I shrug. “Not deep enough to matter. It was my first fight with an irox. Not many fight them and win.”
“The woman helped,” Gren’ix creaks. “With the net. None of us would have thought of it. And she came away without a scratch. She has a warrior in her, my friends.”
Veret’ax grunts agreement. Then he glances past me. “She still sleeps?”
“She is awake. She’s taken an interest in boats. Small ones. I was hoping to find some food for her here. We should eat the old smoked splix before our huts are filled with the new.”
There’s no reply. A pause settles. It feels heavier than it should after someone mentions the splix.
Port’iz clears his throat. “We have been talking.”
“Really? I would never have guessed,” I deadpan.
“It is only talk,” he assures me. “But talk comes from questions.”
“What questions are these?” I ask, my voice going cold.
Veret’ax shifts his weight. “The woman. Callie.”
My jaw tightens. “That’s not a question.”
“She comes from the sky,” one of the others says. “From the Plood. Yes?”
“She didn’t choose that,” I snap. “She was taken against her will. And then… well, the Plood didn’t send her here.”
“Maybe not,” Port’iz agrees. “But she knows things. About her kind.”
I wait, having a pretty good idea what’s coming.
“Does she know where other women are?” a man asks. “Does she know if more will come?”
Port’iz raises a hand. “We don’t mean to offend you.”
I grab a mug from the table and fill it with juice. “You are doing well so far.”
Veret’ax looks up at me. “You have a woman. The rest of us do not. The Deep sees all things. It is strange that it would give so much to one man.”
“I didn’t ask for her,” I say. “She came to me on the beach, where the Deep gives us most things. I accepted what it gave me, as we are taught to do in this tribe.”
“That is the question,” Port’iz says gently. “Is she meant only for you?”
“She is not a tool to be passed around,” I snap.
“I did not say that,” he replies. “I saidmeantfor.”
Mek’tor steps forward. “If the Deep wished to bless the tribe, would it not bless all of us?”
Murmurs ripple through the group.
I take a breath. “The Deep gives storms and calm in the same season. It does not explain itself.”
Veret’ax frowns. “The captive speaks differently.”
Silence drops.
“The captive?” I say. “Who’s been talking to him?”
“He says the Deep balances its gifts,” Mek’tor continues with an apologetic smile. “That no man may hold more than his share without great cost.”
