life's but a walking shadow
Quietly Indra listened as the Ilati elder spoke, his mind seeming to drift between place and time with every crackle of the flames. So much of what he said made little sense to her, though whether this was due to confusion on his part, or a lack of context on hers, she could not say. Here and there, reason glinted through the rambling chaos of his speech, and she could see that there was wisdom buried there, the profits of a long and difficult life.
And then he would lose his thread again, drifting off to sleep or loosing the fetor of his bowels. Indra held her breath and did her best to maintain a neutral expression. She could not guess at how old the elder was—Turhan, he had called himself—or what sort of man truly lay hidden beneath the wild, matted mane and filthy, painted hide. She did not doubt that he could be a valuable teacher, if one had the patience to learn from him, and she wondered again about Atatu, and what their relationship might be.
Atreus was gibing the elder in a way that suggested to Indra that they two, at least, were well acquainted, despite the younger stallion’s disavowal of any particular Ilati clan. She had been watching his work as they conversed—crushing flowers, boiling a draught—and had concluded that he was an herbalist. Now she narrowed her eyes, frowning at the contents of his pot. “That is not a healing remedy,” she observed. “Foxglove induces seizures.” Her golden eyes flicked to his, startled comprehension widening them ever so slightly. “You are a poisoner.”
But Turhan was speaking again, his words directed at her. She turned politely back toward him, expecting more of his unsteady digressions, but his words struck her unexpectedly to her core. You are new again. Yes, that was it, wasn’t it? This world that she had once known… It had changed, somehow. The stars were different; the Ilati were different. She was not sure, yet, in what way, but she would find out.
It was almost dizzying, to hear such insight from lips that were crusted still with the remains of some insect he had plucked from the tangle of his mane. With an effort Indra turned again to the poison master. “It would be wise,” she agreed, “to see what is unfolding. We do not want to be caught unawares by some untoward development.” She flicked an ear, her old restlessness stirring again inside of her. She had no appointments, no cause for hurry, and yet she got the feeling that she had tarried here at their fireside long enough. “What is your destination? Do you camp tonight, or continue on?”
i n d r a
@Turhan @
