The ancestor chuckled again. ‘Perhaps it is time for the first children to end,’ it said. ‘What have the Tokob ever done with such a gift anyway? Shouldn’t the first children have educated those who came after? Shouldn’t we have shown them the balance so that they might live within it? No, perhaps falling to the Pechaqueh is best.’
Tayan’s spirit shuddered at the words. ‘Malel has a plan for us,’ he began, more harshly than anyone should ever address an ancestor.
‘And who is to say that that plan is not for us to end? For the Tokob to return to her womb and be reborn as a new tribe? Quitoban and Xentiban have both fallen during your lifetime – what have the Tokob done about that?’
The words sawed at the golden thread connecting Tayan’s spirit to his flesh, filling him with shame and regret. He had argued they help the Xentib, had begged the council of elders to listen, but his had been one of few voices. Now their selfishness was returning to haunt them. The Tokob had thought themselves so noble, so secure as the goddess’s firstborn, that they had ignored the plight of others. Anit was right; they should have been teachers and shamans and advisers. Perhaps the people of Pechacan would never have started down this bloodstained road if they’d taught them Malel’s wisdom from the beginning.
‘What of the Zellih, honoured ancestor?’ Tayan persisted, vaguely aware of the sting in his palm as he drummed, hard and relentless, its cadence showing none of the alarm he felt.
‘It is Ixachipan the Pechaqueh want, not mountainous Barazal and its scattered tribes. The Zellih know this and they have already refused you. Do not tempt them to anger by begging them again.’
‘They offered aid during the days you walked Malel’s skin,’ Tayan tried and Anit’s form swirled and blew apart, then coalesced a little darker, the motes within agitated.
‘They did. They do not now. Not even Malel can turn back the sun and make it those days again.’
‘And yet without Zellih aid, we will fall.’
Anit’s shade dissipated again, and this time re-formed directly in front of Tayan, close enough to touch. Its hands rose, clawlike, towards the golden thread of the shaman’s life. Tayan stepped hurriedly backwards. ‘Revered ancestor, how may we survive the storm to come?’ he tried for what he knew was the last time.
Anit was growing in size and density, preparing to fight for possession of Tayan’s flesh. Even more were gathering, drawn by the golden light of life until he was surrounded by swirling blackness. ‘How do we defeat the Empire of Songs?’ he shouted even as he backed further towards the gate. Ancestors blocked his advance up the spiral path – the way to Malel was closed to him.
‘Only a Pecha can defeat the Pechaqueh.’
Anit made a final lunge through the closing gate and Tayan turned and fled, racing back along the golden thread of his own being. In the flesh world, he raised the ancestor idol to his lips and licked it, not having enough saliva for more. ‘Honoured ancestor, I thank you for your guidance. Rest in your realm in peace and seek not to return to life.’ His voice was a croak but it held none of the bitter disappointment – or curdling fear – in his heart.
The thread of connection grew thicker as Tayan drummed the recall beat and his flesh urged him home. He fell into his body and was lost inside it for a time, overwhelmed with sensation, with everything pressing in on him, the weight of his flesh and the rush of blood in his ears. He panicked as he felt his chest move, ragged and too fast, before remembering what breathing was. He concentrated on his hands, one drumming, the other still clutching the idol, observing the sensations from a distance before making cautious contact with them.
Gradually, reluctantly, the spirit world sank back beneath the surface. Sound and sight and smell returned, the weight and presence and solidity of his flesh cocooning him, holding him safe. Smothering the great expanse of his spirit and crushing it down small and tight inside until it flowed into every line and curve and corner of his body. His spirit; not Anit’s. The drumbeat stuttered to a stop and Tayan placed the idol back on the blanket with a shaking hand, focusing in order to make his fingers unclench.
A figure appeared in the corner of his vision and although their movements were slow, Tayan flinched hard and then recognised Lilla. Familiar. Beloved. Husband. Lilla didn’t touch him, instead waiting for him to settle and reconnect with his body.
Thirst was a predator chewing at Tayan’s throat and he fumbled for the gourd; Lilla snatched it up and handed it to him. The shock of their fingers touching rocked Tayan, a contact he struggled to understand and one that wrenched a gasp and then a whimper from his throat. Still, he brought the gourd to his lips. The water was warm and washed the residue of the journey-magic from his mouth and throat, and by the time it was empty, he was almost himself again.
Lilla watched him with forced calm so as not to startle the spirit back out of him. The magic was weakening, but he could still feel his husband’s emotions as if they were his own. He rode them, focused on his breathing.
‘Only a Pecha can defeat the Pechaqueh,’ he said when he had remembered how to speak.
‘What does that mean?’
Tayan shrugged, his spirit sloshing within him, and then packed away his ritual tools with shaking hands. ‘It means I take the peace-weaving to Pechacan and try to convince them to end the war.’
Lilla argued hard once Tayan was able to think and move again, but even he couldn’t deny the logic and the truth of it. There were simply no other options. Someone had to go, and Tayan and Betsu had been appointed by their respective councils.
Tayan was stumbling by the time they got back downhill and into the city, twitches from the aftermath of the journey-magic in his eyelids and fingertips. Lilla wrapped an arm around his waist and supported him through the streets and home. Tayan glanced once at Xessa’s house, which was next to theirs, but there was no candlelight this late and as much as he wanted to see the friend of his heart, he was too exhausted to even think about waking her.
So they unpinned the door curtain and took off their sandals and slipped inside and Tayan headed straight for the long, low wooden-framed bed at the far end, stripping off his kilt and tunic as he went. It was lazy, but he didn’t even have the energy to wash the paint from his face or kneel to take a stoppered jar of water from the storage chamber beneath the floorboards.
Instead, he folded himself onto the bed with a long, heartfelt groan that had Lilla chuckling. The warrior padded around for a while without bothering to light a candle, swearing mildly as he tripped over Tayan’s discarded clothes. Floor mats rustled as they were dragged aside. The shaman smelt cool earth and heard the thump of the jar being lifted out and set down. He needed food and lots of water, but his eyelids were already heavy.
‘Come here, love,’ he breathed, holding out a hand to the darkness, and Lilla took it. Lilla would always take it. His husband forced Tayan to drink, more than he wanted but likely not as much as he needed, and then wrapped him in his arms and pressed kisses lighter than butterfly wings against his temple and hairline.
Tayan slept, smiling.
Dawn had broken before they woke, and mid-morning threatened to be upon them before they extricated themselves from each other’s hands and mouths and bodies, sticky with sweat and sweetly exhausted all over again. The council would be waiting for the results of Tayan’s journey, but he stubbornly refused to contemplate dragging himself out of bed. What he’d learnt was important, but in the golden light of morning it didn’t seem as urgent as it had last night. On balance, he was glad he’d got the journey out of the way and could spend a few more hours in bed. Or so he thought.