Child of a Dead God

by Barb

  Sgäile remained silent and stern. Avranvärd turned and ran.

  He had no patience left for hero worship or shattered illusions. Perhaps now he understood why Brot’ân’duivé and other caste elders so often shied from the people. An’Cróan saw their protectors in the garb of the Anmaglâhk, but they knew little of what that life required.

  And now he, too, was left in ignorance.

  Sgäile had tried to ignore the growing animosity between Most Aged Father and Brot’ân’duivé. It seemed both had expectations for his current purpose—and neither had fully related these to him. He did not know who to trust, and this left him reeling.

  All Anmaglâhk must trust in each other, or their people would suffer from the discord.

  He scanned the beach, spotting the hkomas near the hidden skiffs. The man must still be wondering why two anmaglâhk would abandon a stranded crew for humans and a half-blood. But Sgäile had no time for guilt-driven explanations, as he headed over.

  “Your steward is more traumatized by the death of your ship than the rest of your crew,” he began. “Keep her close, and be certain she remains under watch for a few days.”

  The hkomas studied him and then slowly turned sad eyes to the empty sea.

  "I never thought to see any Päirvänean, who blessed my clan, murdered by humans. Yes, Avranvärd is young, and such a loss might be worse for her . . . I will watch over her.”

  Sgäile nodded with gratitude and walked back toward the campfire, but the exchange did nothing to ease his mind.

  Magiere and Léshil had finished repacking and stood talking quietly. Léshil had suffered only minor scorches on his face and hands. In all other respects, he was well enough, but Sgäile remembered the state of Magiere’s gloves. She no longer wore them.

  Her bare hands were pale and unblemished—with no sign of burns.

  Sgäile looked up quickly at her face, but she did not seem to notice. Dressed in breeches, hauberk, and coat, she hefted one pack.

  “Can we get started?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said, still staring at her.

  Magiere returned her habitual scowl. “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  A tall elven sailor hurried upslope, stopping in front of Sgäile.

  “The hkomas says you go south . . . with the humans.” And before Sgäile could respond, the sailor pulled off his thick cloak and held it out. “Take this and my gloves. I will not need them, as our people will come for us.”

  The cloak was deep brown, not dark shifting green-gray. Sgäile’s exhaustion mounted at this sacrifice. The sailor did not know him; the man saw only a revered member of the Anmaglâhk.

  “I cannot.”

  “Please,” the man said. “Do me this honor.”

  Sgäile almost flinched. His thoughts slipped once to a strange lesson his own jeóin, his teacher, had once told him.

  What are we beyond how our people see us?

  Young and ignorant, and still full of awe for his teacher, Sgäile had been unable to think of an answer. Years later, he overheard Brot’ân’duivé reiterate this lesson to a handful of new caste initiates, all still years away from seeking out their own jeóin.

  We are more, we are less, Brot’ân’duivé admonished, and we are nothing but silence and shadow. All we can do is accept their hope in us with the humility it deserves.

  This was the truth behind the litany of Anmaglâhk—in silence and in shadows.

  To serve, and not to place oneself above or below that service, no matter what shape or form it took. To be the silence of peace that surrounds duty, and the one who guards it from within the shadows.

  Sgäile slowly reached out and grasped the cloak and gloves. “Thank you.”

  The sailor smiled with great relief and headed back for the beach. But the man’s reverent act of kindness left Sgäile more burdened—more uncertain.

  He wanted to slip away with his word-wood and speak to Most Aged Father, to somehow understand the patriarch’s sudden lack of faith in him. Then he thought on Brot’ân’duivé’s silent scheming and the Chein’âs’s gifts given to Léshil—Léshiârelaohk, so named by the ancestors. And a majay-hì, like those of ancient times, had thrown itself into the lives of a half-blood and a pale monster of a woman.

  Stretched between too many paths, Sgäile had to choose one to follow.

  “Are we going or not?” Magiere demanded.

  Sgäile turned toward the beach. “Chap, it is time!”

  Not long ago, the thought of calling a sacred majay-hì by a personal name would have shocked him.

  Chap loped upslope, looking over Magiere and Léshil as Wynn and Osha joined them as well. The majay-hì glanced at the cookfires burning along the beach, where the crew prepared a good catch of clams. He released a groaning whine.

  “We will find breakfast along the way,” Sgäile assured him.

  Chap grumbled and trotted off, and Magiere followed. As Léshil stepped in behind her, Sgäile noticed the tips of the Chein’âs’s winged blades peeking from his pack. Léshil’s continued discomfort regarding the weapons was clear.

  “May I wear your old blades?” Sgäile asked cautiously. “The new ones should take their place, and you will walk more easily with less weight.”

  Léshil cast a narrow-eyed glance over one shoulder. “Why don’t you wear the new ones?”

  It was more of a challenge than a question.

  “I could not.” Sgäile shook his head. “They were given to you.”

  “Oh, just do it, already!” Magiere snapped at Léshil. “You’re the one who insisted I accept the dagger.”

  “They don’t fit my sheaths,” Léshil argued.

  “I can make alterations,” Sgäile countered, “while we walk.”

  For all the bitter ire in Magiere’s voice, none showed on her face as she looked intently at Léshil.

  “They’re only weapons—nothing more,” she said. “You choose what to do with them.”

  “Fine!” Léshil growled and dropped his pack. He jerked the tie straps of his old blades, pulled the gifted ones from his pack, and thrust both sets at Sgäile.

  Sgäile took them, and Léshil hoisted his pack and pushed past Magiere after Chap.

  Sgäile slipped Léshil’s old blades from their sheaths. He handed both sets of blades to Osha, and, as they walked along the shore, he drew a stiletto and began altering the sheaths.

  As he worked, he pondered this next leg of their journey—born not from hope but determination. He was tired of Magiere’s and Léshil’s ill-mannered petulance. Their mood proved infectious, and Sgäile grumbled under his breath as he cut leather.

  By midday, Hkuan’duv was pacing the deck.

  Avranvärd had not contacted him at dawn, and he had called for anchor, not knowing how far ahead the other ship might be. Soon his concern gave way to open worry.

  Dänvârfij leaned with one hip against the rail-wall, watching him. “Can you not contact her instead?”

  “No . . . I cannot risk revealing her presence, even to that ship’s hkœda and hkomas.”

  “Then cease stomping on the Päirvänean’s back,” she said. “You will disturb it.”

  He glared at her calm face, her skin like tea tinted with goat’s milk. “Something is wrong.”

  “I know we cannot be seen,” she returned, “but neither can we lose track of their ship.”

  “Inform the hkomas,” he said. “But make certain our pace is cautious.”

  Dänvârfij pushed off the rail-wall and headed for the aftcastle.

  Hkuan’duv turned his gaze down the coast, feeling trapped by the constraints of his purpose. He was not accustomed to hiding from his people or those of his own caste.

  Kurhkâge emerged from the hatch below the forecastle, followed by A’harhk’nis. As always, the latter appeared deceptively spindly in his oversized cloak. Kurhkâge fixed his one eye upon Hkuan’duv.

  “We are moving,” he said. “Have you received communication?”


  Hkuan’duv shook his head. “We must attempt to locate the ship ourselves.”

  Dänvârfij rejoined them, and all four headed up to the bow, scanning the waters ahead. Several crew members glanced at them, but no one spoke. The hkomas’s strained voice rose in orders to his crew.

  A’harhk’nis looked up into the rigging. “I should relieve the lookout and watch for myself.”

  His voice was so quiet that it was difficult to hear, but Hkuan’duv agreed. “Yes. Good.”

  A’harhk’nis stepped upon the rail-wall, snatched the rope ladder to the mainmast, and clambered upward.

  His sharp eyes might be no better than those of a seasoned crewman, but should they close too quickly upon the other ship, Hkuan’duv felt more secure in A’harhk’nis’s judgment. But as the day wore on, no word came from above.

  “What if the girl was discovered?” Kurhkâge asked. “What would Sgäilsheilleache do?”

  Hkuan’duv turned away from the prow, not wanting to answer. Indeed, what would he himself do if one of his own caste were sent to spy on him? He did not wish to even think about it. He must focus on his purpose, for the sake of his people.

  “Greimasg’äh!” A’harhk’nis called from high above. “Look to the beach!”

  Hkuan’duv turned to lean upon the shoreward rail-wall.

  Even at this distance, their hair glowed in the afternoon sun. Tall figures moved up the coastline and became distinct as they approached. He realized he was looking at an an’Cróan ship’s crew, but why were they ashore, and where was their Päirvänean?

  “Are there outsiders with them?” Hkuan’duv called up.

  “No . . . I see only an’Cróan.”

  Amid the captain’s call and the crew’s shouts, they began preparing a skiff. Several people onshore saw the oncoming ship. They waved their arms and cloaks in the air.

  Hkuan’duv leaped down the forecastle stairs, closing on the skiff being lowered over the side.

  “A’harhk’nis, come down,” he shouted.

  He scanned the sea, but saw no sign of the other Päirvänean. What had become of Sgäilsheilleache, Osha . . . and the humans?

  As the ship came to anchor, Hkuan’duv stepped to the rail-wall gate, taking up the skiff’s anchoring line. The hkomas rushed in and jerked it from his hand.

  “This is no longer your concern,” he said. “Our people are stranded. They take precedence over this pursuit of yours.”

  Hkuan’duv almost let anger get the better of him. But the hkomas was correct, his harsh tone justified, and who could blame him? Anmaglâhk had taken polite control of his vessel, and they trailed their own people like a pack of skulking Ylladon.

  “I must know what happened,” Hkuan’duv explained, “and as quickly as possible.”

  “Then you are welcome to accompany my crew, Greimasg’äh.”

  The hkomas’s hard words clearly implied who was now in charge.

  “You may ask your questions,” the hkomas added, “so long as you do not impinge upon the well-being of those left stranded.”

  Hkuan’duv nodded slowly. He gestured to his team to wait on board and descended quickly into the skiff.

  As the small boat closed upon the shore, two of the exhausted land-bound crew waded out to guide it in. Hkuan’duv saw burns and other injuries among those stranded, and the knot in his stomach tightened. He counted heads, and by a quick estimate, a fourth of a standard cargo vessel crew was missing. A middle-aged man in a brown head scarf came closer. His face and arm were badly burned.

  “Anmaglâhk?” he breathed in surprise. “How did you reach us so quickly? Did Sgäilsheilleache send word?”

  “You are the hkomas?” Hkuan’duv asked. “Where is your ship? Where is Sgäilsheilleache?”

  The questions sounded cold even to Hkuan’duv.

  “We came upon and pursued a Ylladon ship, after hearing of a settlement raid.” His voice faltered. “They turned on us with no regard for their own vessel . . . and burned the Päirvänean.”

  Hkuan’duv blinked in chilled disbelief.

  “Our hkœda sent a swimmer,” the hkomas added. “Which sent the Ylladon to bottom.”

  “You had swimmers on a cargo vessel?” Hkuan’duv asked, and then waved off the question before the hkomas answered. “What of Sgäilsheilleache?”

  The hkomas scowled, not expecting this exchange. “He left with the humans and a majay-hì, traveling south along the coast.”

  “On foot?”

  “Yes, on foot,” the man snapped. “How else?”

  Shame flooded Hkuan’duv as he looked at the pinched, burned faces and frightened eyes of his people. Their ship had been murdered and a fourth of them with it, while he had sat waiting beyond the horizon for Avranvärd. She must have died in the battle, or she would have called him.

  “You have my sorrow,” he whispered and meant it. “We will take everyone aboard and get them home.”

  The hkomas closed his eyes and nodded.

  The skiff was loaded first with those with the worst injuries. Hkuan’duv waded into the surf as two more skiffs arrived. He pulled one ashore and began helping his people climb in. As the last boarded, Hkuan’duv reached out and touched the hkomas’s hand.

  “I have others of my caste on board. Please tell them I wait here, and to bring all of our gear. Tell them to ask the ship’s crew for as much white canvas or cloth as they can spare. Safe journey and peace to you.”

  The hkomas nodded. “And to you . . . wherever you walk now.”

  Hkuan’duv stood alone upon the shore, watching the skiffs rock through the surf toward the ship. Or was he alone?

  He cocked his head at footsteps coming along the beach behind him.

  The sound faltered several times in a fumbling attempt at silence. He did not turn until he knew this amateur skulker was within reach, and then he found himself facing a girl with a thick braid and oversized boots.

  “I am Avranvärd,” she said quietly.

  Hkuan’duv suppressed his surprise.

  “Why did you not board with your crew?” he demanded.

  After an instant of her own shock, she replied, “I belong with you—”

  “Why did you not contact me?”

  “It all happened too quickly,” she rushed on, her voice pained. “I was on deck amid the fire and could not abandon my duties to send word. I . . . I tried to help . . . but everything was burning.”

  Hkuan’duv breathed out through his mouth. This child was not to blame. She was not Anmaglâhk and never should have been placed in this role.

  “It is all right,” he said. “You followed your duty. No one would expect otherwise.”

  He waited as Avranvärd regained her composure.

  “Can you tell me more of what happened?” he asked.

  She sniffed and began recalling bits and pieces of the marauder vessel’s first sighting—and the strange behavior of Magiere and the majay-hì. She told of the an’Cróan woman dangled over the side of the Ylladon ship, cut loose to drown, and how Sgäilsheilleache had jumped overboard to go after her. Beyond these details, events had become too chaotic for the girl to follow as she recounted trying to put out the flames consuming the ship.

  Hkuan’duv listened silently with patience.

  “But on the beach,” Avranvärd added in the end, “Sgäilsheilleache abandoned us! I told him who I was . . . that Most Aged Father sent me . . . but he refused me and left with those humans.”

  Hkuan’duv’s lips parted in brief hesitation. “You did not tell him of my presence?”

  She straightened. “Of course not. My purpose was to watch and report to you, and nothing more. But now I am cut off.”

  “Do not be concerned. Join your crew, and you will be home again soon.”

  Avranvärd stared at him, and her young features went slack. “But . . . I am with you. I did just as Most Aged Father asked me.”

  Hkuan’duv was uncertain how to respond. What had this girl been promised?

&
nbsp; “I must travel quickly,” he explained. “My team and I go south. You must return with the ship.”

  “No!” she nearly shouted. “I am to be Anmaglâhk! Most Aged Father promised. I will help you track Léshil and the humans.”

  Hkuan’duv had no intention of explaining the skills required, ones Avranvärd did not possess. Yet, for all she had done and all she had been through, he pitied her.

  This selfish, defiant young woman would never be accepted as an initiate. Her spirit was entirely unsuitable. How could Most Aged Father promise such to someone who did not possess the necessary potential? But that lie was all Hkuan’duv had left to save Avranvärd from herself.

  “If you are Anmaglâhk,” he said sternly, “you will follow the request of your caste elder. Join your crew and return to Ghoivne Ajhâjhe.”

  “No!” she cried angrily. Then she cringed, looking at him—not unlike an obstinate child second-guessing her outburst.

  “Should I escort you to the ship?” he asked.

  Avranvärd’s lips rolled inward, clenched tightly, but her eyes began to glisten. Before one tear could fall, she turned away and dropped to her haunches upon the rocky beach.

  Hkuan’duv remained silent, even as the skiff turned from the distant ship and headed back for shore with his comrades. In part, he regretted any ill feelings toward this girl, who had fed him information in the pursuit of his purpose. But kindness was not always a kindness. In the end, any solace he offered would only sting Avranvärd more.

  A’harhk’nis, Kurhkâge, and Dänvârfij jumped into the surf and pulled the skiff ashore.

  Avranvärd remained as still and quiet as a small stone on the beach. As Hkuan’duv’s companions joined him with their gear, the girl finally climbed into the skiff. The two crewmen pushed the boat back into the surf.

  Hkuan’duv faltered, calling out before he thought better of it. “In silence and in shadows . . . Avranvärd.”

  She did not turn to acknowledge him.

  “What was that about?” Dänvârfij asked, gazing after the girl.

  “Nothing,” he answered.

  This was the first lie he had ever told Dänvârfij. He had been asked to track—and perhaps betray—members of his own caste, including the honorable Sgäilsheilleache. Now Most Aged Father had made false promises to an immature girl. It was obvious that Avranvärd had been denied admittance to the caste once before. Why else would she have been offered this odd purpose, and cling to it in frantic desperation?