Child of a Dead God (8 page)
“You wish to learn their final destination?” Hkuan’duv asked.
“I wish for you to follow them . . . and acquire the object they seek.”
Hkuan’duv did not even ask what the object was. He merely waited, and Most Aged Father relayed what little he had learned from Sgäilsheilleache.
“If this artifact is truly as old as the humans’ Forgotten History, it cannot remain in their hands. It must come to us. Magiere may be the only one able to obtain it. I have come to accept that she is . . . unique, so you will wait until she has acquired it . . . before you take it.”
Most Aged Father hesitated, for the last of Hkuan’duv’s task might well seem counter to the will of the elders’ council.
“And when you have it, you will kill Magiere. For the safety of our people, no such abomination must ever be allowed to enter our land again. See that it is done.”
A flicker of puzzlement crossed Hkuan’duv’s lean features, and then it was gone.
Most Aged Father understood. This mission was too deceptively simple for a purpose given to a Greimasg’äh. Others among their caste were certainly capable of taking the artifact and dispatching Magiere, but Most Aged Father wanted one whose abilities—and loyalties—were unquestionable.
“I do not understand,” Hkuan’duv said flatly. “You wish me to follow this half-blood and human . . . to a castle somewhere in high mountains?”
“That is all I know, or all they claim to know of the destination. Follow, and do not let them see you until it is too late. I must see this artifact for myself.”
Most Aged Father raised a withered hand to halt any further questions.
“I will arrange extra eyes upon their ship. Her name is Avranvärd. She will have a word-wood capable of communication with your ship and report course changes, stops, or anything unexpected to you. Use her to plan your own course.”
Hkuan’duv frowned, his first true expression since entering. “I do not recognize her name.”
Most Aged Father hesitated. “No, she is not Anmaglâhk, though she has requested entrance to our caste. It would not be wise for one of ours to take this role. Avranvärd is a seafarer, and no one will question her presence aboard the ship carrying the humans.”
Using an an’Cróan outside their caste was unheard of, as was placing spies among their own people, but Most Aged Father saw no alternative.
“I would never ask this of you,” he said, “unless our people’s safety was at stake. Do what is necessary to bring this object to me. The Ancient Enemy is returning, and if this is one of its tools—”
“Of course,” Hkuan’duv interjected. “I understand my purpose.”
This was the response Most Aged Father expected, but still a relief to hear. Hkuan’duv was loyal beyond question, unlike the treacherous Brot’ân’duivé. Once he accepted a purpose, he fulfilled it, always.
“Be mindful in those you select to share your purpose,” Most Aged Father advised. “Choose only seasoned anmaglâhk. A skilled tracker familiar with the human territories south of us along the eastern coast. Perhaps an exceptional archer, and a third as you see fit.”
He stared blankly for a moment, trying to remember anyone of note among his caste currently in residence.
“I believe your last student, Dänvârfij, recently returned. Did she not eventually best you with the bow?”
Hkuan’duv’s eyes flickered strangely. “She is here?”
“I believe so. She would be a good choice.”
Hkuan’duv nodded curtly and turned to leave. “In silence and shadows, ” he said.
Most Aged Father dropped his head back into the moss lining of his bower. He rolled his gaze toward Juan’yâre, who sat absorbing all that had transpired.
“How quickly can you reach Ghoivne Ajhâjhe?” Most Aged Father asked.
“Quickly? It is eight days by barge.”
“But you are a swift runner,” Most Aged Father said pointedly. “If you traveled directly on foot, rarely stopping, how soon could you reach the coast?”
Juan’yâre dropped his gaze. “Traveling through the nights as well, I could reach the coast in five days . . . possibly less.”
“Good, I thought as much. Leave tonight. Locate Avranvärd and secure her services.”
Juan’yâre blinked. “You have not spoken to her already?”
Was he consciously attempting to be dim? He had been recommended on the grounds of being quick and clever—and he spoke five human tongues.
“No, not on this matter,” Most Aged Father answered. “Fortunately, she is already the steward on Magiere’s ship, which is why we need her now. I refused her entrance to our caste on the grounds that she is past a suitable age to begin training. Speak with her in private. Explain the purpose offered her, and how it might reflect . . . upon my reconsideration of her heart’s desire.”
“Promise her admittance?” Juan’yâre stood quickly. “Is that within my power?”
“It is within
my
power, and you speak for me!” Most Aged Father snapped. “Hkuan’duv cannot be seen, so he must have her eyes and ears. Promise Avranvärd what she wishes, and do not fail to acquire her service.”
my
power, and you speak for me!” Most Aged Father snapped. “Hkuan’duv cannot be seen, so he must have her eyes and ears. Promise Avranvärd what she wishes, and do not fail to acquire her service.”
Juan’yâre straightened. “I will not fail.”
Most Aged Father pointed toward the outer chamber. “In my private stores you will find a cedar box marked with the etching of a mast and sail. Inside is a word-wood from the ship Hkuan’duv will use. Give it to Avranvärd.”
Elven ships were older than any who walked upon their decks. Some as old as the forest’s great trees, for it took many years to create one. They outlasted any vessel sailing in human waters. Over the years, Most Aged Father had thoughtfully acquired many selected items, and most of his acquisitions eventually proved useful.
“Father,” Juan’yâre said with a bow, “I will report from Ghoivne Ajhâjhe as soon as I complete my task.”
Most Aged Father closed his weary eyes, hoping his new attendant could live up to his reputation.
By the dim light of a candle on the side table, Leesil lay awake in bed at the inn with Magiere shifting restlessly against him. She mumbled softly in fitful sleep, and he tried to remain still and not wake her.
After supper, he’d had to coax and goad her into returning to their room for rest. Unlike the elven forest’s depths, the city didn’t feed her with enough life to go without sleep. Still, she had slept little since their first night here, and she’d suffered too much for him in coming to this land.
Leesil relished once more sharing privacy with Magiere, but five nights had passed since Sgäile first pointed out their ship. Its crew still loaded cargo this day, and Magiere was losing patience. Her anxiousness to leave had grown to an obsession to head south. And Leesil’s concern for her disturbed him even more than a name that the ancestors—elven ghosts—had tried to force on him.
Léshiârelaohk.
The night he’d freed his mother, and led her back to Crijheäiche, he’d sent Magiere, Wynn, and Chap off to rest. He stood vigil outside Nein’a’s private tree dwelling, as she rested in her first night of freedom in long years.
And Brot’an came—that devious, manipulating butcher—leading an elderly elven woman in a maroon robe and matching cloak.
“Do you remember me?” she asked. “From the hearing before the council of clan elders?”
Her elven accent was a bit strong, but her Belaskian was surprisingly precise. Few elves but the Anmaglâhk spoke any human language.
“I am Tosân’leag,” she added, “an elder of the Ash River clan.”
Leesil nodded his recognition. She had stood among a clan of “scholars” upslope behind him at Magiere’s hearing. Taking Brot’an’s hand, Tosân’leag carefully kneeled down, studying Leesil’s face.
"Tell her what you saw at Roise Chârmune,” Brot’an said; "... the faces of the ancestors . . . what they said to you.”
Leesil had no interest in telling Brot’an anything, but the old woman reached out and touched the top of Leesil’s elongated ear. The movement was so startlingly quick for one so old that he didn’t pull away until too late. She shook her head with a sigh, as if dissatisfied with his ear, then nodded to him.
“Tell me what you saw and heard. I can help you understand.”
Leesil didn’t want to understand any of their superstitious nonsense. But she kept staring at him, studying him. Finally, he spoke just to put an end to all this.
“There was a woman . . . with scars down her left upper arm . . . and war daggers on a belt. Human ones, not elven. And she carried a short spear with a shaft of steel. Her hair and eyes were wild, and . . . she smiled at me.”
Tosân’leag’s brow wrinkled with disapproval, but she smiled as well.
“That was likely Hoil’lhân, whose name means ‘Bright Ray.’ She is thought to have been a great warrior . . . and possibly the first of the Anmaglâhk, long before the title was even used. Did she speak to you?”
“No,” Leesil answered, and his mind conjured images of other spirits he’d seen in a clearing around a naked ash tree. “A man spoke to me first, a tall warrior with a scar near his temple. Said his name was Snaw . . . Snaw-ha . . .”
“Snähacróe . . . ‘Threading the Needle’s Eye.’ ” And the old woman nodded as the light in her filmy eyes sharpened.
“There was another woman standing with him,” Leesil added, “dressed like you. The two stayed close together . . . and spoke the name they put on me.”
“That was Léshiâra,” Tosân’leag whispered. “She was a great healer and teacher, and eventually . . . what you would call ‘consort’ to Snähacróe. I knew you had seen her when I heard your name. She is believed to have been one of the last of the High Council in long-forgotten times. Her name means ‘Sorrow-Tear.’ ”
Even with Leesil’s weak comprehension of Elvish, he couldn’t miss how close the female ghost’s name was to the one she’d put on him.
Tosân’leag leaned slightly toward Leesil. “Your name means ‘Sorrow-Tear’s Champion’ . . . or ‘Savior’ . . . or close to that in human tongues. Do not forget this. Your name . . . you . . . have meaning to your people.”
Leesil shrank away from her.
These weren’t his people. He wanted to hear no more. He only wanted to stand vigil for his mother.
Tosân’leag raised a hand, and Brot’an assisted her up. Long after the pair had left Leesil in the dark, that name kept echoing in his head.
Léshiârelaohk—Sorrow-Tear’s Champion . . . savior.
If only it meant something else, something other than a half-veiled fate born of spirits and nonsense.
In the dimly lit room of the elven inn, Leesil pushed aside all these thoughts in the only way he knew how. He gazed down at the woman sleeping against his chest.
Magiere lay naked with her white hand upon his arm.
Leesil pushed back her thick black hair to see her beautiful face. She murmured more loudly and frowned in half-slumber. Though he wanted her to sleep when she could, he couldn’t help thinking of pleasant ways to wake her.
Magiere heaved a sudden breath, and her fingertips arched, digging into his arm.
“Youch . . . Magiere!”
She thrashed, rolling halfway over the bed’s edge before he locked his arms around her torso.
“Magiere, it’s all right. Wake up!”
Magiere twisted about, and her fingers dug into the straw mattress. She twitched, arching her back, and her irises flooded black. And when she saw Leesil, she quickly retreated down the bed.
The sight pained him.
She had taken so long to accept that her dhampir nature was no threat to him. When it became too strong for her, he was the only one she recognized, the only one she let near her. But somewhere deep inside, a part of her still feared harming him.
Leesil grabbed her forearms and pulled her back against himself. She was shivering, and her skin felt cold and clammy.
“You’re all right,” he whispered.
“I saw it again . . . ,” she hissed out. “The ice . . . the castle . . . we have to go south.”
Magiere’s eyes wandered until her gaze locked on the shuttered window across their room. She got up, pulling one blanket around herself, and Leesil didn’t try to stop her. She opened the shutters and leaned out, looking left.
Leesil knew she was staring at the harbored ship again, as she’d done a dozen times each day.
“When will we ever get out of here?” Magiere said.
“Soon,” Leesil answered, desperate to give her ease. “Sgäile said just a few more days.”
“I . . . we need to go,” she whispered, and hung her head.
Leesil came up behind her at the window, not knowing what else to say or do. He pressed against her back and slipped his arms around her waist, his hands sliding inside the blanket across the curves of hipbones and stomach.
Magiere straightened, hands tight on the sill. Then she leaned back, and he buried his face in her hair. He finally lifted his face as she rolled her head to the right, and he found her staring into the dark—but not toward the bay. Her lips parted in one soundless word.
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