The Tia's head felt hot, as though the sun were bearing down on him. He looked up at the roof of the tent, and his face burned. There was no light. The fire seemed to be inside of him. He flicked his wrist and the stone tied there flickered, full of sparks eager for release. If he were wise he'd wait until the morning, when he, K'ada, and the other firedancers would bless the migration, and there release the fire pent up inside him.
The ambivalence of his guilt and callousness was like a kiln behind his eyes, shaken when he shifted on his injured leg, spilling fire down his neck. He rubbed his face with on hand, dirty from a day spent in the desert. "And what about you, K'piru? You're not our only shaman, but you're the shaman to many of us. I won't be looking for K'eyrah when my leg starts acting up. I'll be looking for you."
The ambivalence of his guilt and callousness was like a kiln behind his eyes, shaken when he shifted on his injured leg, spilling fire down his neck. He rubbed his face with on hand, dirty from a day spent in the desert. "And what about you, K'piru? You're not our only shaman, but you're the shaman to many of us. I won't be looking for K'eyrah when my leg starts acting up. I'll be looking for you."
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