Page 39 of The Cradle of Ice
He smiled at her. She was only eight—half his own age—but she had sprouted tall already, testament to her mixed Noorish blood. She remained all kelp-armed and skinny-legged. Her long dark hair, threaded with the green strands of her Panthean heritage, remained wild and unkempt. In another four or five years, those locks would be shorn to mark her maidenhood.
I’ll hate that day.
He combed fingers through his cropped hair, a match to his sister’s blend of ebon and ameryl. His bare chest was fuzzed the same, defying his prayers. He had tried shearing the humiliating growth off with the sharp edge of a shell, but mostly ended up slicing his skin. He had wanted to match the smooth skin of the other men, those of pure Panthean blood—not that it would’ve helped much.
He lifted his hand before his face, spreading his fingers, frustrated by their meager webbing. He dropped his arm and shook his head. Even his ears were too large, sticking out too wide and rising to the barest point. But he was not about to try clipping those. It had been easier when he was young, when his hair was longer, and he could mask the Noorish blood that ran through his veins. But some aspects could not be so easily hidden. Like the unmistakable shine of his blue eyes. Even his sister bore the ameryl eyes of their father, a pure Panthean, like most who lived in the Crèche.
He was happy for her, if not a little envious.
Henna finished gathering the shells and fought to drag the heavy net across the sand. He moved to help her. “We’re two leagues from home, Henna. At this pace, we won’t get there until the morrow.”
She scowled at him. “I can do it. I’m not a baby.” She freed an arm and pointed at the green froth of waves. “See to Neffa before she crawls out here and scrapes her belly on the rocks.”
His sister was right. He shouldn’t neglect his friend. He held out a palm toward Henna. “I’ll need one of those ablyin.”
She brightened, fished in the net, and threw a shell at him. Despite her determined attempt, it landed in the sand between them.
“Good try.”
“I meant it to go there.” She returned to hauling the net.
With a shake of his head, he crossed over and picked up the large shell. He reached to his belt and freed a steel dagger, one of his most prized possessions, gifted to him by his father when his hair was shorn of its childhood. He used the blade to shuck the ablyin open and tossed aside one shell. He balanced the other in his palm, exposing the meaty mollisk flesh. He took a moment to tweeze out a few spitworms that squirmed across its surface and cast them away.
Satisfied, he stepped back to the lapping waves.
Neffa had beached herself to the height of her withers. Still, it meant Daal had to wade waist-deep into the surf to reach her. His sealskin breeches, snugged tight to his thighs, had nearly dried, but Neffa awaited her reward.
Anticipating it, she bounced a bit on her forelegs, casting forth more waves from the winged webbing of her limbs. As he approached, he had to be careful of her spiral horn, lest it spear through him in her eagerness.
He reached and offered the open shell. Neffa leaned forward and gently lipped the treasure, slipping out a pink tongue to scoop the mollisk from its shell. Her sharp teeth gnashed it with a grunt of pleasure. Puffs of steamy mist expelled from the twin holes flanking her horn on top.
Daal smiled and slid a palm along her smooth gray cheek, using a finger to rub the folds around her right eye. “Who is the best orkso in all the sea?”
She rumbled deep. He mimicked the same, casting out the contented grumble back at her, letting her know how much he loved her. For a moment, as he did so, a wave of deeper sensations swept through him. Certainly, he smelled her wet hide, her humid exhalations, the fishy odor of her breath. But he also felt the rough sand under her soft belly, the pound of two hearts, one in the chest, the other near the tail. Even a deep well of her tenderness.
Startled, he stopped his warm grumble, and the sensations dissolved out of him.
Strange …
He wanted to dismiss it all as his pure fancy, manifested by his affection for her. He had grown up alongside Neffa, bonded at a young age to be partners in the waters. They had weathered storms, both out at sea and through the trials of his life. Over the years, he had inklings of similar impressions, but never this strongly. And it hadn’t been just Neffa. All the shoals of orksos responded to him like no one else in the Crèche, not even the Reef Farer, who led all the clans.
He took pride in this talent. While he might be teased, sometimes harshly, for his mixed blood, none faulted his ability with the orksos.
And not just with those grand creatures.
He swallowed, chasing away that thought, but not before he flashed to dark waters, being dragged down by Neffa during a hunt, his ankle tangled in a saddle loop, a shiver of Kell sharks diving upon them, then—
“No…” he gasped aloud.
Henna stopped tugging on the net. “Then you take it,” she said, misunderstanding his outburst.
Daal cleared his throat, blinking away the memory. “I … I’ll fetch the net in a moment.”
He waded to Neffa’s flank and loosened the neck straps to free a small leather saddle from her back. He flung its wet length over his shoulder and patted the orkso’s side. Neffa craned her head around and settled an eye on him. She wheezed out her concern with a sharp spurt from her nostrils.
He patted her again. “I’m fine. Now you get yourself back to the village. I’ll meet you at the pen. I might even have a couple more ablyin shells that don’t make it to the feast.”
She eyed him hard, silently exacting a promise for him to do just that. With a grunt, she shoved with her forelimbs and slid into the deeper waters. She tossed her head, sweeping her horn high, then dove away.
