Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 97459 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97459 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
I stare at him. That is seriously fucked up. “What about Noj’me?”
He huffs. “Noj’me the Attendant belongs to the oracle. It chose her. That is different.”
I wish I knew how it was different, but I don’t know how to ask. So I make sympathetic noises and wait for him to keep talking.
Tal’nef picks up a pebble from the sand, turning it over in one hand. “I…do not know how to talk to the females here. They mingle with the males and the sight of that fills me with fear, like they are courting danger. But there is no wall here, either. And when I walk past, there is no resonance song in my chest, so I do not know what to do.”
Oh, is all this moping about a woman? I wonder if there’s a particular one he’s got the hots for. “You talk to me,” I point out, gesturing at myself. “I’m a woman.”
“That is different.” He throws the pebble down.
My blood goes cold. Adrenaline prickles over my skin. Because I’m a clone? Because I don’t count? Because I’m not a real person?
Something in my silence must warn him. He glances over at me again and notices my expression. “I did not mean to insult. You are different because your khui already sings for R’jaal the Stranger. Of course I can talk to you.”
Oh.
Air floods back into my lungs and I feel like I can breathe again. Why am I like this? Why am I being such an idiot? I’m the only one with the problem. Of course Tal’nef doesn’t care that I’m a clone. He doesn’t even know what a clone is. I’m dragging my personal baggage all over the damn beach, thinking that he’s viewing me as half a person and in reality he’s viewing me as married and thus “safe.”
I want to tell him it’s all in his head. That he can talk to any woman he wants. That the only issues are in his mind. But the irony of it strikes me hard.
Perhaps I’m not the person to give him that talk after all. So I just pat him on the arm again and wonder if the other clones have struggled with their identity like I have or if I’m the only one with the massive hang-up.
Thirty-Two
R’JAAL
I told my sweet R’slind that I was going out hunting, but in truth, I am seeking advice from another in the tribe. I head towards the caves nearer to the mountains. While Tall Horn and Shadow Cat have their huts sprawled along the cliffs by the water, Strong Arm keeps to the other side of camp.
And in the midst of the Strong Arm huts, I find W’la and Gren.
It is strange that I do not speak to the male called Gren often. Of the males that arrived here with the females, T’hrand and V’dis are talkative and social. A’tar the dragon thinks he must be involved with everything. But Gren keeps to himself. He is a strong and capable hunter, but when not busy, he spends time with his mate and kit, or playing with the other children in the tribe.
Today, though, I seek him out. Because he is like my R’slind in that he was made in one of the flying caves. He does not have parents. He is a creation, like a tunic, or one of B’shit’s ugly pots. This is something I have struggled to understand, but I know it bothers R’slind a great deal. I remember that Gren and his mate had difficulty with resonance, and after days and days of matings, R’slind and I yet resonate. I need advice. Perhaps there is something I am doing wrong. Perhaps I am failing her with my lack of knowledge about mating. Perhaps there is a trick, or a certain way to mate that will ensure resonance, and so I will ask Gren to make certain there is nothing overlooked.
I find Gren behind his hut, skinning a dvisti. His small son is “helping” his father, chewing on one of the ribs as a snack while Gren runs a claw along the creature’s flesh, separating the hide from the meat. They both look up at me, and I am struck at how they wear the same expression.
“Ho. I come for advice. May we speak?”
Gren nods. When his son reaches for another rib with sticky hands, he patiently moves the kit aside and snaps another rib off, offering it to Shade. “Do not tell your mother,” he murmurs. “She will think you have ruined your midday meal.”
Shade grins, displaying tiny fangs. He takes another enthusiastic bite of meat from the rib and watches me, chewing. Like his father, he is fuzzy all over with gray fur. It is thicker over his chest and neck and his lower limbs and reminds me of one of the other newcomers I have seen—the one with catlike features. Shade takes almost entirely after his father—I see none of W’la in him. Perhaps the eyes.