My gaze traveled to Olikea’s face. Firada’s words were like rainfall on dry ground. They pattered against my senses and only slowly soaked into my brain. The Gernian in me pushed his way to the front of my mind, commanding me to pay attention to what was going on. Olikea had rescued me. I’d lain where I’d fallen, in the sunlight. She’d been burned when she had to emerge from the forest to drag me back into its shelter. Speck skin was notoriously sensitive to light and heat. She’d risked herself. For me.
And she wasn’t sure I was worth it. Nevare the Gernian was inclined to bow his head to that and watch her walk away, without too many regrets. I had once believed that Olikea was genuinely infatuated with me, to the point of feeling guilty that her feelings were so much deeper than my own. To hear that Firada believed Olikea cared for me only as a way to gain power put everything in a very different light. I was not a prize bull to be groomed and exhibited as a possession. I still had my pride.
But the Speck part of me perceived things from a very different angle. A Great Man not only needed a feeder, he was entitled to one. I was a Great Man of the Specks, and Olikea’s kin-clan should have felt honored that I had chosen to live among them. For Olikea to decide that she did not relish her duty was a grave insult to me as well as a threat to my well-being. Anger upwelled in me, an anger founded deep in a Speck awareness of the affront to me. Was I not a Great One? Had not I given up everything to become a vessel for the magic? What right had she to begrudge me the assistance that most would have found an honor?
A peculiar tingling ran over me from head to foot, not unlike the pins-and-needles sensation of a limb that has been still too long. From somewhere in me, Soldier’s Boy summoned strength and sat me up. My Speck self, so long subjugated by my Gernian identity, looked around with disdain. Then, as if he were pulling off a sweaty shirt, he peeled himself free of me. In that instant, he separated us and I, Nevare the Gernian, abruptly became a bystander observing my own life. He looked down at his wasted body, at the empty folds of skin where once a wealth of magic had been stored. I felt his disgust with me. Nevare had wasted his magic, wasted it in a temporary solution that saved no one and nothing. He lifted the empty ripples of belly skin and then let them fall with a small groan of dismay. All the magic he had stolen from the Plainsfolk at the Dancing Spindle, all the magic he had acquired since then and painstakingly hoarded, gone! All of it foolishly squandered in a vain show of power. A fortune had been traded for trinkets. He lifted the folds of his depleted belly and then let them fall again. Tears of rage stung his eyes, followed by a flush of shame. He had been immense with magic, full of power, and stupidity had wasted it all. He gritted his teeth at his diminished status. He looked like a starved man, a weakling who could not even provide for himself, let alone shelter his kin-clan. That wastrel Nevare knew nothing of being a Great Man, nothing of magic. He had not even chosen his feeder well, but had simply accepted the first woman who offered herself. That, at least, could be quickly mended. He lifted his eyes to stare sternly at Olikea.
“You are not my feeder.”
Olikea, Jodoli, and Firada were staring at him in amazement, the sort of amazement that would be roused by a stone speaking. Olikea’s mouth opened in shock and a parade of emotions passed over her face. Insult, shock, regret, and anger all vied to dominate her features.
As Nevare, I watched the drama unfold before me as an audience rather than a participant. I could hear and see, but I could not speak or control the body I inhabited. I was aware of his thoughts. Could I influence them? I could not find in myself the ambition to try. My Speck self’s devastation at how I had wasted our magic drained me of purpose. Let him deal with the unreasonable demands of the magic and see if he could do any better!
I watched with sour amusement as Olikea tried to master her face. She strained to look concerned rather than insulted. Olikea had never heard this man speak to her in such tones before. It angered her, but she tried for a calm voice. “But, Soldier’s Boy, you are weak. You need—”
“I need food!” he snapped. “Not useless talk and whining complaints. Food. A true feeder would have seen to my needs first and saved rebukes and complaints for later.” Within the wasted body, I moved like a shadow behind Soldier’s Boy. My Speck self submerged me in his interpretation of the world. I surrendered and became still. Olikea glanced sideways at her sister and Jodoli. She hated being humiliated before them. She squared her shoulders and tried a firm and motherly approach. “You are hungry and weak. Look at what you have done to yourself. Now is no time to be difficult, Soldier’s Boy. Stop saying silly things and let me tend to you. You are not yourself right now.”
