Twelve minutes. Arn figured it took him about that to walk from the gathering area back toward his new home. It felt like it took an hour. Though most of the village’s people were still there, finishing off their evening meals or playing games of cunning or reflex with one another, Arn found more than enough eyes on him, watching and analyzing him, to drag his twelve-minute walk into what felt like a short eternity. Let them look, he thought.
Arn moved with the gaunt of a graceful fighter, despite his many recovered wounds. His face, turning to look into the shadows at the wide eyes that watched him, consisted of more scar tissue than white skin. He was like a ghost to some of them, returned from certain death aboard the salty waves of the Deep.
“Arn, wait,” a woman’s voice called. Arn paused and turned back. It was Thalla. They’d only spoken once or twice since Arn had taken over the tribe. She’d asked about his wounds, and what he had seen on Scoa.
He’d told her the story, sparingly, and shared it more with those who gathered around his fire this evening for a meal. His brothers, Raal and Joroth, sat close, as did his sisters, Keeya and Ratha, but they were surrounded by people that had no relation to Arn. Logern and a few of his rather aged friends gathered to ask their own questions, but the crowd grew bored of dialogue about how Arn’s boat worked. They wanted to know about the tribe of spirits that Arn had survived and about the dangerous screechers. Some skeptics called him a liar, but he planted the shiny blade in the dirt ahead of his folded knees and asked them how to explain it.
When they asked for the story behind the blade, he’d shirked the question. “It’s a story for later,” he said. From words they knew, they coined a few new terms for it. They called the weapon a sword, and the material metal. It was irrefutable proof of what Arn had done, and a reminder of why he was their leader.
Now Thalla jogged to catch up with him, leaving the evening festivities behind. “I need to talk to you about something,” she said.
“Then talk,” he replied. The loose strings that composed the breathable surface of her tunic swayed as she hurried to match his pace. He’d seen her in proper, protective garb a few times for the hunt, but in the village she preferred something more comfortable. Arn himself wore a simple, sleeveless leather tunic.
She looked around, then shrugged. “I don’t want to be leader of the hunting band anymore.”
Arn’s footsteps stopped and he closed his eyes. When he opened them, he turned to regard her with an irritated glare. “You’re the only one of that lot that I can trust. Those hunters won’t be ruled by me.”
“You can beat them into submission,” she replied, biting her lip. “And you know it. I didn’t even join the hunters voluntarily—I did it to protect you.”
“And what’s changed?” Arn asked, striding onward up the hill.
“It wasn’t a permanent situation,” she murmured. She struggled to keep up. “I’m a craftswoman by heart.”
Arn shook his head. “Well, those aren’t your best skills. You’re better at killing things.”
“Still,” Thalla said. She slowed her pace as they neared Arn’s new hut, overlooking the village. He felt as though he could see all of Razaad from here, but at night he could only see the fires.
No, Arn nearly said. He didn’t have time to play a trust game with the hunters when Logern’s fishing band remained a constant threat. They’d done nothing to endanger Arn since his rise to power, but Arn would be a fool if he doubted their ill intents to him. “Give me some time to think about it,” he said.
Thalla pursed her lips and looked away, at the moon shining on the ocean waves beyond their isle. Scoa was out there, a dark smudge on the horizon staring back at Arn with all of its harsh, scarring fury. “Very well,” she said, nodding to him. She turned to go, smearing a trail in a particularly muddy patch underfoot.
“Thalla,” Arn said, before she left. She turned back to him. He could see the skin of her belly through the vine-like strands of her shirt, and he’d seen more of her many times before. But he’d never seen the parts of her currently hidden in a pair of tanned leather pants. “Before I left, you said you wouldn’t pursue an interest in someone you were sure would die. But I’m here, and I’m alive. Would you like to come in?”
She looked at him, with a blank, moonlit expression, and then looked at the leader’s hut behind him. Her mouth slowly sank into a frown. “I’m not certain,” she said.
Arn blinked. “What changed?”
“A lot, Arn,” she said, her voice faint. “You’re the leader now, and that’s dangerous. You’re fiercer too—you killed Stone Spear. And… your face isn’t…” she trailed off.
It stung. Arn closed his eyes, sadly and thought about what she had said. “Say it,” he said.
“Good,” she finished. Her face was sad, but why should it be? Arn thought. She took a step closer, reaching out for his arm. “I’m sorry, Arn. Give me some time.”
Arn shook his head and yanked his arm out of her touch. He would later regret it, losing that brief human contact. She would have been more descriptive, he was certain, if she had said what she first intended. He looked at her bitterly and shrugged. “Have a good evening,” he said.
A few minutes later, he sat in his hammock and slid his head into place at the top of it. He had trained himself, on Scoa, to sleep with one eye open, and the night’s hours crawled by before his eventual escape to the dreamworld.