Traitor to the Blood

by J. C.

  Chane froze behind the tree.

  It was not a parchment, but the page of a book. He saw it clearly now. When she turned the next page, Chane saw lines of faded writing on the yellowed paper, stained with age.

  Hunger's ache reminded him they were only mortal cattle, breeding and toiling, and living out their short existence in such ignorance that their deaths were no loss to the world. No loss at all, but…

  The girl was reading.

  Chane clenched his teeth. Where and how had this peasant whelp become literate? As he was, as Wynn was?

  "Skulking?" someone whispered behind him.

  Chane turned, ready to satisfy himself with whatever fool had managed to catch him unaware. A few paces into the woods, the shadowed silhouette of Welstiel stepped from between the tree trunks.

  "How did you get out?" Chane rasped.

  "Most likely the same way you did."

  There was something akin to defeat in Welstiel's voice.

  "What's wrong?" Chane asked.

  Welstiel gazed toward the city gates. "It is probable that Magiere still follows Leesil into the elven territory."

  Chane did not care, but he had nowhere else to go. "Then we find our horses and a way to retrieve our possessions, and we follow—as always."

  "We cannot."

  "Why?"

  "She and her companions can enter that land. She travels with a half-elf and a majay-hi. We do not. If we tried to enter, we would fail. The dead cannot walk in to those lands."

  Chane stood there, absorbing his companion's words. There were too many times Welstiel revealed knowledge and awareness of things only when it suited him. Chane was growing very tired of this.

  "And we cannot reenter the city," Welstiel continued. "Now that Darmouth has been assassinated, there is no telling how long before the gates will be unsealed, if at all."

  "Our money, clothing, my bird… my books are still inside!" Chane rasped at him. "We have no horses. We have nothing, and now you tell me we cannot follow Wynn… Magiere any longer? There has to be a way to get to the inn."

  Welstiel shook his head. "Omasta knows my face, and yours will be remembered as well. I have coins with me, and we will find horses and make our way."

  Chane could scarcely believe Welstiel's calm demeanor. "To where?"

  Welstiel looked him in the face. "The Crown Range. I have my own notion of where to look, and for the moment there is nothing more to be done with Magiere. If we find the location of the object I seek, we may better drive her to it once she finishes this nonsense with Leesil. She will have to pass through the mountains again when she leaves the elven lands. If we cannot follow Magiere, we must wait and make her come to us."

  Chane leaned back against the tree.

  Wynn would go north with Magiere to play interpreter, a human thrown in among elves who despised her kind. Welstiel had once again bungled his attempt to control Magiere, and once again Wynn walked a hazardous road. This time Chane could not follow.

  "Leesil will protect her," Welstiel said, guessing his thoughts. "I believe he has much to answer for. He will look out for her, as will Magiere."

  Such sentiment was unexpected—and unwanted—but Chane saw no choice but to follow his companion yet again. Sooner or later he would make Welstiel answer many questions… answer for the way he played with Wynn's well-being.

  And Chane had not forgotten Welstiel's slumbering mumbles. To never feed again.

  If whatever Welstiel sought possessed such power, Chane now wished to pursue it as well. Once this journey ended, Welstiel was to write him letters of introduction to a sage's guild. In the smallest part of Chane's mind, he imagined Wynn might yet…

  He shook his head. Such a possibility was far from his reach, if he ever came within its grasp at all.

  "We should find horses," Chane whispered.

  Welstiel nodded and turned away. Before Chane followed, he looked back once through the low branches at the peasant girl reading an old book.

  * * * *

  Two evenings later, Leesil drove the wagon into the courtyard of Lord Geyren's stone manor. A soldier, or perhaps just a house guard, greeted

  Hedí politely. He looked a little surprised at how she traveled and the company she kept.

  Magiere sat beside Leesil, their shabby clothing badly in need of washing. The wagon was packed with chests and blankets and canvas tarps. Korey sat on one chest, her curly hair in a tangle. She wore one of Hedí's wool gowns and Wynn's sheepskin coat—both too large—and struggled to keep her hands free for the apple she munched. Wynn huddled with Chap upon a pile of canvas. She had donned breeches and her short robe but also wore Chane's cloak, much too large for her small frame, and it hung about her like a blanket.

  Leesil remained quiet for most of the journey. His throat ached, and hurt worse when he tried to speak, but this wasn't the reason for his silence. Wynn and the others were unaware of how Darmouth had truly died. Magiere had told no one.

  "My lady," the guard said to Hedí. "I am at your service. Lord Geyren sent word that you would come."

  No matter what the man thought of Hedí's ragtag arrival, he treated them all as guests. Servants unpacked their chests and took Port and Imp to a stable. The guard led the weary travelers inside the manor. Hedí put her arms around Korey. She did not look at Leesil or acknowledge his presence as she turned to the guard.

  "We would prefer food brought to our rooms," she said. "We are tired, and my young charge needs rest. Please put the two of us in the same room."

  The guard nodded.

  Hedí had decided it would be too much for Korey to learn of her parents' fate along the road. Now she asked for time alone with the girl. Or perhaps she didn't care to eat with the man who had destroyed her loved ones, her family. Leesil felt sorrow for Korey, but at least she would have a place with Hedí and her baron, Emêl.

  Chap and Wynn were shown to a room on the second floor, and a servant opened up a thick wooden door across the hall for Leesil and Magiere. Leesil carried in their travel chest and set it down at the foot of the bed.

  A plush carpet covered the stone floor between a cushioned chair and dresser with polished brass handles. The painting on the far wall showed sun-drenched mountains in the early dawn. On the bed, large enough for three, was a cream comforter decorated with lace fringe.

  Magiere settled a smaller chest upon the one Leesil had set down. She walked around the bed's side and brushed the comforter with her fingertips. She stood there, staring blankly at it, as if uncertain she could trust such luxury.

  Leesil opened the small chest, one that Emêl had emptied of other possessions and given to him. Within, carefully padded with a blanket, were the skulls of his father and a grandmother he'd never known.

  His mother was still alive, and right now the thought brought him no relief. He touched his father's skull, and looked at that of his grandmother. Chap had called her Eillean. She had been an elder of the Anmaglâhk.

  Civil war now spread through Droevinka. A bitter and weary fear of the same had been spoken by the tall captain of Soladran at the border of Stravina. And now the Warlands would begin to burn with it.

  He had sparked that last fire himself in one moment of overwhelming anguish.

  Chap hadn't said as much, with Wynn and the others present, but it now became clear to Leesil just the same.

  Though he had opposed his mother's caste, in the end, he had served their purpose.

  Leesil's gaze shifted back to the skull of his father as Magiere stepped in behind him.

  "My mother will want to bury him herself," he whispered. "If we can find her… get to her."

  Magiere's hand brushed his shoulder quickly and then the touch was gone. "Let's get your boots off."

  This was the role she'd adopted over the past days—politely detached caretaker. He stood up and went to sit on the bed, taking off his cloak and boots. As he pulled the shirt over his head, he shuddered. It smelled terrible. Hopefully they'd have time to
wash their belongings before heading into the mountains.

  Magiere sat down beside him, pulling off her own boots. A dried bloodstain covered the rip near one shoulder of her shirt.

  "We'll find her, Leesil. We'll start tomorrow."

  He nodded without speaking.

  "Lie down," Magiere said quietly.

  Leesil lay back, watching her pull loose the leather thong that held her black hair back. He saw the stain on her shirt under her other arm.

  She let the thong drop, not seeming to care where it fell, and shook her hair loose across her back. There was too little light in the room to spark its red depths.

  Magiere remained faced away for so long that Leesil wondered if a father was all that he'd lost… if opposing his mother's people was not the only betrayal he'd committed in coming home. She turned so suddenly that he didn't see her pale face as she lay down next to him on her side. In another moment she slowly reached her arm across his chest.

  He was barely able to put his hand atop hers, fearing how she might react.

  "Are you all right?" he asked.

  She slid her hand up to his shoulder, pulling herself closer, until her face pressed into his hair and cheek. Her answer was long in coming.

  "We will be," she whispered.

  Epilogue

  Aoishenis-Ahare—Most Aged Father—felt the call of Brot'an'duive from within the massive oak in which he rested. The tree had lived almost as long as him and was the eldest in the great forest.

  He rested his aged body and too-long-extended life in a bower formed of living wood within the tree.

  In the earliest days, the tree's hollow had been carefully nurtured to fulfill his future needs. He had lived so long that even the clans' elders no longer remembered the scant tales of where he had come from or why he had led his followers into seclusion in this far corner of the world. Wise in the way of the trees, he no longer walked among his people. His body clung to life only by the efforts of the great forest that sustained him through this ancient oak.

  Through the tree's roots, touching others within his people's land, he reached out with his awareness to wander and watch within the elven forest. He heard and spoke with his Anmaglâhk in other lands as well, whenever they placed smooth slivers of "word wood" taken from his own oak against any living tree.

  He listened now, considering each word until Brot'an'duive had finished, then answered.

  I am pleased. Come home.

  The human warlord, Darmouth, was dead and his province left unprotected. Bit by bit, the humans turned on one another, and in the decades to come, the bloodshed would mount.

  Most Aged Father sighed with relief, his breath a thin trickle between his shriveled lips.

  He would protect his people. The ancient enemy grew stronger, turning in its slumber. He felt it in the earth, in the air, and the whisper of the trees. It would return one day, but it would not have the human hordes it had used the last time. He would see to this.

  Not all that Brot'an'duive told him was good. Another of the Anmaglâhk had passed into the earth, and tonight the people would mourn in the proper ways. But Brot'an'duive's last words had been the most disturbing and left Most Aged Father uncertain.

  He let his awareness weave through the roots and branches and leaves of the forest until coming to a glade. There sat a woman of the people, alone and isolated. The forest had been told she was never to leave this place.

  Humans found her alluring, and this served her. Her own kind called her beautiful as well, even those few who had seen the scars of claws on her back. White-blond hair hung loose around her tall, lithe frame where she sat against the trunk of an elm. Her large amber eyes were hard, and her triangular caramel face was void of emotion. She stared out into the forest, not even knowing she was watched.

  Most Aged Father knew her sorrows, but his sympathy was smothered by her treachery. Even now, he was not certain of all she had done, let alone why.

  Each dawn, one of the Anmaglâhk brought her food and clear spring-water. The glade was kept warm and dry by sentinel trees. Clothing or simple amenities were provided to her as needed. Beside her was a basket of butterfly cocoons with which she whiled away her days making shimmering sheot'a cloth. She wore a cloud-white wrap of the fabric, fashioned by her own hands, rather than give anything she made to her people.

  Most Aged Father spoke to her, using the chatter of leaves in a light breeze for a voice.

  Cuirin'nen'a…

  She sat upright. Almond-shaped eyes narrowed with spite, as she searched the trees to find where the voice came from.

  Your traitor son comes home.

  About the Author

  Barb and J.C. Hendee live just outside of Boulder, Colorado, close to the Rocky Mountains.

  He teaches English for the Metropolitan State College of Denver, and she teaches for the University of Colorado at Denver.

  Barb's short fiction has appeared in numerous genre magazines and anthologies. She is the author of the novel Blood Memories. J. C.'s poetry, nonfiction, and short fiction have also appeared in many genre magazines. Visit their Web site at www.nobledead.com.