Zhala
Zhala was dimly aware of Khaz as he finished his meeting with the charred human—Khyth, she corrected. Not human.
She reached out for his mind to see what he was seeing, hear what he was hearing. The darkness of her cave faded as she opened an eye inside her broodling’s mind, opening the floodgates of his senses as they came rushing in.
Khaz, she began, her words echoing in the male’s mind, tell me what you have learned.
As matriarch of her clan, she was inexorably linked with the minds of her broodlings, who were more like extensions of her body than autonomous individuals; when they had been torn from her to make new Chovathi broodlings, their mental link remained. Now it was like moving an arm or breathing: she merely had to shift her focus, and the body part did her bidding. With this came all their thoughts and sensations, like two diverging channels of water suddenly joining to make a river, chaotic and strong.
She was the river.
Khaz’s thoughts were chaotic, and he did not answer immediately. She tried again.
Khaz, she thought, come home. The thought made the male lurch. She was in his body now, and the sharp smell of blood clawed at her nostrils. She could see its cloud hanging in the air, see its trail leading back to the Khyth even as he retreated to Khala Val’ur. Even in the dark of night, blood was easy to follow; it was the strength of her people.
No, came the reply.
Khaz was moving through the rocky terrain close to their cave and was not about to stop for the sake of conversation. It was very much like him to do so.
Zhala smiled to herself. He was one of her favorites. She would never let him know, and she tried to keep the thought to herself, as she was afraid of the effect it would have on her other broodlings. His intelligence and willfulness had always struck her as particularly exceptional. Most broodlings were nothing more than mindless drones, happy to be inhabited by the mind of their matriarch when they needed it and content to go on clawing and slashing and eating and stalking when the matriarchs left.
But not Khaz. Khaz had a keen intelligence to him that had always fascinated Zhala. He had even been able to transcend the growls and clicks that most warriors used and had turned it into actual speech, guttural and rudimentary though it was.
Come home, she ordered again, feeling his hunger and knowing he would want to go hunting. You are needed.
She felt Khaz push back against her, feeling his hunger as her own. He was resisting.
No, he thought. Want hunt. Need food. He continued on his path away from the nest.
She had to admire his impetuousness. She could compel him to return, she knew, and he invariably would, but she decided to let him have his way. Letting the current of her consciousness split off from his, she began to slowly untangle their minds. Khaz’s thoughts and senses gradually disappeared from her own, in the same way that the light retreats from the sky when dusk descends. Now she was left with only the darkness of her own thoughts as the sharp smell of blood left her nostrils. The comfort of her cave came back fully to her as she felt its coolness blanket her once again.
She was determined to wait for Khaz to return, and then she would reward him. He was the agent of her will, and he was setting her plan in motion to take back the cities and caves from the humans and the Khyth. Once again, it would be the Chovathi who would rule these lands, as they had done for generations before the humans discovered their own hidden power from the one they called the Breaker.
But once again the Chovathi would rule, and the Xua’al would be their emissaries.
They would rule because they were strong and because they were patient. They had sharpened their claws and toughened their hides, strengthened their jaws and deepened their minds. When the other clans had first decided to mount their attack on Ghal Thurái, Zhala had felt it—she was only dimly linked with the other clan matriarchs, but linked nonetheless—and she had known they would be weak.
They would need help, but the Xua’al were ready for this war. They were ready, and Zhala knew it.
The thought quickened her pulse, and she found herself wishing that she had compelled Khaz to come home this instant. But she quelled the thought, knowing the anticipation would make it even sweeter.
Tonight she would reward him well: she would let him make another broodling.
The anticipation of the pain from Khaz sinking his claws into her and rending her body was almost too much to bear. She needed it. She closed her eyes and reached out for another of her broodlings. She needed the distraction.
Hurry, Khaz, she found herself saying as her mind drifted off, as the sharp smell of blood came rushing in like rain.