Alluvial. Valos of Sonhadra Book 1

CHAPTER 10

PETRICHOR

I'm losing her. "Do not die," I order, even though I know she can't understand me. Her eyes pop open, and my heartstone flares next to her, which makes her sit up. This is good. She's still responsive despite the stresses placed on her by fear and the extreme effects of hunger.

Dimly registering the caress of the Sonhadra sky on my wings, I skirt the unfinished city, our Ruler's pride and joy once, and descend to our hometree. I'm gentle with her as I shift to my two-legged form; I don't want to drop my azibo.

My azibo. I have an azibo.

I look much like her now, though she is soft-skinned, whereas my skin is like packed loam, and might grow the occasional creeping vine and twisting twig. Sharing a similar appearance in shape does not comfort her, however.

She begins to struggle, and to counter it, I lock my arm around her, and carefully reach up to my shoulder to transfer the bird's nest to a nearby tree before it gets dislodged by her thrashing. I tug up a few small shrubs and drop them in front of it to act as a windblock should the weather take a turn in the night.

In the circle of my arms, my azibo falls still, which takes my attention off of nest cozying in order to access her condition.

She's looking at the bird.

I turn back to it too, but it seems fine. "Your mate will find you," I tell it and very carefully stroke my finger over its silky-feathered head.

My azibo makes a small noise, her eyes darting to mine when I look down at her in question. Slowly, I take her hand and bring it up so she too can pet the bird. Her fingers stay limp, her head turning to me in question until I demonstrate, and verbally explain, how carefully she should move.

She brings her forehead forward and widens her eyes, her strips of brow turf rising straight up. I get the sense that she knows how to pet a bird—she simply wasn't certain of my intention. I laugh. "My apologies."

Tentatively, she takes over, and when she's done, the bird seems confused about being touched by a stranger, but my azibo's anxiety about me is nearly extinguished.

I stare down at her. If petting small animals is reassuring, I can take her to meet all sorts; I begin to consider who best to introduce her to, and which ones have litters with young, because babies of all kinds are a joy to behold. My azibo shifts and the bonyness of the hip against my stomach makes me wince for her. Forget introductions; feeding first. I thought I'd wait for her husbandman to arrive, but she needs replenishing as quickly as possible.

"Pretty," she says as I open the intricately woven door at the base of our hometree. I ponder her expression—her word, not only her face—relieved that I am now able to understand her speech because she blooded me when she was injured on my heartstone. I don't know about the other valos in the land, but the Kahav gain their azibo's speech immediately, as a gift from our Ruler, who wanted our pairings successful.

After all, more families meant more workers.

She continues to appreciate the beauty of her new surroundings as I swiftly carry her through the maze of tunnels that make up our warren. Throughout this, she remains relaxed against me; trusting.

I almost breathe a sigh of relief, but when we arrive at my bed, I feel as if I'm very suddenly holding onto warm stone. Her trusting, relaxed manner has disappeared along with her interest in her surroundings. She's focused on me now, and from where I grip it in my hand, I spy my heartstone glowing like chastising fire in reaction to the betrayal she's feeling.

I set her down carefully, and I want to be relieved that she doesn't attempt escape, but seeing her resignation is no better a sight. Discontent fills my chest as I slowly and gently begin to work her odd coverings loose.

I stop when I see her skin begin to change pattern. I witnessed this when one of the land beasts of the area was stalking her. Like most beings that can conceal themselves into the background, they most often display this trait when they feel threatened or frightened.

I take her hand, and am further saddened when she doesn't so much as try to fight me. I can see that she is feeling weak and in this it's almost as if I can read her thoughts; resistance is futile, assault is inevitable.

I want to point out many things, starting with the fact that this must be done now because her husbandman did not feed her as he should have. Yet, casting blame on another husbandman seems like a terrible method of easing her misgivings—let alone the fact that doing so would be an inauspicious start in the extreme. "You need to feed," I try to explain.

Unfortunately, blooding my heartstone does not make it so that she can understand me. This was a common enough problem in the days when females were brought from other tribes. There would be a period of courting, in which we would learn about each other's language and cultures and it is unfortunate that we do not possess this luxury of time due to her condition.

I'm still uneasy and wondering how to explain when, with a startling swiftness, she returns to her natural coloration.

When she gives me a dull look and tugs on her hand, I let her go. She begins to remove her coverings herself, starting with her feet. I move back to give her more room. Her stoicism is admirable, but it is painful that she has to exercise it at all. I feel her unhappiness like sour notes from a still-green piper flute. This is all wrong.

"Here," I bring my heartstone to her lips. "At least we can complete this part properly."

I've seen her eyes dance playfully, I've seen her eyes turn heated with lust for her husbandman. I've seen her eyes go fierce before a battle.

Now the summer-warmed brown has turned muddy, and all of her has lost a luster. She's tolerating this, not welcoming it—me. It's turning our ceremony into something forced, and ugly, and without prolonging what should have been a joyous joining, I press my stone to her lips.

She doesn't react except to part them as if she's ready to take it into her mouth. With growing incertitude, I pull it back, and plug it into my chest.

A little bit of spark comes back to her person as great vines of ivy bloom and weave, and unravel across my skin, tiny crimson and vermilion flowers budding and unfurling right before her stunned eyes.

By her shock, she's never blooded a Kahav before, this much is obvious. I don't know what her husbandman's ceremony involves, but I know many valo have a heartstone that comes alive for their azibo.

Azibo.

I have an azibo.

I've dreamed of this day for so long, I've imagined how it would happen, and how beautiful it would be to twine together. To provide for her. Wanting just this one small aspect to match the scene I've often relished in my head, I lean in to press a kiss to her forehead.

She tips up her face in the last moment, and our lips touch instead.