his lips and pressed a kiss

there, right over the scar. When he pulled back and looked up at me through those white

eyelashes, the scar tingled.

“You never talk about it.”

“The scar?”

“Your life before.”

“Why would I?” I hated the bitter tinge in my voice.

“Lys would say because it’s part of you, and we want to know all of you.”

“What do you say?”

“I say you should tell me so I can make you forget.”

“Scaling new heights of clarity, I see.”

Tywyll ignored me. As with irony and nicknames, so with sarcasm, I supposed.



“You and Lys don’t talk about your life before much, either,” I said.

“So much is different now.”

“Same for me.”

“No. Lys and I are the same people we were. You... are not, I think.”

I thought about that. The man the dome agents turfed was the seed of the man on the bed with

Lys. “I am very different.” I inhaled until my breath began to stutter, and then let it out in a

whoosh. I held up my scarred hand.

“When I... left the dome, the managers’ agents removed a tattoo with a chip underneath. The

tattoo showed where I belonged, what work I did, that I was a Productive.”

“And the chip?”

“The chip had all kinds of information; you know how data can be stored?” Tywyll nodded and

waved me on. “It also released medicines. Vaccines, nutrition supplements, things like that. One

of the chemicals suppressed... um, it took away...” I trailed off, blushing furiously and flapping

my hand over my crotch.

It was enough to make Tywyll understand, for he said, “It took away sexual function?”

“Function, fertility, desire, interest. Sex just didn’t exist for most of us. In a dome, it made sense,

I suppose.”

“And when you left?”

“When I left, my cock started doing more than pissing.”

“You’d never been hard before?”

I shook my head.

“Never had an orgasm?”

I shook again.

“Never fucked anyone? Never been fucked?”

“Never made love.” I wanted to be clear on that point.

“Kisses?”

“Yours and Lys’ were the first.”

“Mèco,” he breathed. “No wonder you watch us so!”



I tried to stammer a denial, but Tywyll wasn’t acting angry. He wasn’t even acting amused. He was looking at me as if I were some new kind of animal, something he’d never seen before.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” Tywyll said. “After I do, you can kiss me.”

I nodded and closed my eyes.

“Look at me.”

I opened my eyes and there was a blurred, distorted Tywyll, filling my vision with his bright

winter colors. His lips brushed my cheeks and nose in familiar caresses. I relaxed a bit and tried

to kiss back, but Tywyll shook my head gently. “Still my turn.”

And then he kissed me. With his warm lips on mine, pressing them open, seeking with his

tongue, Tywyll kissed me. I gasped a little and he took advantage, lapping his way inside my

mouth.

His tongue tasted of tea and something slightly metallic. I opened my mouth wider, to see what

he would do. He made a soft, guttural sound and curled his tongue around mine, stroking and

sucking and using his teeth.

I let my head fall back onto his hand, and held onto his shoulders, squeezing and rubbing with

my hands.

“Mmm.” Tywyll kept kissing me, sounding as if I were something delicious.

The kiss ignited fuses, hot threads that fizzed and sparked along my limbs and into my balls.

How could Lys and Tywyll do this together and not come immediately? My own release was

snarling and yelping in my trousers.

I tensed for an embarrassing outcome, but Tywyll chose that precise moment to pull back. His

pupils were blown, making his green eyes seem much darker. He smiled rather drunkenly and

blinked at me.

“What color are my eyes?” Suddenly I had to know if they were as different in that moment as

Tywyll’s were.

Tywyll shook his head at me, smiling with what I hoped was lustful fondness. He leaned away

from me and squinted into my face.

“Brown. Like good earth or cudo fur. Darker than ever right at this moment. Like they’re wet.”

I didn’t know what to say. “I’m so brown everywhere, not like the two of you, so colorful.”

“You are perfect, Mèco. So big.”

“’m not so big,” I mumbled. “Bigger than you, I suppose. Little lomi.”

“I don’t feel so fierce right now. Do you want me to be fierce?”



“I don’t know what to want.”

“You know how to touch yourself?”

Too embarrassed to reply, I nodded minutely.

“Touch me like that.”

I feathered my fingertips along Tywyll’s collarbones and down his arms. “The first time I

touched myself, I was thinking of you and Lys. Remember the day I ran away and found the volo

grove?”

“Then that was a good day for many reasons. Show me what you did.”

“I lay on the riverbank and...”

Tywyll rolled onto his back, arching to remove his loose shirt. I skimmed my hands over his

chest, feeling little peaked nipples under my palms.

“The breeze made me shiver, and I followed where it led. It felt so good.”

Tywyll made an inarticulate noise, twisting under my hands. They looked so big, so dark and

coarse against his fine, white skin. The contrast was enough to make me stop moving. “My

hands used to be fine enough to touch you. Now...”

Tywyll clapped his hand over mine and dragged it over his belly, hard, bringing pink streaks to

the surface.

“Better than fine,” he said and took his hand away.

Thus given leave, I explored, letting my nails scrape the inner sides of his arms and along his

ribs. That made him squirm and gasp. I took one tiny nipple between my fingertips and plucked

lightly, drawing it up. The way it pebbled and reddened made my breath hitch. I could smell

Tywyll’s sweat, sharp under the smoky smell of the room, and wanted more. I set my face to his

neck and inhaled deeply, then moved to a silken armpit. The wisps of white hair there were damp

against my lips and the rich, almost meaty scent made my mouth water.

“Could eat you up, lomi.”

“Small bites,” Tywyll grunted. “Chew thoroughly.”

“Won’t hurt you.”

“Nor I you. Let me touch. Please?”

I rolled us so we faced each other on our sides, hoping that was enough encouragement.

Tywyll kissed me again, weaving his fingers into my hair and holding me there until I was

breathless. As he let me go, he nipped my bottom lip. “Won’t hurt you, either. Much.”



Somewhere in the kiss my words had all dissolved into vapor. I wrapped my arms around Tywyll and pulled him close, feeling the sleepy heat of Lys along my back and bottom. Tywyll smiled softly and tightened his arms around me. “Nothing fancy, just this, yes?” He began to move his body against mine, stretching and wriggling until we were sealed together from our chests to our thighs. His prick, slotted into the groove of my pelvis, felt huge and hot. I felt my face burn as I realized he could feel my prick against his pelvis. “Simple, see?” “I feel.” “Just so.” And Tywyll started to move, gently, like warm breezes or lazy river currents. He rolled his hips and bowed his spine, eyes closed and mouth open. I leaned closer -- oh! that made my hips cant back and my balls roll against his thigh! -- and kissed his eyelids, wanting to have that green gaze on me. “Kiss me some more, Mèco.” What else could I do? I let my tongue slide along the curves of his lips. They fascinated me where the velvety flesh turned inward, slick and hot. He kept his mouth open and let me learn his mouth. I lost track of time, cataloguing the rough tongue, the smooth, hard teeth, the ticklish palate. “Lys was never so patient, Mèco!” Tywyll’s gasp sliced through my narcotic haze. “You said to kiss you some more.” “So I did. Now let me kiss you.” I presented my mouth, but Tywyll moved down my body, the chill on my skin shocking where our bodies had sweated and our cocks had leaked. I shivered. Tywyll giggled and licked my nipple. “Ah!” He flicked with his tongue and blew on my nipple until I was sure it would pop right off and go spinning around the room. And then he bit me. “Tywyll!” My scream stirred Lys, who mumbled a bit and shifted position. “Again?” Tywyll dove for my untouched nipple and latched on without preamble, biting deep and sucking hard. Need lanced through my balls at each touch. My noises were constant now, my hips humping shamelessly in search of relief. My cock was so hard I feared the skin would shear right off. “That’s it, Mèco. Come for me.” Tywyll ground his hips against me, sealing my poor prick between our bodies and squeezing my balls with each undulation. One hand in my hair, the other on my hip, he pulled and sucked and humped against me while I shouted and begged and spent and spent and spent.



Shattered, I sagged against him while he gentled his mouth on my chest and kissed his way up to my lips. I was too weak even to pucker for his kiss, so I just breathed on him and clung desperately while he licked up sweat and tears and placidly rode aftershocks from my body. “Mmmmèco,” he purred, drawing his hand through my seed and painting our lips with it. “Such

a great gift you are.” He lapped the seed away and gathered more.

Tentatively, I licked my own lips, tasting salt and musk and earth. I wasn’t sure I liked it.

Tywyll smiled, all curled red lips and slitted green eyes. “We taste good together.”

“We...? You... too?”

“Just wait until Lys wakes, we can taste all three.”

I snapped to myself with a guilty glance at Lys’ lax form. “Do you think he’ll mind? That we...

you know.” I trailed off lamely and looked sidelong at Tywyll, suddenly shy of him and fearful

of Lys’ disappointment.

“Silly Mèco. He will be pleased you found your way to loving.” His smile turned sly. “And he

will want to catch up.”

The thought of being like this with the two of them made my spent balls throb and my cock

twitch. I flopped onto my back and groaned as eloquently as I knew how.

“Poor khari! Wrung out like a sponge! Sleep now. I will watch over you and Lys.”

Sleepiness and gratitude flooded me and I cuddled in toward Lys. I had to say something, but,

“Thank you, lomi,” was absurdly inadequate.

Tywyll seemed to understand, though. “Sleep, khari,” he soothed, petting my hair. “Sleep.”

***

The turvy was sunk in full dark when I woke curled around Lys’ supine body. I focused my

bleary eyes on the dull glow of the peat fire in the hearth, trying to identify what had wakened

me.

My back was cool where Tywyll had flung the blankets aside. He was prowling the length of the

turvy, and high whining sounds reached me.

“Tywyll?”

“Listen.”

From a distance, howls filtered into the room; the whines were Tywyll’s.

“The navdi?” I ventured.



“They are running.”

“You want to join them.” It wasn’t a question.

“I should be here.”

“Does Lys need both of us?”

“He seems unaware.”

I shook my head. “He cannot be completely insensible.”

Tywyll nodded agreement. “If you stay...”

“I will stay. You need to go, don’t you?”

“Not need, so much. Crave.”

“Then you should go. You’ve been restless.”

“I worry for him.”

“But being stuck in here, waiting, it reminds you of last time. When it was you.”

He nodded again, his shoulders slumping. “He wouldn’t leave me.”

“He didn’t have me to share the burden with. And it’s not like you won’t be back.” An

unwelcome thought intruded. “You will return, won’t you?”

Tywyll’s head came up sharply. “Of course. I just...”

“Crave to run?”

“Yes,” he confirmed. He stood for a time, watching Lys. I followed his gaze.

“His breathing is so shallow,” I whispered. “I wish I could help him to breathe.”

“Try,” Tywyll said.

I pressed my lips lightly to Lys’ and breathed deeply. He didn’t move or respond, but I fancied

his breaths became easier. I faltered a little when Tywyll started petting my hair, but soon found

a rhythm I felt I could keep up all night, if need be. Tywyll pressed a kiss along my hairline, then

Lys’, and clambered off the bed. I felt a cold draft as he pulled the curtain and opened the door,

and I watched out of the corner of my eye as his bright, bare form slipped out.

I didn’t know what I’d do if Lys’ sleep deteriorated into something less stable, but I knew, for

the moment, that all three of us were where we needed to be.

***



I must have drifted in and out of awareness, for the rest of the night passed in dreamlike episodes, the only constant my lips hovering over Lys’, sharing breath. As the gloom of the turvy lifted slightly with the dawn, Lys sucked in a great gasp that brought his chest off the bed, the rest of his torso following until he was as bowed as bad legs. I panted to recover the air he had taken, keeping my arms around his taut frame, afraid he would injure himself. “Lys! Lys? Are you awake?” His eyes blinked open slowly. I was as disconcerted by the colorless irises as I had been before he slept. “Mèco. You are here.” I tried to smile. “Of course I am,” I soothed. “Tywyll?” “Running with the navdi.” Lys smirked weakly and I laughed a little. “I am glad he didn’t ignore their call. They need him,

too. And I...” He looked up at me.

“And you have me.”

Lys inhaled deeply. “He has you, as well, yes?”

“Well...”

“Yes,” he said again, and I chuckled self-consciously at the note of satisfaction I heard.

“How... how do you feel?”

“Weak as a nyma kit.”

I stroked his chest, encouraging him to breathe.

“But awake,” he said. He squirmed to get his elbows under him and push into a sitting position. I

shifted my arm behind him to help and as I did I felt something tickle me. I looked down.

“Lys, your hair!” It was tumbling down onto the bed as he shook his head slowly, leaving him

completely bald.

I held up a fistful of fallen locks like so many autumn leaves. “Is this supposed to happen?”

Lys was rubbing his bare scalp and laughing delightedly. “Poor Mèco! Such strange amichus you

have!”



“This is normal?” “This is my first time, sleeping the longest night as a man. But yes, shedding last year’s growth

is expected.”

“Will it grow back?”

“I hope so! I will be cold without it. And funny-looking.” He looked at me expectantly.

I made a show of examining him closely, squinting and rubbing my chin as I used to do over

building plans. Only when he started to chew his pale lip and look away did I relent, drawing

him closer and forcing myself to look into those strange colorless eyes.

“I think you could never be anything but exotic and lovely, madi.”

He sighed and snuggled closer, rubbing his smooth scalp against my shoulder.

“Hungry, madi?” I asked as my stomach gave a low growl.

Lys dropped his head to rub against my belly. “You are, though.” The feeling of his naked scalp

on my bare skin made me shiver. I rubbed my hand over his head.

“This is... interesting, madi.”

I actually felt the heat and saw the blush that chased up his face and covered his whole head. “I

don’t mean to embarrass you,” I fumbled. I was still so new at touching and being touched, I

didn’t know how to proceed. “I’ll make you some tea, and have something to eat myself.” I

rearranged the blankets around him, exposing the rest of his body for a moment. I stopped what I

was doing.

“Madi? All of your hair fell out?”

He brushed at the fair hairs scattered on the mattress cover, raising his arms and bending to look

between his legs. “I suppose so.” He smiled up at me, gathering the blankets around himself

again. “Exotic and lovely? Still?”

“Always.” I forced the word out past a constriction in my chest.

As I busied myself with the tea things, images of myself appreciating Lys’ hairless body in less

than gentle ways chased around in my head.

“Did Tywyll’s hair fall out when he slept last summer?”

Lys shook his head. “His wanings and waxings are less... complete than mine. At least, that’s

what the samana taught us.” His voice took on a cadenced quality. “‘That which sleeps in winter

sleeps deepest. That which sleeps in summer keeps one eye open.’”

“That’s why what happened last summer was so scary? He wasn’t supposed to sleep so deeply?”



Lys nodded, but he was distracted, running his fingers up and down hairless arms, walking them over his scalp.

I climbed back into the bed and passed Lys his tea, leaning against the wall and opening my arms

so he could rest against my body. As he settled himself, he giggled.

“Everything feels so... close.” He said, sipping tentatively.

I tried, surreptitiously, to explore his bare skin, but even my casual touches educed little shivers.

“Sorry, madi,” I mumbled.

He patted my hand and I supposed myself forgiven for taking liberties.

“You can touch more, you know.”

I wasn’t sure I could keep my touches from becoming too passionate or demanding, so instead I

tightened my arms and hugged him. He seemed unperturbed by the knowledge that Tywyll and I had been intimate, but I wasn’t sure I shared his insouciance. Timid about deepening the discussion, I deflected. “You still need to rest, yes?” “Mmm,” he agreed around a mouthful of tea. We rested like that for a long time, eventually setting our mugs aside and resting together, the blanket pulled up like a hood over Lys’ bald head. *** I slept longer than I intended, lulled by Lys’ torpor and, I must admit, by the silken weight of

him sleeping so extravagantly upon my chest.

Tywyll returned towards dusk, most ungently. “Edor! Come out here. And bring my clothes!”

The order came right down the new chimney. I started, and Lys lifted his head.

“You stay, madi,” I said just as the stove pipe delivered a sharp, “Stay inside, vjellja.”

“Why is he calling you ‘Edor'?”

I hadn’t even registered that Tywyll had used my title and not my name, nor the endearment he

had used the afternoon we... “Madi, what’s khari?”

“Beloved,” he said absently. Then his head came up. “Why?”

“Tell you later. Where’s my damn shirt?”

I scrambled outside with a final adjuration to Lys to stay put. I couldn’t see Tywyll from the

dooryard so I climbed the berm. He was crouched behind the pile of driftwood I’d been salvaging from the river, craning his neck to see around it, up the river. I crawled up behind him, laying my hand against his cold shoulder. He jumped as if I’d scalded him. A Torquere Press Chaser - 25


“Mèco, you scared me.”

“Who else would it be?”

“Them.” He pointed up the river. I couldn’t see anything, and said so.

“Listen!”

Handing over Tywyll’s pile of clothes, I quieted and strained my ears. Over the swish of the river

and the evening breeze I heard a babbling sound.

“Some river creature?” Whatever it was must be pretty large to be heard at such a distance.

Tywyll gave me his “patient” look. “People, Mèco. People talking.”

I listened some more, my insides icing through with the realization that Tywyll was right.

I watched him dress, hoping the sight of his body would thaw my gut.

“Lomi, you’re hurt.”

“Bah. A few scratches.” His grin was feral and satisfied. “Long night running with the navdi.”

He turned his head back upriver, squirming into his trousers as he watched, his teeth still bared, but no longer grinning. “Why don’t we just hide inside?” “The smoke, khari. They’ll see it. And all this.” He indicated the haphazard pile of driftwood I’d fished out of the river and the more orderly stacks of volo poles we’d prepared and left curing on the berm. Anyone passing would see them, and only the thickest person would mistake even the driftwood as a chance deposit from the river. Because of my fossicking, there was no driftwood on our side of the river for a few miles in each direction. It would stand out. “So what will we do?”

“Protect Lys. Protect home.”

“You think we’ll have to fight?” I made to stand, thinking to go back to the turvy for weapons.

“Should I fetch your ulu?” Tywyll stayed me with a hard grasp on my wrist.

“There are many of them. We must protect with our wits.”

“But surely a show that we could defend ourselves would deter--”

At that moment, a watercraft floated into view. The flat-bottomed barge rode low in the gray

water. I could make out two figures at the stern, poling in tandem. The voices we had heard were their rhythmic chant.



Tywyll held me down as they approached. When the chanting voices went silent -- probably at

the sight of the gathered building materials -- Tywyll stood abruptly, pulling me with him.

“Ho there!” He called out. “Will you pass in peace?”

There was a pause as both men leaned on their poles to slow the barge’s downriver progress.

The younger called up, “Not if you demand a toll like that grubber upriver.”

“Must be Varas charming the tourists again,” I muttered to Tywyll.

He rolled his eyes and shouted back, “We demand no toll but that you float on and seek no harm

to me and mine.”

The older man peered up at us. “How many are you?”

“More than you see,” I answered.

“As are we,” called back the younger man. He whistled sharply and a tarp covering what I had

assumed was the barge’s cargo flipped up to reveal a motley collection of people, perhaps six or

eight of them.

“We have no quarrel unless you seek to dock.”

“I see no dock, little man,” the younger poler sneered.

“Landfall, then,” Tywyll sneered back. “I beg your pardon for my lack of ability in your crude

language.”

I hissed, “Don’t give them a reason to land.” I had never seen Tywyll so belligerent, and I was

about to caution him until I saw how pale his lips were, how wide the stretch of his eyes. My

fearsome little predator was terrified. My heart clenched and I did what came naturally, to my

shame. I lied. “It will be all right, lomi.”

He glared at me. I glared right back. He pursed his lips tighter still, squeezing out all the blood,

leaving them as pale as Lys’. “I don’t want strangers here,” he whispered.

Of course not, I thought. “But here they are. Perhaps they have some news, or aught to trade. Just

be civil, please? That young one has your number.”

I ambled as casually as I could down the riverbank. “Where have you come from? What news?”

The older man’s shoulders relaxed a bit at my nonchalance, but the younger man still seemed

coiled to spring.

“We been on the river three weeks, day and night.”

“Where are you going?”



The man’s shoulders slumped and he looked sidelong at his younger companion. “Wherever’s fit. We ain’t seen no big settlements from the river. We come from near the Prime Dome.”

Not domers, then. I looked over the rough barge and its scraggly passengers.

“You’re not traders, then?”

“Would be, if those oozing Salters had left us two sen to rub together. You got food to trade?”

“For what? You say you have nothing.” Tywyll’s voice was still dangerously harsh. I shot him a

quelling look.

“Well, little man, we have news. And one or two other things. Let us land and we will show

you.”

Tywyll stepped forward. He knew how important news of the Salters might be, now that winter

was waning and land travel increasingly possible. “You come ashore, go no higher than the

berm, and we will talk.”

There ensued a clumsy landing, with the two polers straining against the current while their

passengers gained the shore, wet and muddy. They set their poles into the river bottom at the

bow of the barge, but with nothing to tie it to they were forced to take turns, two at a time,

holding the thing in place.

I was relieved to see that the assortment of travelers included only one other adult; the rest were

children, dull and sluggish.

“Good thing the river’s slow in these parts,” the older man grunted as he handed off the pole to a

gaunt woman about his own age. As their hands met on the staff, she said something to him in a

low voice. His brow beetled and he shook his head.

“Not that. Food’s more important.”

She spoke up. “The weans ain’t et a full meal since we slaughtered our last ucha seven days

past.” Her gravelly voice trailed off expectantly.

Tywyll pounced. “You saved the fleeces?”

“Might have done,” she hedged.

“Do you have food to trade or don’t you?” The young hothead demanded. Freed from his duty at

the pole, he rolled up on Tywyll, his red-knuckled fists clenching and relaxing menacingly.

“Hold, boy,” said the old man. “We’re guests in this place.”

The young buck snorted, but receded a bit. Tywyll growled at him and I had to bite my cheek to

keep from laughing.



As softly as I could, I said, “Go make tea, lomi, and bring some beans while you’re at it. Good

faith gesture?”

“I won’t leave you alone with them.”

“They’re farmers,” I replied, some of my domer superiority bubbling forth. “I doubt they’re even

armed.”

In a louder voice, Tywyll said, “I’ll bring some food, ask everyone else what they have to trade.

You all would do well to keep civil.”

I relaxed a bit as he descended the berm.

“Unusual fellow, your friend,” said the older man.

“Looks a lot like you-know-who,” said the young one softly, though not so softly that I didn’t

hear him.

“Nev, you mind your tongue,” the woman said sharply. “What’s down there, anyway?” She

jerked her grizzled head in the direction of the smoke.

As eager to deflect their interest in the source of the smoke as I was for any news, however bad, I

said, “Just our camp fire. What news, then, uncle? Was it Salters drove you from your home?”

“Salters, yeah, and those pikin’ domers.” Everyone, including me, looked daggers at young Nev.

With a roll of his eyes, he subsided.

“Managers billeted the bastards outside their precious dome, right in our taon. Took what they

wanted, sacked what they didn’t. We got out when our stores was ruint.”

“The Salters are staying put, then?”

The old man shrugged. “More’n they used to, least over winter. Dome managers cooperatin’ and

all. Still seen plenty of detachments since we left.”

“But no settlements, no more taons?”

“None willing to take on the seven of us plus...”

“Pap!” the woman snapped.

The old man flinched. “What with us not having means to get through winter, I mean,” he

finished lamely.

“Did you have something the settlement folk might object to? Disease, perhaps?” With Tywyll

out of earshot my unease had grown and I decided keeping our visitors off balance was probably

not as bad an idea as I’d originally thought.

“Naw!” barked the young man. “Don’t worry your pretty head about that. We ain’t tainted.”



“Just hungry, sir, and weary of traveling.” “You can’t stop here,” I said quickly, suddenly fearful these people would use their superior numbers to stake a claim to my home. “But we have a bit of food to trade, and a scrap or two of information about what lies downriver.” While we waited for Tywyll to return I shared what I knew of the settlement Lys and Tywyll had come from, and also what Varas had told me of the further settlements, Kenvro and Diabarzh. “Those taons, Salters or no, are big enough to try, I should think.” I described what I could remember of their locations. “We can probably spare enough food to get you there; they’re not as far as you’ve traveled so far.” Tywyll crested the berm pulling the converted plow, its chassis piled with baskets and jars. He shared out tea and roasted, salted beans, starting with the preternaturally quiet children and

pointedly leaving Nev for last.

He squatted next to me. “Well, Edor? Have you made equitable exchanges of information?”

“Edor!” the young man said. “Don’t tell me you’re one’a them pikin’ domers!”

“I am not,” I assured him, tugging my sleeve down to cover the scar on my hand. The old man

noticed, with a quirk of his eyebrow, but said nothing.

“We have more useful news than we did this morning,” the old man started. “Now, what will you

give us for three ucha fleeces?”

“Skin on or off?” asked Tywyll.

“On.”

I offered, “Enough beans to get you to Kenvro.”

“And what else?”

“What did you bring, lomi?” I asked under my breath.

He spoke up, “And an assortment of fruit and tea. A bit of meat for the young ones.”

“Auntie, I want meat.” One of the kids became animated, which, in the way of children, infected

the other three.

“Shut yer gums, brats!” snapped Nev. I decided I didn’t like him.

Tywyll bridled. “Children are precious. Where is your pride in them, in having kept them safe?”

I stared at him, or rather, I stared at his back as he marched over to the plow and extracted four

strips of avala jerky. He passed them to the children and crossed his arms.



“Man’s right, son,” the old man said, shaking his head. He turned to Tywyll and me. “My boy ain’t been the same since the Salters rolled in. We did our best to preserve what we could, who we could.” “Might’a saved more, if it hadn’t’a been for...”

“That ain’t fair, son, and you know it.”

“I don’t know nothin’. ‘Cept we’d’a been better off without...”

“Boy! You keep quiet, now, and let grown folk negotiate.”

The young fellow humphed and glared, but kept his own counsel while we finished our tea and

haggled over relative amounts of our various wares in exchange for the three fleeces.

Our haggling complete, the party of refugees readied themselves to leave. The woman

shepherded the children, each hugging a basket or jar of food, onto the barge.

“Get the fleeces, son,” said the old man. Nev complied with ill grace, bundling the things up

messily and moving to the bulwark to hand them over.

“You know,” Nev sneered, “we got somethin’ else might interest you.”

“That’s twallop, son,” the old man said.

“Jes’ lemme show ‘em, Pep,” he wheedled. “See what you think of these, little man.” And with

that, he flung the bundle of fleeces toward Tywyll, who had no choice but to catch them or lose

them to the river.

Tywyll wrapped his arms around the bundle and stumbled backward a step or two, but I paid him

little mind, knowing how surefooted he was. I was more concerned that Nev would use the

distraction to try something nefarious.

That’s when Tywyll screamed.

Nev stood smirking with one foot propped on the rail. I dropped my pole and rushed over, too

late to catch him when he fell but in time to break his fall. He was convulsing and crying out

piteously. I gathered him into my arms, wild with fear.

“What is it, lomi? Can’t you tell me what’s wrong?” My voice was a frayed thread.

Tywyll’s slender form bowed in my arms, his eyes huge, showing too much white. His arms

seized upward, clipping me on the chin with whatever lay within the smelly bundle. “Ay!” I yelped, biting my tongue as my teeth clacked together. I wrestled Tywyll back onto the ground and tried to pry the bundle from his hands, but his fingers were clawed around it with a death grip. He was starting to twitch.



“What’s in the package?” I yelled to the others. Working frantically to secure the barge where I

had let go the pole, they ignored me.

I yanked and pulled and finally resorted to squeezing Tywyll’s wrists hard, forcing the fingers to

release their hold.

The bundle tumbled to the ground with a series of clangs, and Tywyll sagged against me,

breathing fast and holding his hands up to my face. They looked burned, the skin already

blistered, even peeling away at the fingertips.

“Mèco! Vjellja! What’s happened?”

Lys! Oh, no! Lys stood at the apex of the berm, blanket clutched tightly around his frail body, his

bald head and fathomless eyes bizarre, even to me.

Lys dashed over, the blanket flapping around his cold-mottled shins. He crouched next to me,

gasped once, and rolled away, exposing his denuded body. He scrabbled back until his back

thunked against the wheel of the plow.

“Where did that kirottu metal come from?” He spat the words and rubbed at his knees where

they’d met the package; pink where Tywyll’s hands were an angry red.

The answer was obvious, so I focused on Tywyll, trying to calm him and wrap his hands so more

skin wouldn’t rub off when he moved them. His pulse was galloping visibly in his neck and

temple.

“Lys, please, go back down. Please!”

He ignored me, whirling to face the visitors, unerringly fixing upon Nev as the culprit.

“You! You gave a Novigi metal? Kirottu bastard!” He flung himself at the lad, screaming and

flailing his blanket. Nev looked as if he were trying to hide behind the barge pole.

“He didn’t know. Don’t touch him!” That was the old man.

“Give it up, Pap. Of course he knew,” said the woman, struggling against the other pole. “Stupid

little fucker.” Her voice was resigned, rather than angry.

“He’s nothing but one of them, Pap. Weird little bastards.”

That pulled Lys up short. “What do you mean?”

With a wave toward the deck of the barge, Nev indicated a section of the tarp. Keeping hold of

his pole, and reached out with his foot to flip aside the covering. I strained to see what he’d

revealed.

“Kusheri,” Lys breathed, advancing trancelike to step aboard the barge.



“Lys, no! Get off of there!” I couldn’t leave Tywyll even if I had wanted to; his arms were wrapped around me, his poor hands held away from our bodies. The strength of his grasp reassured me, but already I could feel the heat of a fever rising from his skin. “Lys!” I shouted again. “What is that?” I demanded of the old man. “Corpse. Fella like them,” he swept his hand in an arc that included Lys and Tywyll. “Your Nev killed him, too?” I didn’t bother to keep the venom from my voice, nor did I clarify that Tywyll was, praise be, not dead. “Not apurpose, you pikin’ domer,” Nev snarled. “Little fella joined us a ways back. The ucha were his. He was runnin’ and screamin’ about Salters. Swam right to the barge and those stupid animals followed him. Ain’t never seen nothin’ like it. He sure weren’t well pleased when we butchered ‘em.” Over the man’s guilty ramble, Lys’ voice rose in a skirl of anguished Novigi. When he finally turned those pinprick eyes on the group on the barge, his face was streaked with tears. “Where is his amichu?” No one answered, so he said it over and over again, finally turning back to the corpse, leaning close and shouting, “Where is he, kusheri? Where is your amichu?” Tywyll stirred against me. I stroked his white hair, and leaned close to his face. “Lys,” he croaked. “Get him off the boat.” With what seemed to be a great effort, he unclasped his arms from around my middle and lay back, panting fast. I turned just in time to see the barge catching the current. “Jump, Lys!” I cried, breaking into a run. Lys was struggling with the body. “Leave it, Lys!” I shouted, panicked at the increasing distance between the shore and the barge. “He is kusheri,” Tywyll rasped from his place on the bank. “Help Lys. He must not be among strangers.” I didn’t bother to clarify whether he meant the dead Novigi or Lys. Instead I barreled down the riverbank, gasping as I breasted the frigid water. I struck out across the current to where the refugees were poling frantically to the middle of the river. If they caught the central current, there would be no way I could catch up. “Lys!” I screamed, sputtering as my mouth filled with water. “Mèco! Catch him!” Lys called, straining against his burden. He managed to tip the body unceremoniously into the water. I pulled hard, trying to reach it as it was pulled along in the barge’s wake.



“Jump, Lys!” I shouted again, finally laying one hand on the bobbing corpse.

“Let go of me, kirottu murderer!” I watched with dismay as Lys struggled with Nev, who had

hold of his ankles. Lys gripped the bulwark, his face a mask of effort and terror.

Abandoning all thought of the dead Novigi, I started swimming for the barge.

“Help me hold him, Pap. Little whore be better trade than any old fleeces.”

“You shame us all, boy,” the man’s voice was low, but carried well enough over the water.

In slow motion, I watched as the old man extracted his pole from the river, raised it above his

shoulders, and struck his son in the back of the head. I felt the ripples as the barge rocked with

the impact of the youth hitting the deck. In a flash, Lys was overboard and underwater,

swimming like a fish toward, not me, but the body in the water.

“Lys! To me, please!” But I knew he wouldn’t heed me.

I angled my strokes to intercept Lys before he and the corpse hit the main current. My arms were

numb with cold and my legs felt heavy enough to drag me under.

Lys had reached the body and had hold of its hair, dragging it across the current toward the

shore. They were making more downriver progress than shoreward, and with visions of Lys

being swept away forever spotting my vision, I redoubled my effort to reach them.

I pulled and pulled against the burning in my shoulders and the drag of my legs. My vision

grayed out with each stroke. Tywyll’s voice reached me faintly from far behind, though I

couldn’t make out what he said. Lys name was on every desperate breath I took.

After what seemed like hours of futile swimming, my hand slapped forward and tangled in

something rough. It was the dead Novigi’s hair and I recoiled. Its coverings floated to one side

and Lys gripped its legs, which were pointed downriver.

“Mèco!” Lys panted.

“Let it go, Lys. I only have strength for you.”

“I can kick. You pull.” I saw he was not going to release his burden. A fleeting thought of the

furious lecture I would deliver propelled me. I nodded grimly and started to swim for shore.

We aimed for the nearer bank, but were pulled further downriver with each stroke. By the time

we gained the riverbank, we were almost as far downriver as the majava lodge.

I dug my free hand into the gelid mud and heaved myself up, turning to pull the corpse, with Lys

attached, behind me. As soon as all three of us were out of the water, I turned to look up and

down the bank to get our bearings.

What I saw made my breath hitch painfully. “Lys...”



“I see,” came Lys shuddery voice. Tywyll’s three navdi stood grinning at us from higher up the bank. “Let them have the body,” I whispered, thinking to appease them. Their red tongues lolled out and steam billowed in puffs from between their white teeth. “No, Mèco. They are not scavengers. Watch.” He sat up slowly and spread his arms, tilting his head back and whining softly. The navdi advanced on him, snuffling and whining. As they closed ranks around him, I noticed their tails wagging. Of course! My instinct was to fear these predators, but my amichus called them cousins. I forced myself to breathe again. The cold air wrapped around my wet body and I began to shiver. I watched the navdi licking and nuzzling Lys as if from a great remove, and I knew without caring that my languor heralded death. “Kusheri!” That was Tywyll’s voice. At his command, two navdi broke away from Lys and converged on me. I felt the brush of their fur and smelled the fetor of their breath without fear. I curled into a ball and allowed their ministrations. At length, I felt Lys scoot close and start to pull my sodden clothes off. I couldn’t even summon a healthy fear of being naked before the navdis’ teeth and claws. Tywyll’s body joined us, and that tiny sliver of conscious mind I had left tripped fearfully at the unnatural heat rising through his clothes. We lay together a long time, the navdi draped over us, our arms and legs tangled together. At intervals, Lys or I whimpered as blood returned to our fingers and toes under the navdis’ tongues. I don’t remember how we managed it, but as dark fell we were stumbling toward the turvy, Lys and I wrapped in the fleeces from the barge, the body of the dead Novigi dragged by the navdi. I was too exhausted to remark upon this, or even to feel much astonishment. My awareness blinked in and out, like unsecured shutters opening and closing in a fitful wind. I have no idea how Tywyll got the fire going with his injured hands, but when I was able to maintain focus for more than a few seconds, I realized we three were curled among our blankets. Tywyll was like a hot coal nestled between Lys and me. I wriggled up, needing to piss, and staggered out of bed and to the pot in the corner. When I came back to bed, I brought a mug of water and a rag, and I began to bathe Tywyll’s feverish limbs, avoiding his ragged hands. He stretched out under my touches, and seemed to sleep easier. *** I awoke the next morning with both my shoulders pinned to the bed, one each by my amichus’ heavy heads. I wriggled free as gently as I could and by the time I was finished pissing they’d



moved into each other’s arms, Lys’ bald head small and vulnerable beside Tywyll’s wild white ropes. I was feeling unaccountably restless, and the sight of the two of them so peacefully curled together like twins in their egg, made the feeling more piquant. Telling myself I was suffering from cabin fever, though the adventure of the day before put the lie to it before the thought was fully formed, I headed out with a pack basket full of volos and sinews, my plan to set a few traps upriver from the turvy. I knew Tywyll would grumble about my striking out without him, but Lys was still weak from his nagir, and the exertions of the day before couldn’t have benefited him. Besides, how could Tywyll help with his burned hands? I tried not to dwell on my amichus’ strange allergy to metals, and thus distracted, I came upon the small navdi pack ranged just outside our little compound. I froze. This was the first time I had seen the navdi without Lys or Tywyll present. The big one stood and approached me, his ears back and his tail down in what did not appear to be an offensive posture. I didn’t crouch for him the way I had seen Tywyll do, but I did hold out my hands, knuckles up. The navdi sniffed, then licked, then nudged my thighs with his broad brow. Relieved, but not overly surprised by my reception -- he had smelled me before, after all, and also I must be covered with Tywyll’s scent -- I took a step or two forward, toward the two seated navdi, and it seemed only polite to crouch this time, since they didn’t stand to greet me. The seated navdi whined softly and licked my hands like their leader had done, then stood and walked towards the berm. They looked back once, and their packmate nudged me from behind, so I followed. The berm was lower and broader away from the turvy, so in a moment I topped it. It was a lucky thing my basket was strapped to my back or I’d surely have dropped it into the river. Atop the berm lay the corpse of the Novigi. Had the navdi really dragged it all the way from where we’d fished it out of the river? The navdi seemed reluctant to get too close to the body, but they stood in a loose ring around me and it, pawing the ground and whining. The body’s sodden shroud only loosely wrapped it, and grayish-blue swaths of bare flesh showed. I had never seen a dead body before, and my heart was in my mouth now. I reached out and pulled aside the blanket where it covered the Novigi’s face, being very careful to touch nothing but the blanket. I looked at that face for a long time. He looked like Tywyll. Not exactly, of course; the forehead was higher, with a deep peak of hair, and the face was broad and flattish, with a wide nose over full lips. Nothing like Tywyll, structurally speaking, especially not with those blue lips and greystreaked skin. But the white hair was the same, and so were the bright green eyes, which were fixed dully upon nothing at all. My revulsion warred with my sense of recognition, of kinship, and I fought tears and bile simultaneously. Wishing I had not looked, I felt I must do something with the navdi’s prize. They hadn’t eaten it -- though of course I had Lys’ word that predators like navdi would not eat carrion -- and they had guarded it through the long winter night. I decided to cover it back up and consider what to do with it while I built my snares. Maybe by the time I returned Tywyll and Lys would have wakened and I could ask them what they intended.



The rest of the morning was uneventful, at least in relative terms. If we hadn’t had the previous day’s excitement, seeing human tracks in what was left of the snow upriver would have thrown me far more than they did. The idea of another person so close to our home was disconcerting, but as far as I could tell there were no signs of someone nearby -- no remnant of a fire, no broken branches, no disturbed earth where someone might have slept. I knew the tracks couldn’t belong to yesterday’s visitors, as they’d never been out of my sight while on land. There was only one set, however, and the feet that had made the tracks were unshod – even with my limited tracking skills I could tell that. I was surprised I didn’t feel more alarmed, but still I stayed wary and alert as I went about my task, finishing six snares before the sun reached its shallow zenith. I had used all the volo, but I still had a few lengths of avala sinew left when I headed toward home. The walk back was tedious without the repeated stops to set snares, so I was free to concentrate on my hunger and my thoughts. I was delighted to see smoke twisting from the turvy’s chimney as I approached; it meant someone was up and, with luck, cooking. I passed by the place where the three navdi sat sentinel over the dead Novigi, and stopped long enough to look again and to cover the body more securely. Sure enough, there was stew and tea when I reached the kitchen. “How are you feeling today, madi?” I asked as I washed my hands at the pump. “Better, Mèco,” Lys said, passing me a bowl and cupping one for himself. “And Tywyll?” “Still sleeping.” I must have looked worried about that because he hastened to assure me, “I made him wake for tea earlier.” “And his hands?” Lys shrugged and looked down. “They will heal. I wish...” He trailed off. “What, madi?” “Never mind. Tell me about your morning.” He smiled, a little too brightly. It wasn’t like Lys to keep his thoughts from me. I squinted at him and told him about the traps, the footprints, and the navdi’s wake for the dead Novigi. Lys’ bowl thunked into the dirt at his feet, spilling the last of his stew and rolling crazily away. “The kusheri, he is here?” his voice was barely above a whisper. I had scarcely opened my mouth to remind him of our homeward journey with the corpse in tow when he was up and speeding towards the turvy. I followed him. The clatter of the door banging back on its hinges woke Tywyll and he was struggling to sit up when I reached the threshold. Lys was speaking urgently, in even faster Novigi than I was used to from him.



Tywyll tried several times to interrupt, or to speak to me, but Lys grabbed his face and held it and kept talking. Tywyll nodded as best he could in that tight grip and listened patiently.

When Lys finally went quiet, Tywyll hugged him close and spoke to me over his sleek head.

“Lys is... agitated about the kusheri.”

I almost laughed. “So I gathered. What’s a kusheri?”

“Cousin. This one is one of another pair of amichus.”

“Another pair? Here? But that’s--”

“Impossible?” His green eyes twinkled at me.

“I suppose not,” I said, embarrassed. “If Novigi are so common, why had I never seen one before

the two of you? I’d never even heard of your people.”

Lys raised his head. “We are not common,” he said with exaggerated dignity, “and amichus are

even less common.”

Tywyll confirmed the thought with an amused grunt. “We are few, and usually well hidden.

These Hostilities of yours made our lives... complicated.”

“So where did the--” I stopped myself from saying ‘dead’ “--kusheri come from?”

“We won’t know until his amichu arrives.”

Tywyll clucked his tongue at Lys’ statement. “You know he is most unlikely to come, vjellja.” I

realized he was speaking Alman for my benefit; his tone told me he had made the same

statement before, only in Novigi words.

Lys looked despondent. “But he must be so scared. All alone, longest night...” He shuddered

visibly and cuddled in to Tywyll’s body.

I was beginning to understand, and with understanding came an almost painful rush of sympathy

for Lys. I crossed from the doorway and knelt beside the bed, reaching to rub his back. I looked

up at Tywyll who was looking right back at me.

“The... one the navdi guard, he looks like you, lomi. His amichu is like Lys?”

Tywyll nodded. I tried out the rest of my fledgling understanding. “And that amichu, he just had

his longest night?” Another nod. “So now he is weak, like Lys, recovering?”

“If he survived.” Still curled small in Tywyll’s arms, Lys whimpered at Tywyll’s words and I

deepened my strokes along his back, my caresses of his velvety scalp.

“You mean the amichu would be vulnerable, to attack, to sickness. Might be unable to fend for

himself?”



Tywyll nodded, but his eyes were narrowed as if considering how much more to tell me. “What else, lomi?” I prodded.

“One amichu rarely survives the death of the other.” Lys made another small, sad noise, and

Tywyll’s gaze flattened on me, as if I were to blame for the pain his words caused Lys.

I stared back. “That’s how...” I took my hand from Lys’ back long enough to wave at Tywyll’s

blistered fingers.

“Lys always knows when I am injured. It is the same with all amichus. If I were to die--”

“Vjellja!” Lys raised his head, managing to look outraged even as his eyes filled with tears.

“It’s all right, lomi, no need to say more. I understand.” I wasn’t quite sure I did, but I didn’t

think Lys could bear much more of this conversation.

Tywyll shifted, making room for me on the bed. “Here,” he said, passing Lys to me. “I’ll fix

supper. You stay with Lys.”

“But your hands.”

“Are much improved.” He held them up and though they did look less raw, there were strips of

dry skin flaking off and tender-looking red patches peeking through.

He walked out before I could shift Lys again. He was clinging to me like a snail to a stone. I

petted him and hummed until his clutch relaxed a bit.

“You know, madi,” I said as I rubbed his scalp, “I think I could get used to this soft skin here.”

His colorless eyes danced up at me. “What about the soft skin elsewhere, Mèco?”

“All your skin, madi. I love it all.” I kissed him all over his face and head, tickling his ears and

throat with my lips and tongue until I felt him grow heavier in my lap. I pulled back to look into

his face and smiled fondly at the sleepy eyes.

“Why don’t you sleep, madi. I will stay and wake you when supper comes.”

I was still speaking when I realized he was asleep.

*** Weeks passed as Lys recovered his strength and Tywyll healed from his injury. To my horror, the Novigi corpse had taken up residence in a corner of our storage shed. My suggestion that we honor the dead with a pyre (the closest alternative I could conceive to the sterile crematorium of the dome) was met with such fury and disgust that thinking of it still abashes me. Special rites must accompany the Novigi into the earth, and those could not be performed until the ground softened with the coming spring. Our guest didn’t seem to be putrefying, however, so thereafter I kept my own counsel on the matter. A Torquere Press Chaser - 39


Our stores had dwindled enough to make space less a consideration than if the dead fellow had made his appearance earlier in the season, and I suspected -- gratefully -- that Lys and Tywyll humored me by taking my turns to fetch stores and organize the shed so I wouldn’t have to be alone with the body. Our downriver snares yielded little quarry, though I was able to recover the bundle of metal spikes Nev the refugee had flung ashore. When I brought them home, Tywyll took one look at them and rolled his eyes balefully. “Never forget their effect on Novigi flesh, Mèco,” he said. The upriver trapline was another matter entirely. I never once found a trap sprung, much less full. But I often saw animal tracks -- mostly cudoes, but of course that was the only track I could definitively identify -- around the snares, the snow or earth around them unnaturally smooth and pristine. I never saw human footprints again, and no one disturbed my progress from snare to snare. I had to admit the possibility that the habitual presence of a navdi companion or two ensured my solitude. I awoke one morning to find Tywyll already gone to the river. The fish were running again, and evidently he judged our camouflage and his celerity enough to protect him from riverborne menaces. “I hate it when he goes there,” I admitted to Lys, ruffling the short spikes of his hair. He murmured and snuggled closer. “Still sleeping, khari.” Love. That’s what he called me now, and surely it was true in our hearts though our bodies were still relative mysteries to each other, for all our cuddling and caressing. Not so with Tywyll, I thought with a blush. “But what if something happens?” We’d been over this ground until it was churned and muddy. “I will know, and we will go to him.” “Yes, but what if--” “We’ve only spotted a few more boats. And no one on foot,” Lys said reasonably. I didn’t reply. Tywyll was the one of us who spent the most time at the river, having taken it upon himself to dig channels to direct the floodwaters he was so convinced would come. I had made no more mention of the strange footprints, nor the unnatural state of the upriver trapline, so why would Tywyll not have omitted riverboat sightings, not out of malice (for how could I ascribe malice to a decision I had taken in the interest of my amichus’ peace of mind?), but out of a misplaced protectiveness for Lys and me? “What shall we do today, slugabed?” “Stay here, enjoy the last of our winter snuggery.”



“Silly madi. I was thinking either tap those he’eva trees you found or help Tywyll make his channels in the berm.” Lys wrinkled his nose and wrapped his arms tighter around me. I added as an afterthought, “And I want to check your eyes in the light.” “Now who is silly, khari?” He giggled. “They will not have changed since yesterday.” “Maybe today they’re as green as your hair.” The spiky growth of Lys hair was a delicate, pale green, like new shoots. I found it endlessly fascinating. I was waiting for his eyes to take on color, for they had stayed perfectly clear since midwinter’s night, set in the whites of his eyes like a puddle in limestone, with a sharp circle of black in the middle. Lys assured me he didn’t know what color his eyes would be, only that color would come with the springtime. I sat us up, letting Lys lean against me while we sipped the now-tepid tea Tywyll had left for us. I felt slightly guilty for lying about when he was working in the cold, wet mud of the riverbank exposed to the elements and human danger alike. I shook off the feeling and finished my tea. “Come on, madi. Let’s see to the trees and then, if Tywyll is still working when we get back, we’ll join him.” “Maybe we can get him to join us.” I thought that prospect unlikely, but held my tongue lest I discourage Lys from getting up and out. Also, I admitted to myself, Lys could be terrifically persuasive when the mood was on him. We didn’t get to work all three of us together very often. I shrugged into my new woven vest, smiling at Lys as I did. His weaving skills had developed well, and I had modified the loom at his instructions several times since midwinter. Tywyll and I had become adept carders, spinners, and winders of yarn. My balls were bigger, but his were more symmetrical, not that we were competitive about it. We gathered up the taps I had carved from volo, along with tightly woven reed baskets to catch the tree sap, which my amichus assured me could be rendered into a syrup like honey. I took up my knife and the hammer that was the result of my first experiment at forging metal. It was ugly and poorly balanced, but I could bash things quite hard with it. All metal tools were my purview, of course. “Keep it inside your vest, yes?” Lys warned. He and Tywyll admitted the utility of my metal tools, but no more than grudgingly. I dutifully tucked the hammer away. Once outside, I made a great show of examining Lys’ hair while he made a great show of screwing his eyes closed. I was forced to resort to tickling. Lys squirmed and hollered in my arms as my fingers dug into his ribs and armpits. I was ready for it when he tried to play dirty, going limp and heavy in my embrace. When I didn’t drop him - how could I? -- he smiled into my eyes and kissed me. I pulled away almost instantly.



“Madi! They’re purple!”

“Big liar.”

“Really! We have to show Tywyll.” I grabbed his hand and towed him up the berm, our sugaring

equipment rattling around us.

“Lomi! Come see Lys’ eyes!”

He ran up the berm, wiping his muddy hands on his muddy breeches. Lys squealed as he took

hold of his chin, turning his face this way and that to catch the morning light, frowning and

hmm-ing all the while. It was very difficult for me to keep quiet.

“Purple. Wasn’t expecting that,” Tywyll finally said, and made to turn back to his work. I caught

the quirk of his lips as he did, but Lys didn’t.

“Vjellja! It’s my first spring change, and all you can say is, ‘Hmm, purple?’” He stamped his

foot, spattering all our boots with mud. Spring really was imminent, I thought.

Tywyll examined Lys again, and this time I couldn’t hold my tongue. “It’s not purple, lomi. It’s

like lilacs or--”

“Crocuses,” Tywyll said, finally relenting to give Lys a proud smile and a kiss. “First flower of

spring. Go see in the he’eva grove.”

“Come with us,” I begged. “Later we’ll all work on the channels.”

“If the crocuses are up, thaw is well and truly here. It won’t be long before it reaches upriver.”

“But it won’t be today,” Lys argued. “Please, vjellja?” He pouted and sighed and made us both

laugh, but it wasn’t until I kissed Tywyll on the mouth, mindful of mud spatters, and whispered

“please” very softly into his ear that he relented and set his spade in the cache on the landward

side of the berm, out of sight of any river travelers.

When we reached the he’eva grove -- it was a long walk, well downriver of the majava lodge -we saw, dotted all around, white and pale purple and yellow flowers peeking modestly through

the grainy snow hanging on in the shadows of the great trees.

“Hundreds of them!” Lys cried, kneeling in the cold, matted grass, sniffing and stroking

delightedly. “How did you know?”

“You couldn’t have walked here in the last few days, you’ve been too busy,” I said.

Tywyll wagged his head as if I were indeed the thickest creature on two legs. “Lys’ eyes, khari

mine.”

“Of course,” I said, sarcastically enough that he bumped me with his shoulder as he passed.



As my amichus showed me how to tap the trees and hang the baskets to catch the sap, they revived the battle they’d joined in the miserable days after the barge’s departure. “If he lives, we must find him,” this was Lys’ opening sally every time. “If he does not, we risk ourselves for nothing.” “We know where he came from.” “We know nothing but which direction he took, not where he started.” “We should go to the settlements to the north. He had to come from one of them.” “There is no guarantee his amichu remained.”

“But someone might have news of him.”

“Someone like that Nev?” Tywyll barked, flexing his scarred hands where Lys could see them.

This was usually the end of the argument, but today they continued, and I found it difficult to

concentrate on hammering volo pegs into trees.

“Not every diainav is like Nev.”

“No, some of them are like Varas.”

“And some of them are like Mèco.”

“Many of them are Salters.”

“Salters must still be winterbound up north.”

“The crocuses will bloom there, and soon.”

“Then we should go now, while our traveling is easier than theirs.”

“Are you so eager to be a slave again? A whore?”

“Are you so eager to see the Novigi fade from the world?”

“Are you so eager to hasten those numbers by two?”

This stopped Lys cold, and I felt a pang of sympathy for him, myself not having anticipated the

direction and ferocity of Tywyll’s offensive.

I stepped into the breach. “What if I were to go?”

Green and purple eyes snapped to mine.

“You are not expendable, khari,” Lys said.



Tywyll said, “One alone would never succeed.” “Nor would three. I lost count of the times I almost died on the way here.” The sound of a voice I’d never before heard startled a yelp from my throat. Lys and Tywyll closed ranks with me, and together we craned our necks looking for the source of the voice. “Kirottu trespasser!” Tywyll yelled. “Show yourself!” Through a rain of dry leaves and twigs, a huge projectile spun down from a branch twice as high as my head, landing heavily just behind us. We spun around in time to watch the blur roll along the ground a short distance and resolve itself into a man, smaller than Lys but with the same brush of green hair. His clothes were rough, and his skin patchy and dirty. He stood before us, his fists held out defensively, the glitter of tears in his eyes. “Whether I trespass, kusheri, is for you to say. Only tell me before you eject me, is my amichu truly dead?” To be continued in Servant of the Seasons 3: Spring, coming soon from Torquere Press.



Glossary Novigi terms amichu avala cudo diainav gaeren he’eva khari kirottu kusheri lomi madi majava nagir navdi samana ulu vjellja volo

beloved; special name for partners in symbiotic relationship with their land long-necked ruminant long-eared, burrow-dwelling rodent outsider, stranger; non-Novigi bog-ripened berries deciduous, sap-bearing tree dear one; Lys and Tywyll’s nickname for Edor all-purpose curse cousin; catch-all kinship term small and fierce; Mèco’s nickname for Tywyll sweet; Mèco’s nickname for Lys flat-tailed, river-dwelling rodent lowest ebb in an amichu’s annual cycle canid predator traditional healer, teacher, and mediator between the visible and invisible worlds tool for throwing weighted projectiles from a cupped shaft brother; Lys and Tywyll’s nickname for each other giant, fast-growing, hollow-stemmed, woody grass

Almen terms dome Edor Salter taon turfing turvy ucha

fully enclosed settlement housing small populations of privileged Alm builder; name Mèco takes for himself upon leaving his dome member of quasi-military gangs that terrorize the taons human settlement outside the domes forcible ejection from a dome sod dwelling ungulent, domesticated for meat, milk, and wool



Servant of the Seasons 2 - Winter Copyright © 2008 by Lee Benoit ISBN: 978-1-60370-396-3, 1-60370-396-9 All rights reserved. No part of this eBook may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address Torquere Press, Inc., PO Box 2545, Round Rock, TX 78680 Printed in the United States of America. Torquere Press, Inc.: Single Shot electronic edition / May 2008 Torquere Press eBooks are published by Torquere Press, Inc., PO Box 2545, Round Rock, TX 78680


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