by Barb Hendee
Sgaile had refrained from asking, no matter how the question nagged him. It would be viewed as interrogation. Gaining trust from Leshil was far more important-and Leshil had shown trust in relinquishing his weapons.
The last thing Sgaile had wanted was to force the issue in a fight between Leshil and his own Anmaglahk. It would have ended in bloodshed, perhaps on both sides, and this was not what Most Aged Father requested. So he allowed Leshil time to travel with him and hopefully trust in his word. He had waited until the last possible moment to ask for those weapons.
No blood was spilled, though entering among his people had been far more dangerous than Sgaile had imagined. He had thought only the humans would rouse anger and fear among his people.
En’nish had nearly cost him everything. And when Urhkarasiferin dismissed her from his tutelage, she fled in shame.
The revelation of Eillean's remains-or rather the way it had occurred-nearly ruined all Sgailes silent efforts. What little trust he had gained from Leshil had been shaken.
Then there was the majay-hi. The one the humans forced a name upon-perhaps the one who had found a way through the mountains.
One of the old ones… the first ones… imbued by the Fay.
Sgaile knew the first time he looked upon the dog from a distant rooftop in Bela. It was why he had stayed his arrow from killing Leshil.
Awareness of the Spirit side of existence was not shared by many of his people. Those born with it, as he had been, most often became Shapers or Makers. Humans would call them "thaumaturges," a grotesque term for humans who worked magics of the physical side of existence. In Sgailes youth, his grandfather encouraged him to follow the way of Shapers, whose careful ministrations guided trees and other living things into domiciles, or encouraged the healing of the sick and injured. He had not the patience for it, and no interest in the Makers arts of imbuing and fashioning inert materials, such as stone and metal and harvested wood. His heart turned toward a greater calling.
Anmaglahk.
His own Spirit awareness did not fade as it did in many who went untrained. It stayed with him through the years. He could feel the power of Spirit within the trees and flowers of the forest, if he stopped long enough to focus. What he sensed within the creature that ran beside the half-blood was so strong he knew it without effort.
No majay-hi had ever been seen outside elven lands. And none born in generations had left Sgaile so stricken upon first sight.
And such a one had joined Leshil.
Sgaile could not fathom why, but it was not to be ignored. It had meaning, even if he could not immediately understand.
He grew calm, more focused.
Among his people there were twenty-seven clans. People were born into one, and sometimes bonded-married-into another. Then there was the Anmaglahk. Not a clan, but a caste of protectors among the people, they followed a founder from the ancient days. No one was born an anmaglahk, and not all who sought admittance were accepted.
Sgaile had never doubted where he belonged. Never doubted he would walk in a life of service.
His breaths deepened, grew even. He lifted the word-wood to place it against the pine's bark and closed his eyes.
"Father?" he whispered, and then waited.
Most Aged Father's voice entered his thoughts. Sgailsheilleache.
"I am here, Father, at the prime enclave of my clan. We are on our way to Crijheaiche."
And Leshil comes willingly?
"Yes…" He did not wish Most Aged Father to know that he was troubled. "And two human companions. He would not come without them."
They are of no concern.
"Our welcome here… was worse than I anticipated. The presence of the humans… or even human blood did not sit well. And another matter that worsened the-"
That is of no consequence. Bring Leshil to me. But perhaps keep clear of our people when possible. Yes?
"Yes, Father."
Sgaile hesitated, wondering if he should say more…
The short human female understood all their words. The white-skinned one had strange black hair that simmered like fire-coals in the sun. Leshil carried the remains of the great Eillean. And they all traveled with a majay-hi like no other-except in the oldest of tales, remembered only in fables for children.
"Soon, Father," he said.
He hesitated once more. He would not call it doubt, as there was no place for such in anything that he did.
"In silence and in shadows," he added respectfully, and lifted the word-wood from the pine, stood up, and turned back toward the village.
Chap's restlessness grew with the dusk. Time spent with Gleann and Leanal-ham over dinner had gone quickly, and he found them pleasant.Perhaps trustworthy enough that his charges might sleep safely for the night. Leanal-ham brought him a rich broth with portioned chunks of roasted rabbit, and he licked the bowl clean.
Gleann's voice carried from beyond a curtained doorway at the rear of the main room.
"No, it is a natural hot spring guided through earth channels by our
Makers.It can be closed off, like this. When finished, lift the center stone in the bottom. The water will drain slowly away and nourish our oak."
"Makers?" Magiere asked, with her usual bite of suspicion.
A moment followed before Gleann answered. "Let us leave that until you are clean and comfortable."
Chap worried Magiere might aggravate their unusually friendly host. He trotted over and poked his head through the shimmering wool curtain.
He had seen bathing rooms before. Not all domicile trees had such. The enclave where he was born had warm springs nearby in the forest. Raspberry and ivy vines were nurtured into dividers, providinga half dozen private spaces there.
In this small room was something akin to a tub hollowed out of the moss and earth floor. It was lined in polished black stones tightly fitted together. Sunk into the mossy floor next to the tub was a helmet-sized metal basin. Its lip met with the tub's edge via a shallow trough the width of a paw.
Wynn took hold of a wide metal peg standing upright in the basin's center. When she pulled it, steaming water welled in the basin. As it reached the lip, it spilled through the trough into the tub.
"A miracle," she said smiling.
"It may be too hot," Gleann warned. "Mix in the cooler rainwater we keep in those vessels."
At the far wall sat several cask-sized containers. But these were solid wood, with smooth grain and round edges, not slats held together with iron bands. Each appeared molded from one piece of wood.
Gleann gestured to a pile of russet and yellow clothing on a ledge. "Dress when you arefinished, and I will show you where to rest for the night."
He headed for the doorway, glancing at Chap as he passed through the curtain.
Magiere inspected the clothing with uncertainty, but Wynn pulled off her cloak.
"Magiere… what did Urhkar say before he released you?"
"It was in Droevinkan," she answered. "He said stop resisting… that I had to help Sgaile with Leesil."
"Urhkar speaks Droevinkan?"
"Too well," Magiere added, "for what's happening in my homeland."
Wynn didn't reply, but Chap understood where her thoughts wandered.
In the Warlands, two Anmaglahk-Brot'an'duive and the deceased Groyt'ashia-had come to assassinate Darmouth in a time of unrest.Before this, in Soladran, he and Wynn had heard word that civil war erupted in Droevinka. In turn, Magiere feared for the life of her aunt Bieja, who still lived there. And so Magiere and Wynn wondered about an elf who spoke Droevinkan fluently-as didChap.
But it was impossible that Urhkar had gone there and returned before Chap and his charges found their way here. Still, there were other Anmaglahk to consider.
Wynn stopped short of popping the first button of her old short-robe and frowned at Chap.
"Get out," she said.
Chap backed out with a snort. She had little left to hide after this long journey together.
In the outer room, Gleann collected polished wood bowls and platters from the felt mat where they had all gathered to eat. Leesil sat against the wall next to the chest. The bundled skulls were gone, so he had likely returned them to the vessel. He had remained silent during supper, shifting uncomfortably under Leanalham's furtive glances. The girl was nowhere about, though Chap wondered at the existence of another mixed-blood besides Leesil.
The outer door's curtain lifted, and Sgaile entered. He paused, looking at Chap.
Chap twitched his jowl, though he tried to remain the courteous guest in this home. Sgaile dropped to one knee, giving Chap a start.
The man's eyes held quiet sadness.
Chap had tried in the passing days to catch any memory surfacing within Sgaile, but he had gleaned little. This one did not dwell often on even the very recent past, but an image flashed briefly before Chap's awareness. As if Chap himself reached out with a "hand" to the trunk of a young pine tree. He heard the word "Father."
Chap tried to grasp Sgaile's passing memory for more of the conversation, but it faded.
"Your companions should stay inside," Sgaile said to him, and it was easier to understand than the dialect that Wynn spoke. "You are free to go where you wish, as all majay-hi do."
Sgaile stood up and pulled back the doorway's wool curtain. Chap looked uncertainly to Leesil.
"They will be safe here," Sgaile said.
A part of Chap wanted to go, to lope through the forest of his youth and all it offered to soothe his senses.
"Don't be long," Leesil said.
Chap trusted Sgaile's word, but not his purpose. He crept past the an-maglahk with a low rumble, and loped outside among the elven dwellings.
Most of the people had retired and only a thin line of smoke drifted up from the communal oven. A howl drifted in from a distance. Chap gazed out into the forest beyond the domicile trees.
He hungered for soft earth beneath his paws and wild grass whipping his legs as he ran.
All of Leesil's grief, Magiere's anger and doubt, and even little Wynn's fears were too much at times. Uncertainty wore upon him, for he no longer saw what the future might bring for any of them. If only he could put down his burdens and forget for a little while, but he could not afford one instant of thoughtlessness. He was alone.
Where were his kin? Why so silent? Why not chide him again, if he acted now in spite of their disapproval?
Memory of existence among the Fay had faded over the years. Perhaps it had never been complete at all. The flesh he wore could not house the wide awareness he had shared with them. But flesh had its advantages, or so he believed.
Chap's instinct cried out that Most Aged Father was poisonous, and Leesil should not be allowed anywhere near him. And yet… how else could they find and free Nein'a?
Leesil would not turn from this purpose. And if truth be told, neither could Chap.
He stepped between the house trees, hearing voices within, and cleared the last one to stand upon the fringe of the wild. The eerie cry came again, closer this time. A shimmer darted through the trees. And then another.
Two majay-hi burst from the brush and stopped at the sight of him. Both were dark steel gray with crystalline eyes, so alike in look they were nearly twins. One whined and then both darted back into the underbrush.
Chap took a few steps.
They spoke in memories. He had caught such the first day the pack circled in at the silver deer's call.
Was their way of communing… communicating… where his own memory play came from? Was this, mingled with his born-Fay essence, what gave him such ability? Could they give him one memory notso dark and heavy as his own?
A piece of night moved beneath a shaggy old cedar, and a pair of eyes glittered at him.
The grizzled pack elder took shape as he stepped out. Other majay-hi circled among the trees, and with them came a flash of white. She turned around a bramble and stopped, one forepaw poised above the ground as she looked at Chap.
Wynn had called the female's color that of a lily. The light touch of yellow in the female's eyes reminded Chap of the pistils of that flower.
She came close and sniffed his nose, and her own scent was laced with rich earth and damp leaves. Chap felt her nose trace up along his shoulder, his neck, below his ear. Then her head pressed in against the side of his.
A silver female shining in moonlight flashed in his mind.
A mother… the white female showed him a memory of her mother.
Chap recalled running with his siblings on the moss of an elven clearing.
Another memory not his own flashed. Cubs wrestled over who could stay atop an old downed tree, half-covered in lichen that flaked under their tumbling little bodies.
She had heard his memory, and answered in kind.
To speak like this without effort, to share memory instead of only seeing those of others…It was as if he found his voice for the first time and heard those of others after a lifetime in silence.
Chap had never known this as a pup. Perhaps he had not stayed long enough to learn it before Eillean took him away to a young Leesil. Maybe it was a skill, like human speech, that came with maturity. His thoughts rushed to memories of Nein'a and her half-elven son trapped within the city ofVenjetz.
The white female pulled back. She knew nothing of human cities and ways, and the image must have been unsettling. He whined and licked her face.
She did not appear disturbed. She yipped at him, wheeled about, and bolted partway into the forest. She stopped, looking back.
Chap released all but the earth beneath his paws and the rich scent of her fur and followed.
The dreamer rolled in slumber. Within his dream, wind rushed over his body and ripped at his dark cloak. He flew high over rocky cliffs painted in snow and ice.
He had never traveled like this before in his slumber.
In a deep canyon valley between mountain ridges like teeth rested a six-towered castle. Each of the tall towers was topped with a conical spire fringed with a curtain of ice suspended from its roof's lower edge. He wanted to pass over its outer wall and reach the courtyard, but did not. Instead, he lighted upon the crusted snow outside and sank deep as it broke beneath his feet.
Twin gates of ornate iron curls joined together at their high tops in an arched point. Mottled with rust, the gates were still sound in their place. Far beyond them, the castle's matching iron doors waited atop a wide cascade of stone steps.
Something moved upon those steps.
At first she seemed dressed in form-fitting white, with hair as cleanly black. As she took a first step down the stairs, it was clear she was naked. A shadow appeared to flutter above her right shoulder. It coalesced into a raven, which rustled its wings as it settled next to her head.
Her face was so pale it was almost translucent around strangely shaped eyes that…
The image vanished.
The dreamer stood in a stone hall with shelves all around filled with scrolls, books, and bound sheaves. Upon a table of gray-aged woodlay a black feather quill next to a squat bottle half-filled with ink.
At the hall's far end, another set of heavy doors were sealed shut with a solid iron beam too massive to lift.
The dreamer lost his aching hunger. His body desired nothing.
It is here… his patron whispered all aroundhim, though he saw no massive coils of black scales…the orb… the sister of the dead will lead you.
He was wrenched from sleep and back into the cold world of the awakened.
"No!"
Welstiel's eyes opened fully to find Chane crouched within the tent, staring, his narrow face intense.
The sister of the dead will lead you.
A bitter promise.Welstiel had heard it one too many times.
"What's wrong?" Chane asked. "Why are you shouting?"
Welstiel sat up without answering.
They had ridden night after night, and their mounts grew thin and slow from dwindling grain. He feared
that soon they would be on foot and wished to get every last step from the horses before the beasts collapsed and died.
"Pack up," he said.
Lingering bitterness faded. His patron showed him much more than ever before, but again in small pieces that did not quite fit together. He had seen an inhabitant of the fortress-perhaps one of the ancients? And he had felt the calm from the close presence of what he sought.
Welstiel's hunger to feed had died in that place within his dream, and now his hunger for what he sought grew in its place. So why did he feel so bitter upon waking?
The sister of the dead will lead you.
Magiere was the crux. Whatever his patron showed him, it was never quite enough to be certain of his destination-and always with the reminder that Magiere was necessary. Yet she was far off on another deviation with Leesil. Welstiel would find a time and place to bring her back under his control.
He smoothed his dark hair back. He would have to trust in his patron but also in himself, and practice a mix of effort and reserve. He stepped out as Chane began pulling down the tent.
"Why were you shouting?" Chane asked again. "You have never shouted quite like that before."
Welstiel's suspicion rose. "What do you mean?"
"You talk in your dormancy."
Welstiel remained passive, hiding anxiety. How long had this gone on, and why did Chane choose this moment to reveal such?
"What do you hear while I am dormant?"
"Nothing comprehensible, but never such an outcry." Chane became hesitant and changed the subject. "I wish to continue my lessons in Numanese as we ride."
Chane finished saddling his bony horse and swung up.
Welstiel followed suit. "Where did we leave off? I believe it was the common irregular verbs in past tense."
"Yes."
Lessons continued as they rode, but Welstiel's thoughts drifted often to the icebound castle, to the new scroll-filled hall, and to the calm stillness he had felt as he looked upon the iron-barred doors.
He started from his wandering thoughts, as he thought he heard a whisper on the cold wind.
The sister of the dead will lead you.
Chapter Six