Fragile petals broke beneath her grip. "Why did you just say that?"
Beram looked up from the small cauldron, his wide brow furrowed. "Watch what you're doing, Ihoni," he said impatiently, "those are--"
"I know what they are," she interrupted sharply. Nevertheless, she guiltily smoothed out the petals between her fingers. It didn't matter; a crease was a crease. It was no wonder Beram never let her handle more than peacebloom and liferoot. Bruised blooms affected the result. She frowned at the stains liferoot had left on her hands. "Why did you just say that Roshanar isn't a Skychaser?"
For a split second, bemusement filled Beram's light eyes. "I did not."
"You did," Ihoni said. "Just now, under your breath. Why would you say that?"
"If this is about his visit, I already told you," he sighed. His breath fanned at the flame beneath the cauldron. "He was here and gone; I had no time to summon anyone. You were afield."
"It's not about his visit. Why would you deny him his family?"
Bemusement faded to a scowl. He turned back to the cauldron, watching it closely as steam began to wisp in fragrant curls. This was a delicate process, one that it had taken Beram months to perfect. Everything had to be just right; if he lost it now, the result would be worse than useless.
Ihoni knew this, because he had told her never to even think about attempting it. She wasn't skilled enough.
"Leave it alone, Ihoni," her eldest brother finally said, and there was a note of finality in the command.
She dropped the peacebloom back into the basket and stood. "Beram, he's our brother, too. You can't--"
"I said leave it alone!" he roared. The rumble of his anger filled the tent, beat against Ihoni's frustration, and left her heart thudding against her chest. She moved back one step before she caught herself, and her eyes filled with tears.
She blinked them back before they fell. "You're not being fair," she whispered. She kicked over the basket at her feet. "You're not fair!" The younger Tauren fled the tent before she said anything worse. She was halfway down the steps before she changed her mind. She whirled, stalked back up towards the entrance, and threw open the flap. "And another thing," she said hotly. "I am not going to stand by while you belittle our brother."
Beram didn't look up, but she could see clearly the wince around his eyes as she placed a deliberate emphasis on the word. "You will do as you are told, Ihoni," he said quietly. His eyes didn't leave the cauldron, or the stirring ladle he used to separate the chaff from the liquid. "Our father's death was hard on you, but I have been lenient enough. Too lenient, perhaps. It is long past time you took your place among the shaman of the tribe."
Her fingers flexed, and despite herself, strayed to the totem that rested in a pouch at her hip.
His eyes flicked to hers, and held. Understanding lingered there, understanding and the love that Beram had always shown her, in his own way. He loved her. She loved him. But it was hard, sometimes, to remember that. She lifted her chin. "It is time to grow up," he continued, and there was no mistaking the calm, even assurance of his voice as he said it. She would grow up. She would do them proud. She would--
She would be a Skychaser the way he wanted her to be.
The way she didn't want to be. She withdrew the totem and looked at it, cradled in her hand. It was small, not nearly as long as Beram's, as Siln's or Tigor's. They were established, experienced. They had the training, the spirit. She had only this small beginning, this symbol of the spirits.
Beram seemed pleased as he bent again to the cauldron. "Tigor will take you in hand, sister. Siln and I have spoken of it, and it seems that he will be most suited to your nature. It is our hope, in fact, to see you married, although we shall not force this, of course. Tigor is a fine shaman, a strong warrior." He ladled out a mess of sodden petals and dropped them into a small basket, hitting the wood against the edge to dislodge the clinging pulp. "You and I must carry on father's--"
"Don't." Her voice was an emotional thing, low and shaking. "Don't you dare. Roshanar is out there, and you talk about him as if he didn't exist."
"Ihoni--"
She ignored the warning. "Well, he does exist, and I'm going to find him! You see if I don't!" She backed towards the tent flap, her heart beating wildly in her chest as she shaped her next words. "I'm leaving. I don't want to stay trapped in Thunder Bluff, I don't want to be married, and I don't want to be you." She flung out her hand, and the totem rolled across the ground to Beram's feet. It wobbled on its edges, pattered against the wooden floor, and then settled.
The silence was terrible.
With a sob, Ihoni whirled and ran. She took the steps two at a time, ran past the curious, concerned faces, and tore through the bluff until she found the tent where she lived with the other Skychasers. She said not a word to any of them, gathering her few things and shoving them into a rawhide pack. Quickly, before she lost her nerve, she slipped out the back and ran for the elevators.
Behind her, in the tent where the fragrance was as faint and delicate as a spirit's touch, Beram bent over the cauldron and silently counted out the seconds. At thirty, he removed the metal, poured it through a ribboned strain, and let the tiny seeds fall from his fingers to the flask. The scent vanished, leaving only a purple wisp of steam.
Tigor stepped through the flap and bent to right the overturned basket. "Where did Ihoni run so quickly?"
"To find Roshanar," Beram said mildly. The other Tauren could read nothing in either his face or voice. "There. This should serve our chieftain well." He stoppered the flask and carried it, gingerly, out of the tent. He didn't address the other shaman's wide-eyed surprise.
Tigor studied the tent, and in two strides, bent to pick up the discarded totem. Concern shaped his forehead as he frowned down at the piece of wood. "Beram," he sighed, knowing full well the elder shaman would never admit to anything. On the heels of the sigh came another stab of worry. "Ihoni."
The totem warmed in his palm, and he carefully tucked the piece of wood away. Maybe someday, he would have the opportunity to return it to the girl he viewed more as a young sister than any lifemate. For all the good it did him to say so to the hard-headed Beram. Maybe, when the wars ceased and the bloodshed quieted. When the tears and the anger had time to fade.
Time would tell. She would walk her own path for now.