Khosa falls over, a complete calm taking her. Never in her life as she known such stillness, and she revels in it, her own heart slowing with the release, the need to move finally gone. And then, as she would give herself over to the feeling, deep in her womb, she feels a tiny kick. She cries out, this time for joy, wrapping her arms around her belly. Tears flow, cleaning the last of her curse from her face just as a foot settles next to her.
Khosa looks up, gasping as the sun cuts into her vision. “Dara?”
“No,” the Indiri woman says, bending low to help Khosa to her feet. “I am Oppwa, daughter of Yur.”
Khosa wipes her hand on her skirts as Vincent breaks through the trees to find her, losing his feet from underneath him at the sight of the Indiri.
“I am Khosa, daughter of Sona,” she says, and Oppwa’s brow furrows.
“I do not know your mother.”
“You wouldn’t,” Vincent says, wiping dirt from his arms as he extends his hand. “We come from Stille.”
“Stille,” Oppwa repeats, a smile spreading. “Finally.”
CHAPTER 110
Ank
The beach is littered with Pietra and Stillean, Feneen and Hygodean, and the descendants of Harta, who found this place long ago, along with the Indiri who traveled with him. From my perch I cannot tell who is who, all of them only people at this height.
At high tide I watched three Tangata ride in, clinging to a stripped log. They came on land, shook seawater from their coats, and stalked off, unconcerned. I should have called for Hadduk, had one of his spada soldiers take them down before they can make many and more, the children of the people that stand on the beach below frightened by tales of cats in the night.
Yet I cannot, and I watch as the tide erases their prints, and wish them safety. An oderbird flew in shortly after, long neck wobbly in exhaustion, a few more coming in its wake. I uncork the bottle in my pocket, releasing the ninpops I had caught on the beach before abandoning Stille.
It will be different.
But this will be home.
Epilogue
Khosa sits on the beach, her belly heavy with child, the tip of a quill on her tongue. The scroll she labors over is unrolled at her feet, an emerging map of her home being cast in dark lines of her making.
“Mother!” The small voice brings her to her feet in alarm, but her face lights when she sees her small son, speckled and sure-footed, picking his way through the rocks to her side.
“What is it, Darrill?”
“I’ve found a . . . a . . .”
“Breathe,” she reminds him, laughing at the sight of his freckles bunched together in confusion as he tries to find the word.
“It’s a . . . Tangata cat.”
“A Tangata? Surely not.” Khosa pulls her son to her skirts and a dagger from the folds of her dress.
“It is,” he insists. “I asked my ancestors, and that’s what Da said.”
“He would know,” Khosa says grimly, pulling their belongings into a bundle.
“That’s what he called it,” Darrill goes on. “Aunt Dara said it’s a filthy bit of blood and fluff, made to rot and piss on.”
Khosa eyes her son over the scroll in her arms. “What other words have you learned from your Aunt Dara?”
Darrill’s eyes go wide. “We should be getting back, I suppose.”
“Changing the subject,” Khosa notes. “That you learned from Ank.”
“He’s a wise man,” Darrill says, taking her hand as they walk along the shore. “Though I think not as wise as the Burnt King, who is also good and brave.”
Khosa smiles down at Darrill, pleased that Vincent has made such an impression on her son. “He is,” she agrees. “That is why I married him.”
The sun is setting as they get close to the village, a few lines of smoke rising from the homes of those who want to take the edge off the newly chilled evenings.
“When can we go into the sea, Mother?” Darrill asks, swinging Khosa’s arm along with his.
“Once I’ve brought your little sister or brother into this world,” she promises, hand rounding her belly. “And once I’ve learned to swim, so that I may show you.”
Darrill stops his mother, closing his eyes in the last light of dusk. His lips move as he soars through his ancestors’ memories, Khosa’s quick mind combined with Donil’s blood to give him the ability to delve deeply into his ancestors in the breath of a moment. His eyes open, bright as his hair against the darkness of his spots.
“You don’t need to show me, Mother. I already know how.”
Khosa leans into him, her forehead against his.
“Then, my son, you shall teach me.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This book was the most difficult I’ve written, by far. With a large supporting cast and deeply structured world, I had a reference sheet beside me at all times for people, places, plants, and animals—to say nothing of the many twisting motivations and changing emotional landscapes.
Many thanks to my editor, Ari Lewin, for helping make sure that nothing and no one slipped through any cracks. As always, thanks is due to my agent, Adriann Ranta Zurhellen, who rolls rather amicably with whatever I throw at her next, even if it does sometimes come with something resembling a glossary attached.
Critique partners are priceless in my world, and for this one I’ve got to thank the indefatigable R. C. Lewis, who turns around even the most unwieldy manuscripts almost overnight, with excellent insight.
Lastly, humblest thanks to my friends and family, who fend off all the questions about what really goes on inside my head. They don’t have a better idea than anyone else, but they’re much more game about putting up with it.
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Mindy McGinnis, Given to the Earth
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